Page 106 of The Goat Next Door

I might kiss him though.

“Good,” Dad adds, drawing more letters with a smug look. “Murder makes for a very short book.”

⋆ ✦ ⋆

Mom is half-asleep against Dad’s shoulder, while Dad turns the wooden tiles over one by one, occasionally murmuring something in her ear that makes her blush and swat at him playfully.

They’re so happy. It’s like they have their own little secret language.

The air has cooled down just enough for the scent of wet ferns to come through the window, mixing with the sharp, clean scent of the gin.

“Go to bed, Emmy,” Dad says quietly. He looks at me, his eyes softening behind his glasses. “You look like you’re carrying the weight of the world on those shoulders. And believe me, the world isn’t worth the backache.”

“I’m fine,” I say, though my eyelids are heavy.

“You’re tired,” Mom murmurs. “Go sleep it off. And dream of the Chief. Or don’t, if it’s going to keep you tossing and turning all night.”

28

Brooks

“Morning heat rises early in the valley.

So do poor decisions.”

— County Weather Observation

I haven’t seen Ember since her parents left, and honestly, that’s for the best.

Her parents. God. I still haven’t fully processed that encounter.

Passing by them two days ago, the mother—a woman who radiates enough chaos to cause a natural disaster—had leaned out of the SUV window, sunglasses perched on her nose, and leveled me with a look that felt like a tactical assessment.

“You know, Chief,” she’d said, her voice dripping with amusement, “you’re remarkably good at acting like Emmy’s a complete nuisance, but we both know how much you enjoy the show. Tell you what—keep that stoic act up, and maybe by the time I’m back, you’ll have finally perfected your ‘I don’t care’ face. It needs work, by the way. Your eyes tell a very different story.”

That had made my face go up in flames, and then she followed up with, “Also, for the record? You have a fantastic ass in those pants. It’s a tragedy we won’t be here to see them off.”

“I’m sorry?” I’d choked out.

Her mother had just grinned wider behind the sunglasses. “Oh, don’t act shocked. You’re a very large man in a very fitted uniform. We all have eyes.”

“Dear,” her husband muttered from the driver’s seat.

“What? I’m complimenting the poor boy. He looks like he’s one strong breeze away from cardiac arrest every time Emmy smiles at him.”

I’d stood there like a complete idiot while she pointed a red-painted fingernail at me.

“And another thing, Chief. Stop looking at my daughter like she personally invented oxygen if you’re not planning to do something about it.”

Then they drove away while I stood there overheating in broad daylight.

I’m still trying to un-hear that.

Every time I look at my uniform pants hanging on the back of the bedroom door, I feel a strange heat behind my ears.

The house is quiet this morning.

I dropped Sophie off at kindergarten at eight—she had a look in her eye that told me her teacher was going to have an exhausting morning—and I’ve just been sitting at my desk, staring at a stack of paperwork without actually reading a single line.