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I park the SUV and climb out. My gaze flicks to Mrs. Johnson’s living room window. Her wrinkled face presses against the glass, eyes straining for any delicious morsel, any savory crumb to report to the Maple Ridge gossip grapevine.
Roy’s standing by my front door, so I rush through the rain to him. What’s he doing here? And is he visiting as a friend or a cop?
I can feel the gazes of the other cops follow me, like the eyes on a creepy-ass painting in a B-grade horror movie.
There’s a shift in the air, a bloodthirsty lust, a craving to whip out handcuffs and tasers and Miranda rights.
Something ignites inside me, kicking my heart rate up ten notches. The rush of my pulse echoes in my ears.
Breathe.
My eyebrows squeeze together in what I can only imagine is a grizzly-bear frown. Except I know not to snarl. “What’s going on?”
Roy’s expression is as readable as a newspaper left at the bottom of the lake for a week. “I’m sorry, Lucas, but we have a search warrant for your house.”
“What the hell do you need a search warrant for?” I take it from him and begin reading. With each word I read, the more pinched my frown gets. “Controlled substances? I don’t have drugs on my property. Not unless ibuprofen has become illegal since I last looked. This must be a mistake.”
Breathe.
“We received a tip that there’re drugs on your property.”
“Well, there aren’t. It must have been a prank call.” I’m surprised it was enough to get a search warrant.
“Guess we’ll find out soon enough.” He asks me to unlock the front door. I do as requested. “Wait outside with Officer Reynolds.”
“Christ, this is ridiculous,” I mutter after Roy and the other officers step inside my house, leaving me with a cop who looks fresh out of high school. The unease from a moment ago flickers and flares. The same unease that crept in when something about a mission didn’t feel right, seconds before everything went to hell.
Breathe.
Shit, shit, shit. Has to be some stupid fuckup. They went to the wrong house. There’s no way in hell anyone would think I was stashing drugs in my home.
It’s okay. They’ll do what they have to do and realize they made a mistake.
The mayday blaring in my gut claims the opposite. And every nerve, muscle, cell, is screaming it won’t be okay. And I always trust my gut. It’s never been wrong.
Breathe.
Roy finally comes out of the house. Now his expression is shit-shocked.
My gut tightens. My heart slumps. My blood freezes. Freezes my body into the harsh, wintery deserts of Afghanistan. There’s no sign of warmth in sight.
He grabs his handcuffs. “Lucas Carson, you’re under arrest for the possession of narcotics with the intent to sell…”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity-goddamn-fuck.
2
Simone
The spicy aroma of the Tandoori-chicken flatbread almost has me purring as the waiter places my plate in front of me. He sets down Avery’s order, asks if we need anything else, then leaves us to drool over our lunches.
The trendy Portland restaurant isn’t busy yet. Avery and I managed to escape work early so we wouldn’t have to wait for a seat. It might be only Thursday, but that doesn’t stop the place from filling up with the eager lunch crowd.
“You know what the problem is?” Avery picks up a California roll and pops it into her mouth.
“Not a clue.” I grin because I know she’s going to tell me, and she’ll be right. She’s brilliant and rarely ever wrong about these things.
“Your subscription box idea is great, but you need to grow your online presence more. A lot of highly successful women have used social media to build their small business empires. But they’re not just posting images of their products or services. They’re including pictures of themselves with their loving spouses and adorable kids. This makes them more relatable to their customers.”
