Page 44 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
“Jared. My ex.” Her voice trembles. She points across the lawn at a tired wood shed sagging by a fence. “He’s in there. He said he’d come back and make me pay. I have a shift at the animal shelter and I haven’t been able to leave the house. Please, officer, get him out—”
“Okay.” I put a hand up, steady. “Go back inside, lock the door. Anyone else home?”
She shakes her head.
“Good. I’ll handle this.”
The shed is made of wood. Disintegrating wood. It creaks when I touch it—like a coffin someone assembled with an Allen wrench and spite. I plant my feet wide, slide the door, and get a full-face blast of eau de wet lumber and old lawnmower.
Great. My abdomen twinges. Not the case to test my “still healing but thinks he’s fine” theory.
There’s a heavy workbench just inside, furred over with dust, cobwebs, and what I pray is sawdust. I sweep the flashlight beam across a wall of rusting tools.
“Jared?” I call, easing my hand to the pistol. “Golden Heights Sheriff’s Office. Let’s make this simple and keep all our bones, yeah?”
Something thuds. Not big—more… skittery. My finger hovers on the trigger.
“Jared,” I try again, lower, firmer. “Hands where I can see them. No surprises.”
Silence. Then another thud. Behind a leaning bookcase shoved into a corner like it wronged someone personally.
My gut does that helpfulhey remember you got punched therethrob as I brace and shoulder the bookcase aside. It slides with a groan. I sweep the beam into the gap and—
Two little bandit faces stare back.
We blink at each other. A third pops up like a whack-a-mole. Then a fourth. Then a fat one waddles into frame with a plastic peanut butter jar jammed on its head like a space helmet.
Trash pandas. A whole masked crew.
I exhale the breath I was saving for the afterlife. “Dispatch,” I murmur into my radio, keeping my voice neutral. “Be advised: the suspect in the shed on Baxter is a family of… raccoons. Repeat: family of raccoons. Helmeted leader is possibly armed with Skippy.”
“Copy,” Dispatch crackles, absolutely failing to hide the grin in her voice. “Do you require backup, or a photographer?”
“Negative on both,” I say, and the peanut-butter astronaut bonks into my boot. “Stand by.”
I holster the gun and crouch, because apparently this is my job now. The helmeted one huffs, fogging up the jar. “Okay, pal.” I grab a screwdriver from the wall in the garden shed and gently wedge the jar. Little wiggle. Pop. He blinks up at me like I just showed him fire, then trundles indignantly over my foot. I don’t yelp. Much.
“No one saw that,” I inform the shed.
The biggest raccoon stands on a paint can and just… studies me. I hold up both hands. “We’re good here? We done menacing the woodworking section?”
He chitters something that sounds like a verdict. I back out, slide the door mostly shut, and text the number the department uses for animal control:Raccoons in shed, Baxter Ave. Family of 5. One peanut-butter enthusiast. They’ll relocate them somewhere without towel-wrapped homeowners.
Across the lawn, a set of blinds snap closed in the neighbor’s window. Ms. Rhonda Tillman, card-carrying Chair of the Neighborhood Watch, is already live blogging this to her bridge group.
I knock at the front door again. It swings open and Helen appears, still in a towel, hair wrapped like a croissant, eyes enormous. I school my face into Professional and Not At All Startled.
“Did you get him?” she whispers. “Is he—did he break anything?”
“That depends,” I say. “Are you missing a five-member, highly organized masked gang?”
Her hand flies to her mouth. “Oh my God. There were… multiple?”
“Raccoons,” I clarify. “A family. One was wearing a peanut-butter jar like a helmet. They’re the ones making the noise. No sign of Jared.”
She blinks. Twice. “So, I don’t have a stalker… I have… raccoons?”
“Correct. A stalk of raccoons.” I give it a beat. “That’s not the word. But yes.”
