Page 50 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
“We still have the caller,” the voice crackles. “She’s on the line. Maybe that’s good.”
“Maybe.” I push the pedal down.
I spot her on the front steps: early thirties, lopsided bun, faded sunflower T-shirt, exhaustion settled into her shoulders. A scrubby mesquite throws spiky shade across the yard, bigger than it looked from the street, branches like a messy crown.
“Catherine Stone?” I call, killing the siren.
“Yes,” she answers, thin and breathless.
“Officer Vaughn.” I flash the badge. “What’s happening?”
“Please—he’s going to kill himself up there. I’ve begged him to come down, and he just won’t.”
I turn. “Up there?”
“Matthew.” Her hand shakes as she points. “He’s in the tree. Please—”
I swallow hard. Some calls bruise you where no one sees. This isn’t one of those. This is a boy in a tree and a mother cracking in half on a porch, and a hundred ways to make it worse if I’m not careful.
“I’m not coming down!” a voice yells from the limbs—small, stubborn.
“Hey, Matthew.” I shade my eyes. He’s wedged between two branches, sneakers braced, white socks grey with dust. Black T-shirt, black shorts. Perfect heat magnets. “Want to come down and talk?”
“No!” Firm as a judge denying bail.
“Why not?” My tone stays easy. The trick is to be water. Rocks don’t get kids out of trees.
“Because she promised to get me tickets and now she won’t!”
Catherine makes a sound that’s part laugh, part sob. I glance back.
“Tickets to what?”
“Harry Styles!” Matthew shouts, like I’ve been living under a rock.
I look at Catherine. She gives a helpless, watery shake of her head. “He found a reseller. I told him if he did, I’d… try. I work two jobs. His dad died a few years back. I can’t afford those prices. I said no and he bolted up the tree like a cat.”
“You lied!” Matthew yells down.
“I work two jobs to keep us afloat,” she whispers to me. “I’d have to take a loan to sit in the nosebleeds.”
I take her in: hollows carved under her cheekbones by the sun, hands softened by endless cleaning. And a thought slips in—unkind to my own stubbornness:These are the people Jasmine fights for. Against rigs and ‘redevelopment,’ offers that are really threats. Against being priced out of the only place their lives make sense.
“I just don’t have the money,” Catherine says. “Tickets are seven-fifty and up.”
I open my mouth to say something measured and responsible and—
“Snake!” Matthew shrieks. “Snake! Snake!”
I don’t look up. Looking up panics both parties. “Okay, buddy,” I call, stepping under him with arms ready. “We’ll do this slow. Slide your foot onto that thick branch to your left. Good. Hands around the trunk. I’ve got you.”
“I can’t—”
“You can.” Calm, steady. “Right into my arms. Three, two—there you go.”
He lets go. All bones and summer heat, heavier than he looks. Catherine makes a sound mostly air and wraps him so tight I hear him wheeze. I set him down and turn just in time to see a glossy banded tail vanish deeper into the leaves. Great. Even the wildlife’s dramatic.
“Dispatch, Animal Control,” I radio. “Possible kingsnake in a mesquite. No bite. Family’s okay.”
