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I jumped out of my chair, scrambling for my cell.

Cooper and Viggo stared at me with obvious concern.

“I’ll call Reg.” Cooper fished his phone from his pocket, but I was already out the door.

The police station was on the other end of Main Street. Tourists and locals with time to spare strolled leisurely, pausing often to window shop while licking ice cream cones or drinking iced coffees. Unfortunately, they drove like snails, too. It took forever to navigate a mile. I was sweating through my Mill Depot tee as I parked behind a police cruiser at the curb and raced toward the entrance.

“Hi, Gibbons. Waylon Gibbons. My nephew is here and⁠—”

“Ah, yes.” The brunet behind the desk hiked her thumb at the row of chairs in the lobby area. “There’s the artist. He’s having a chat with the chief now.”

I furrowed my brow but didn’t pause to ask what she meant.

“Emmett!”

My nephew glanced up, kicking his legs like a pendulum on a cuckoo clock. “Hi, Uncle Way. I got ’rested! I guess I have to stay here now.”

CHAPTER 4

REG

It took everything I had not to burst out laughing. Poor Uncle Waylon was so far out of his depth, he needed a life preserver and possibly mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

“No one was arrested, but we do have a situation on our hands,” I said calmly.

Waylon gaped and when he finally realized he could speak, it all came out in a manic rush. “I—what happened? Why is he here? What’s going on? What situation?”

“It might be easier to show you. Come with me.” I escorted the seven-year-old and his uncle outside and gestured to the chalk artwork on the path leading to HQ.

Waylon squinted. “What’s this?”

“Emmett, care to explain?” I prodded.

“Those are butts.” Emmett wrinkled his nose, adding, “And farts.”

I pursed my lips, hoping to stave off inappropriate snickering. This isn’t funny, Reg. Not funny at all.

“Quite the Picasso, eh?”

“Uh…”

I took pity on the guy. “Apparently, Emmett straggled behind his camp group and took the opportunity to hone his art skills while he had a minute to himself. We don’t take kindly to graffiti in the Four Forest area, but seeing as he’s a first-time offender, I’ll let this slide…as long as this mess gets cleaned up. I’ll have the janitor get the hose out for you with strict instructions to have you do the work. Got it, Emmett?”

Emmett cocked his head. “Okay, but you should prolly ’rest me, too. I guess I’ll have to stay here for, like, a year. Maybe two. Sorry, Uncle Way, but I had to think outside in the box.”

Ahh.

Still funny, but also…not. I didn’t know what he meant about a box, but there was some kind of family drama at play. My cop instincts went on high alert, sussing out a hint of abuse, trauma, or negligence—something that made Wood Hollow a safe haven for a child in distress. However, I didn’t detect any obvious signs of danger. And I knew all about family drama.

“While you take care of business, your uncle and I are going to have a chat.” I didn’t give either of them a chance to reply. I headed inside, unsurprised to find Shawna at the edge of her seat, hoping for a scoop.

“That kid is a hoot! I hope Uncle Way isn’t too mad,” she said. “He seemed more shell-shocked than anything. Butts and farts. Ha!”

I huffed. “Just get Gordy to hook up the hose for me, will ya?”

“You got it, Chief.”

I ushered Waylon into my office while Gordy supervised the chalk cleanup. “Have a seat.”