Chapter 4 - The Infiltration at Home
The cul-de-sac on Meadowbrook Lane looked utterly peaceful under the midday sun. Well-manicured lawns, blooming crape myrtles, and massive two-story suburban homes that projected an image of absolute stability and domestic bliss.
Our house—my house—sat at the end of the circle. A modern farmhouse aesthetic with a wraparound porch, dark gray shutters, and a three-car garage. I had worked eighty-hour weeks at the Clarksville trauma center during my residency to pay the down payment. I had designed the floor plan, picked out the hardwood floors, and planted the hydrangeas along the walkway with my own blistered hands.
Parked in the driveway was Tristan’s leased Audi A6. Parked on the curb was the gleaming black-and-silver 1969 Camaro SS.
Deputy Miller pulled his cruiser directly behind the Camaro, flipping on his secondary amber lights. Sarah’s heavy truck rumbled to a stop right behind him, effectively blocking the entire driveway.
I stepped out of the truck. I was still wearing my combat uniform, my tactical boots hitting the asphalt with a dull, heavy thud.
Before I even reached the front steps, the front door swung open.
Chloe Vance stepped onto the porch.
She was wearing a cream-colored cashmere sweater that fell loosely over one shoulder—my sweater, purchased in Edinburgh two winters ago. Her hair was styled in loose, beachy waves, and her feet were slipped into a pair of plush sheepskin slippers that I had left in the master bedroom closet. In her hand, she held a glass of iced tea.
She stopped at the top of the porch steps, squinting against the sunlight, her gaze sweeping over the police cruiser, the flatbed tow truck pulling up to the curb, and finally landing on me.
Her forehead wrinkled in mild annoyance, not fear. She had no idea who I was. In her mind, an Army officer in dusty camouflage was just some military liaison or administrative messenger.
"Can I help you?" she called out, her voice sweet, airy, and dripping with suburban entitlement. "If you’re here for Tristan, he’s in the garage taking an investor call. You really shouldn't be parking that tow truck on the grass. The HOA is very strict about curb parking."
I didn't answer. I kept walking up the concrete steps, my eyes locked on hers.
Deputy Miller followed two paces behind me, his hand resting casually near his duty belt.
"Excuse me?" Chloe’s tone sharpened as I cleared the fourth step and stepped onto the wooden deck of the porch. "Did you hear me? You can't just walk up here. This is private property."
"No, Chloe," I said, my voice dropping into a quiet, lethal register. "It’s not."
She blinked, startled that I knew her name. "Who are you?"
"I’m Captain Nola Dalton," I said, stopping three feet from her. "I own this house. I own that sweater. I own the slippers on your feet. And you have exactly ten minutes to pack whatever trash you brought into my home before Deputy Miller arrests you for criminal trespass and receiving stolen property."
The color drained from Chloe’s face so fast it looked like she had suffered a massive internal hemorrhage. Her mouth fell open, her eyes darting frantically between my rank insignia and Deputy Miller’s badge.
"You... you’re in Afghanistan," she stammered, clutching the iced tea glass to her chest like a shield. "Tristan said... he said you weren't coming back until winter! He said—"
"Tristan is an idiot who couldn't tell the difference between a deployment manifest and a restaurant menu," I interrupted.
Right at that moment, the sharp, distinctive bark echoed from inside the house.
A sharp, joyful, frantic whine followed, accompanied by the heavy scratching of paws against the inside of the front door.
My entire chest seized. The breath left my lungs in a ragged gasp.
"Elliot," I whispered.
I reached out, shoved past Chloe without another word, and pushed the front door wide open.
A streak of white, black, and copper fur launched itself across the foyer.
Elliot hit my chest with sixty pounds of pure, ecstatic muscle. His front paws wrapped around my shoulders, his tail thrashing violently against the console table, knocking over a glass vase that shattered onto the hardwood floor. He was whining, crying, burying his wet nose into my neck, licking frantically at my jaw, my cheeks, my ears, his entire body vibrating with hysterical, desperate relief.
I dropped to my knees on the entryway floor, wrapping both arms around his neck, burying my face into his thick, familiar fur.
He was alive.
His ribs were intact. His legs were strong. His heartbeat was pounding furiously against my ribs, warm, frantic, and unmistakably real.
"I’ve got you," I choked out, the first real tear slipping past my eyelashes and soaking into his coat. "I’ve got you, buddy. You’re okay. Mommy’s here."
Elliot let out a high-pitched cry, licking at the tear track on my cheek, refusing to let go of my shoulders. He was pressing his head under my chin just like he did when he was an eight-week-old puppy, shivering in the passenger seat of my car on the way home from the rescue shelter.
"What the hell is going on out here?!"
The roar came from the hallway leading to the garage.
Tristan stepped into the foyer, wearing a tailored linen shirt, designer jeans, and expensive Italian leather loafers. He was holding a glass of scotch in one hand and an iPad in the other.
He froze.
The iPad slipped from his fingers, crashing flat onto the hardwood floor with a dull plastic smack.
He looked at me, kneeling in the broken glass of the shattered vase, clutching the dog he had sworn was dead and buried. He looked at Deputy Miller standing in the open doorway, clipboard in hand. He looked past Miller to the street, where the hydraulic arms of the flatbed tow truck were sliding under the rear tires of the 1969 Camaro.
"Nola?" Tristan whispered, his voice cracking into a pathetic, high-pitched squeak.
I slowly stood up. Elliot immediately glued himself to my left hip, his ears pinned forward, his dark eyes locked on Tristan with a low, protective rumble vibrating in his throat.
I stepped over the broken glass. I stood at my full height, my hands resting at my sides, my eyes boring into the man I had spent six years supporting.
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"Hello, Tristan," I said. "How was the funeral?"
***