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In front of him on a clean white piece of paper was a box, and inside that box was a bunch of other tiny boxes. Some of those boxes he’d neatly scribbled in. And above the large box he wrote,
Time to go
.

This particular day was stretching beyond his normal capacity of tolerance, and when that happened, he found himself constructing word puzzles. He’d sold three to the
New York Times
, two published on Monday and one on Wednesday. They were all framed and hanging in his cubicle. He’d sent in over thirty to be considered.

He’d easily convinced his boss years ago to let him start publishing crosswords in the paper, and since then he’d been the crossword editor, occasionally publishing some of his own, a few from local residents, and some in syndication.

The puzzle clues were coming harder today. He wanted to use a lot of plays on words, and he also enjoyed putting in a few specific clues that were just for Marlo residents. Those were almost always published on Fridays.

A nine-letter word for “predictable and smooth.”

Yes, good clue. He smiled and wrote the answer going down.
Clockwork
.

He glanced over to the bulletin board, which happened to be on the only piece of north wall he could see from his desk at the
Marlo Sentinel
. Tacked in the center, still hanging there after three years, was an article from
Lifestyles Magazine
. Marlo, of all the places in the United States, was voted Best Place to Raise a Child. It was still the town’s shining moment of glory. Every restaurant and business had this article framed and hanging somewhere on their walls.

The community boasted its own police force, five separate and unique playgrounds for the kids, including a spray ground put in last summer, where kids could dash through all kinds of water sprays without the fear of anyone drowning.

Potholes were nonexistent. The trash was picked up by shiny, blue, state-of-the-art trash trucks, by men wearing pressed light blue shirts and matching pants, dressed slightly better than the mail carriers.

Two dozen neighborhood watch programs were responsible for nineteen arrests in the last decade, mostly petty thieves and a couple of vandals. There hadn’t been a violent crime in Marlo since 1971, and even then the only one that got shot was a dog. A bank robbery twenty years ago ended with the robber asking to talk to a priest, where he confessed a gambling addiction and a fondness for teller number three.

Damien’s mind lit up, which it often did when words were involved. He penciled it in. An eight-letter word for “a linear stretch of dates.”
Timeline
. Perfect for 45 across.

So this was Marlo, where society and family joined in marriage. It was safe enough for kids to play in the front yards. It was clean enough that asthmatics were paying top dollar for the real estate. It was good enough, period.

Damien was a second-generation Marlo resident. His mother and father moved here long before it was the Best Place to Raise a Child. Then it had just been cheap land and a good drive from the city. His father had been the manager of a plant now gone because it caused too much pollution. His mother, a stay-at-home mom, had taken great pride in raising a son who shared her maiden name, Damien, and her fondness for reading the dictionary.

Both his parents died the same year from different causes, the year Damien had met Kay, his wife-to-be. They’d wed nine months after they met and waited the customary five years to have children. Kay managed a real estate company. She loved her job as much as she had the first day she started. And it was a good way to keep up with the Joneses.

Until recently, when the housing market started slumping like his ever-irritated teenage daughter.

The beast’s red eyes declared it was finally time to leave. Damien grabbed his briefcase and walked the long hallway to the door, just to make sure his boss and sometimes friend, Edgar, remembered he was leaving a little early. He gave Edgar a wave, and today, because he was in a good mood, Edgar waved back.

Damien drove through the Elephant’s Foot and picked up two lemonades, one for himself and one for Jenna, his sixteen-year-old daughter, who had all at once turned from beautiful princess or ballerina or whatever it was she wanted to be to some weird Jekyll and Hyde science experiment. With blue eye shadow. She never hugged him. She never giggled. Oh, how he missed the giggling. She slouched and grunted like a gorilla, her knuckles nearly dragging the ground if anyone said anything to her. A mild suggestion of any kind, from “grab a jacket” to “don’t do drugs” evoked eyes rolling into the back of her head as if she were having a grand mal seizure.

So the lemonade was the best gesture of kindness he could make. Besides offering to pick her up because her car was in the shop.

He pulled to the curb outside the school, fully aware he was the only car among the full-bodied SUVs idling alongside one another. It was a complete embarrassment to Jenna, who begged to have Kay pick her up in the Navigator. Some lessons were learned the hard way. But his car was perfectly fine, perfectly reliable, and it wasn’t going to cause the ozone to collapse.

She got in, noticed the lemonade, asked if it was sugar-free, then sipped it and stared out the window for the rest of the ride home. It wasn’t sugar-free, but the girl needed a little meat on her bones.

“Your car’s ready.”

Finally, a small smile.

***

“Have a seat.”

Frank Merret shoved his holster and belt downward to make room for the roll of belly fat that had permanently attached itself to his midsection. He slowly sat down in the old vinyl chair across from Captain Lou Grayson’s cluttered desk.

“You got a rookie coming in this morning.”

“I thought we had an agreement about rookies.”

“You ticketed Principal MaLue. We had an agreement about that too.”

Frank sighed. “He was speeding in a school zone.”

“He’s the principal. If he wants to hit Mach speed in the school zone, so be it. The rookie’s file is in your box.” Grayson’s irritated expression said the rest.

Frank left the captain’s office and killed time in the break room until lineup, where the rookie stood next to him, fresh-faced and wide-eyed. He was short, kind of stocky, with white blond hair and baby pink cheeks like a von Trapp kid. There was not a hard-bitten bone in this kid’s body.

Frank cut his gaze sideways. “This is Marlo. The most you can hope for is someone driving under the influence of pot.”

Lineup was dismissed, and the kid followed him out. “That’s not true. I heard about that bank robbery.”

“That was twenty years ago.”

“Doesn’t matter,” the rookie said. “I’m on patrol. That’s cool. I’m Gavin Jenkins, by the way.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Did you read my stats from the academy?”

“Not even one word.”

Gavin stopped midstride, falling behind Frank as he made his way outside to the patrol car. Gavin hurried to catch up. “Where are we going? Aren’t we a little early?”

Frank continued to his car. Gavin hopped into the passenger side. Frank turned west onto Bledsoe.

“Listen, Officer Merret, I just want you to know that I’m glad they paired me with you. I’ve heard great things about you, and I think it’s—”

“I don’t normally talk in the morning.”

“Okay.”

So they drove in silence mostly, checking on a few of the elderly citizens and their resident homeless man, Douglas, until lunchtime, when they stopped at Pizza Hut. The kid couldn’t help but talk, so Frank let him and learned the entire history of how he came to be a Marlo police officer.

Gavin was two bites into his second piece and hadn’t touched his salad when Frank rose. “Stay here.”

Gavin stared at him, his cheek full of cheese and pepperoni. “What? Why?”

“I’ve got something I need to do.”

Gavin stood, trying to gather his things. “Wait. I’ll come.”

Frank held out a firm hand. “Just stay here, okay? I’ll come back to get you in about forty minutes.”

Gavin slowly sat down.

Frank walked out. He knew it already. This rookie was going to be a thorn in his side.

2

A soft hammering sound filtering through the ceiling meant Hunter was home, probably tinkering with something electronic. If he wasn’t rebuilding a hard drive, he was writing software or designing software to write software.

Computers irritated Damien. They cheapened society, caused social unrest, not to mention contributed to the butchering of the English language and the rendering of grammar obsolete.

He had no love for technology and used it only when necessary. A cell phone hung off his belt, only to satisfy his wife. He refused to learn anything except how to answer it. Watching people text back and forth was like driving a stake through his heart. He’d once tried it, just for kicks, but it took ten minutes to type two sentences, and he refused to send something with a typo. Plus, the English language wasn’t meant to be condensed into abbreviated substitutes, like
LOL
. He constantly told his children
LOL
meant “love of language.” They never got that joke. Maybe it wasn’t that funny to them. Or maybe the joke was on him.

He set his briefcase down, slid his blazer off, and went to the kitchen. It was his night to cook. Kay would be home at seven sharp. At least twice a week they made sure the entire family ate together, which so far hadn’t paid the dividends the parenting magazine had promised.

But they’d been doing it for only eight years. Maybe he needed to give it more time.

Hunter stalked through the kitchen, his backpack hanging off his shoulder. “I’ll be back.”

“Dinner will be ready in a few—”

“I know. I know. It’s family dinner night. I’ll be back.”

Damien sighed and turned to tend to the broccoli. The teen years were like a chasm—huge, black, swirling, sucking—a gulf that separated him from his kids. He missed them.

Jenna’s cell phone conversation filtered down the stairs and into the kitchen. He could hear only snippets, but it sounded like high drama, which was one of only two moods she was capable of. The other was a blend of sneer, seethe, sulk, and snarl.

The timer indicated the rolls were done. Outside, the Navigator’s purring engine sounded through the windows.

Soon the back door opened. Kay walked in, looking exhausted but happy to be home. She dropped her things and hugged him from behind. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He’d fallen for her the second they’d met. Tiny dimples pulled through each of her cheeks. Her eyes shimmered like expensive jewelry. A short pixie haircut showed off her delicate features.

And she always smelled like fresh flowers.

Kay went to change, Jenna continued to sound overly frantic, and Hunter finally came back home, ten minutes after the lasagna was ready.

“Dinner is served,” Damien called.

The kids took their sweet time getting there.

Kay didn’t wait but filled her plate while saying, “Mike and Jill are getting a divorce.”

“I thought they already were divorced.”

“Separated. They filed this week.”

“Oh. That’s too bad.”

“You know, Jill’s really hard to get along with. I can’t imagine being married to her.”

“Well, they say it takes two to tango. Or tangle, whatever may be the case.”

“I got to know Jill better a couple of weeks ago when we worked on that fund-raiser together. She’s just so abrasive, but maybe I’ll warm up to her.”

“Maybe she’s having a hard time with the div—”

Kay shushed him as the kids arrived at the table, whispering, “Natalie’s in Jenna’s grade.”

Damien could only assume Natalie was Jill and Mike’s daughter, but he wasn’t sure. He didn’t even know their last name. He actually didn’t even know Jill and Mike at all, though Kay swore he’d met them before at school functions.

Damien got comfortable in his chair and served himself. Then he said to anyone who wanted to listen, “I’m going to talk to Edgar about my position at the paper.”

Kay looked up. Hunter tossed a roll in the air and tried to catch it behind his back. Jenna stared at her broccoli.

“What for?” Kay asked.

“I’ve been writing the op-ed and issues column for five years now, and I’d like a change of pace.”

“Like what? The comics?” Hunter twirled his knife between his fingers until Kay snapped at him.

Damien tried to smile and acknowledge that at least Hunter was participating in the conversation. “I thought I might like to be an investigative reporter. I’d still be dealing with issues, but I’d have a lot more facts to work with, and I could get out of the office more.”

Kay set down her fork. “Why would you want to do that?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’m getting a little bored.”

“You always said what you did was important,” Hunter said. “People’s lives are changed by your column and what you have to say about things and all that. Words, words, words.”

“Shut up,” Jenna said. “He’s a grown man; he can do what he wants.”

Kay chewed her food, staring at him. “How can you be bored? We run 24-7. Most nights I don’t even get to bed before midnight.”

“It was just a thought. I’ll still be doing the crosswords of course. Couldn’t give that up. But sometimes you need to shake things up a little, you know?”

Kay shrugged. “Ask Mike and Jill. I’m sure they’d rather be bored.”

3

Kay watched the whites-only scramble she was making for her eldest child, Jenna, who had somehow converted from a lover of all things fried and fat to a near vegetarian. Except there was one problem with that—she really hated vegetables.

She fried up some turkey bacon, hoping her husband and son wouldn’t complain too much. She thought it actually tasted pretty good.

Damien came into the kitchen, kissing her on the cheek. “Good morning.”