Page 38 of Halo

After parking my truck, I turn off the navigation and rest my hands on the steering wheel for a minute. Pinehurst Elementary School reminds me of the private school I attended growing up. The exterior aesthetic is clean and manicured. Red brick with fresh flowers and beautiful low-lying trees frame the building, creating an inviting atmosphere. A tall wrought-iron fence circles the perimeter of the school, enclosing several grassy play areas scattered with swing sets, slides, and monkey bars. Beyond them sits a basketball court decorated with painted handprints, alongside designated spaces for hopscotch and four square that brighten the blacktop with splashes of color.

This looks like a good school—at least, I think it is. Chelsea works here, and she and Julian send their girls here, which feels like a solid endorsement from two people I thoroughly trust. I've never exactly spent much time thinking about school districts or test scores, but I find myself wondering whether this is a good fit for Grady.

Tiffany called me, frantic and crying. Grady was involved in an altercation with several other students during recess, which surprised me because it didn't sound like the gentle kid I met a few days ago. The school requires a parent or guardian to pick him up immediately, but Tiffany couldn't get away from work. Fortunately, I was in a position to have another physician cover my OB shift, so after she spoke with the front office, we arranged for me to pick him up instead.

This can’t be that complicated.

Walking through the double doors, I’m met by a police officer—or possibly a defensive lineman for the Houston Texans. He's huge, at least half a foot taller than me with a frame that makes my six-foot-two feel average, and he easily has a hundred pounds on me.

“ID, sir,” his voice rumbles.

“Oh, uh … sure. But actually, I’m not staying. I’m here to pick up my son.”

“Still need an ID.”

“For what?”

“To get past me.”

“Right … of course.” Good grief, Barney Fife. I pull out my wallet from my back pocket and flip it open to reveal a clear insert that holds my driver’s license. “Here you go.”

“Remove it for me.”

I blink.

I flash him a smile—that is anything but friendly—and try to remove the card. I pinch, wiggle, and pull, but my identification is wedged so tightly inside the plastic sleeve that it refuses to budge. Determined, I shove my fingers deeper into the wallet and tug harder with no avail. “Are you sure this is necessary?” I ask, holding the wallet open. “You can clearly see my ID through this little window.”

“I need to see both sides of your ID, sir,” he says dryly.

“I’m just trying to pick up my son.”

“And you can do that after I verify who you are.”

“But you can see through the plastic. That’s why it’s there.” I huff as I continue wrestling with the license. “I feel like we're creating obstacles where obstacles don't need to exist.”

The officer's expression doesn't change.

I grumble, gripping and pulling harder. “Apparently, I look like a child abductor—”

“Sir!” The officer jumps from his chair, his hand on his holster. “I should detain you right now! We take the safety of our students very seriously.” He breathes heavily, trying to—and successfully—intimidate me. “This is your first and only warning about joking like that inside this building.”

I nervously nod, focusing my attention to my wallet—and not on the fact that Paul Blart just threatened to arrest me. Finally, I manage to dislodge my driver’s license from its plastic prison and hand it over to the officer.

Except I wasn’t prepared for the foil packets that were lodged behind my ID to slip loose and fall out on the desk.The room falls silent as three condoms slide across the desk and come to rest beside my driver's license.

The cops dark eyes study the condoms before glaring up at me, letting out a deep sigh.

I’m not shy when it comes to sex and protection—at least, not before this moment. A swirl of heat snakes up my neck as I nervously chuckle. “Can never be too safe, am I right?” I punctuate the statement with a fingergun.

Before I know it, my body is pushed up against a brick wall, my face pressed to the brick. “Hey-hey-hey! Easy there, fella’—”

“Are you seriously going to point a finger gun at me, boy? At a cop?” He yells in my ear before patting me down. “Spread ‘em.”

“Nick?”

Officer Friendly freezes. We both watch as Chelsea Santiago stares at us curiously.

“Chels,” my voice croaks. “Hey! Little help?”