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THE FIVE MINUTE MISTAKE

WEST OAKS HEROES

HANNAH SHIELD
Copyright © 2023 by Hannah Shield

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and
retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover photography by Wander Aguiar
Cover model: Andrew Biernat

Published by Diana Road Books

 CONTENTS

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Epilogue
The Four Day Fakeout
Also by Hannah Shield
About the Author
 1

Nash

F our years ago, when I entered the police academy, I was no naive cadet. I’d just left
the Navy after a decade-plus in the Teams. I’d served in war, buried comrades, killed
my share of baddies. I thought I knew the worst the world could throw at me.
Yet I could’ve had stars in my eyes for all the big hopes and dreams I was harboring. Hopes of
saving my marriage. Of reconnecting with my kid.
Past-me would’ve been appalled at how things turned out. But he had no clue what it would be
like raising a teenager.
My thumbs fly over my phone screen, responding to my daughter’s latest barrage of messages.

Emma: Dad, relax. This is not a big deal. Everybody does it.
Me: And that’s a convincing argument since...when? Oh yeah, fucking never.
Emma: Don’t think you’re cool because you drop an f-bomb. And don’t try to be funny. It
doesn’t work for you.
Me: You know what’s not funny? Teenage boys. With penises. Being invited to a sleepover
where my fifteen-year-old daughter is present.
Emma: Dad, ew! OMG! [Vomiting emoji.]

Emma is at a slumber party tonight, but she “forgot” to mention there would be boys there.
Apparently, co-ed sleepovers with full parental approval are now a thing. If I’d tried that crap when I
was in high school, my mother would have laughed through a solid week of grounding me.
Of course, Emma only admitted there’d be boys at this slumber party after the hosting mom sent a
group text to the other parents, mentioning that “Chad” and “Toby” would be bringing the pizza, and
could we all please Vemno money to chip in?
When I was Emma’s age, Chad and Toby were number one and two on the list of Dudes Up To No
Good.

Emma: We’re just watching a movie. I’m not into anyone here, they’re my FRIENDS. I know
you don’t have any, but I assume you’ve heard of them?
Me: Doesn’t ring a bell. I’ll be home in a couple of hours, and I’d better see you there.

I growl my frustration at the nearest object, a palm tree bordering the parking lot where I’m
standing. It doesn’t react.
When I joined the Navy at nineteen—not much older than my daughter is now—I intended to stay
until I retired. But when my family started to fall apart, I made the decision to head home. It was one
of the hardest of my life.
In many ways, it was already too late. Too late to fix my marriage. No question there. But at first,
I thought I still had a chance with Emma. She was eleven when I returned to civilian life. A total
sweetheart, excited to finally get to know this “dad” she’d heard so much about.
By now, though, the gimmick has worn off. My ex got remarried, quit her job at the hospital, and
left the country on a grand adventure. Emma moved in with me. I have a rebellious fifteen-year-old
who’s picked this moment to make her stand.
Meanwhile, I’m supposed to be working. In fact, I’m supposed to be calmly preparing for the next
scenario in the training that I’m running.
“Sergeant Jennings?”
I look up from my phone, which I’m squeezing so hard the plastic creaks. A West Oaks PD patrol
officer in full body armor hovers a few feet away. The initials S.W.A.T. are emblazoned across his
vest.
“I’m…reporting, sir,” the kid says.
“We’re meeting on the west side of the parking lot. In five minutes.”
“Right,” he squeaks, “sorry.”
He scampers away, and shit, I wish I hadn’t spoken so harshly. I don’t mean to sound gruff. But
more often than not, my voice comes out that way.
My phone buzzes again. Against my better judgment, I sneak a peek.

Emma: I’m not leaving. If you want, you can take me to brunch tomorrow at that place on
Ocean Lane. The pancakes you like? With the whipped cream?

My daughter thinks she can manipulate me with frou-frou pancakes? They’re delicious, but that’s
irrelevant. I take a deep breath, willing my heart rate to slow. Emma can push my buttons like nobody
else.
Don’t get me wrong. I adore my kid. I think she’s incredible. Emma loves foreign arthouse films,
the kind that’re incomprehensible to me. She can play Led Zeppelin and Metallica on the violin like a
total badass, but stops if she thinks I’m listening. She paints her nails with sparkly blue polish at the
kitchen table, even though I’ve asked her not to.
She hates me. Except when she loves me. Sometimes, my status fluctuates by the hour.
 The part of me that’s outside the situation and can think objectively is saying, Maybe you should
let this go. Trust Emma. Let her make this decision for herself.
But that’s not the dad part of me.

Me: My decision is not up for discussion.

Why is it that I can keep myself under strict control in a damned war zone, to the point that my
teammates accused me of being a lab experiment, but a teenage girl triggers my urge to explode?

THERE’ S A SLIGHT NOVEMBER CHILL IN THE AIR. NOT ENOUGH TO WARRANT A JACKET YET , BECAUSE
this is Southern California, but enough to notice the shift in season. Beside me, a flower bed brightens
up the otherwise drab parking lot. The sky is so blue it looks painted on.
And over on the west end of the lot, sixteen trainees in full SWAT uniforms wait in the staging
area. They keep sneaking nervous glances at me. I should head over there. Class doesn’t resume until
I appear, but still, I don’t like being late.
I sigh. It’s days like this I miss the military the most. While the views on-base might’ve been ugly,
I knew exactly what I was supposed to do.
When I left the Teams, I moved to West Oaks, where my wife had relocated for her career as a
nurse. For me, the police department seemed like a natural choice. I’d get to serve my community.
Protect the innocent. Fight bad guys. All my favorite things, though on a far more local scale. And
most importantly, I’d get to go home to my family each day.
Unlike most graduates from the police academy, I didn’t go out on patrol. Instead, I headed
straight into the SWAT team. What better way to put my sniper skills to good use? But my superiors
seem to think my years as a SEAL mean I’m proficient at everything imaginable. Including training a
bunch of candidates for a huge expansion of our Special Weapons and Tactics division.
Here’s the problem.
In most military units, there’s a guy who’s in the background, cleaning his gun or contemplating the
unknown or otherwise staying silent. His teammates joke and talk shit at him, and he sends back a
sardonic glare. If he opens his mouth, it’s only because he wants to. That guy is best behind-the-
scenes. Not so much front of the classroom.
That guy is me.
Yet here I am, the teacher.
I jam my phone in my pocket and stalk across the concrete toward the staging area. My trainees go
silent when they see me coming. I clear my throat and get started.
“Everyone, this is our final exercise of the day. A potential hostage situation.”
After spending our first two days in class, we’re finally out in the field. It’s a little like a dress
rehearsal. I’ve been setting up realistic scenarios for the trainees to tackle. This one will take place
inside the sprawling brick structure behind me, the West Oaks First Methodist Church. The pastor
graciously agreed to give us access.
“An armed suspect fled to the church after officers responded to a disturbance nearby,” I explain.
“There’s a church employee trapped inside. You have all the intel our spotters have submitted, along
with the building layout. Brainstorm your primary, alternate, contingent, and emergency plans. I’ll
select our final plans from those, and then we’ll drill them and execute. You have fifteen minutes. Get
to it.”
I hold my breath, waiting and hoping for a reaction. A hint they heard a word I just said.
They drift into their groups and start muttering.
I make a mental note to buy extra-nice gifts for Emma’s teachers this year. They must be saints to
do this every day, and with teenagers.
As I make my rounds, my eyes catch on Madison Shelborne, one of the patrol officers in the class.
Vivid green eyes, long lashes. Her cornsilk blond hair is pulled into a bun, though a few wisps have
escaped onto her forehead. She’s got her chin up, shoulders back, projecting an easy confidence while
she strategizes with her teammates.
My eyes seem to catch on her a lot.
“Sergeant?” Madison says. “I have a question.”
My pulse kicks. I head over to her, clasping my hands behind my back. “Yes, Officer?”
“What if we have to make a judgment in the moment, but we’re not sure what to do? And the plan
doesn’t account for it?”
“Then you should’ve had a better plan. That’s why we have back-ups.”
“In hindsight, sure.” The corner of her mouth pulls into a tiny smile. “But in the moment? What
then? Do we follow our instincts?”
Instincts? Like the instinct that makes me keep noticing how beautiful she is?
Madison was my classmate at the academy. Now I’m the instructor, and she’s the student. I suck at
relationships, and even if I didn’t? She’s out of bounds. Full stop.
“Just focus on your plans,” I say. “That’s the assignment.”
The small flicker of light in Madison’s gaze goes cold. She’s frowning when she replies. “Got it,
sir. Thanks.”
I linger there for a beat too long. If she didn’t like my answer, I can’t help that. Plans are safe.
When you’re out in the weeds, that’s when the trouble starts.
My damned phone buzzes in my pocket. Emma, texting again. Somehow, I don’t think she’s going
to cave to my demand. The war is not over.
I wish parenthood had plans and training sessions. Practice scenarios, when the consequences
didn’t mean so damn much.
 2

Madison

“AMylpha team is in position.”

teammate Lia Perez lifts her handset to respond. “Bravo team is in position.”
The call-outs continue, and she lowers her radio, turning to me. “Still up for drinks later?” Lia
asks. “The guys were thinking Shore Lounge.”
We’re pressed against the stucco wall of the church. The temps have dipped below the sixties, but
I’m sweating through my black T-shirt. My body armor is squishing my boobs, and my hair feels
plastered to my head beneath my helmet.
It’s a glamorous life I lead.
I thought trying out for the SWAT team would be exciting. Turns out, it’s all plans, plans, plans,
according to Sergeant Jennings. God forbid anyone has an independent thought. Or a question.
“I wonder if I can call ahead for the bartender to have a martini on standby,” I say. “Preferably in
an I.V. bag.”
Lia wrinkles her pert nose. “A martini? Feeling high class, are we? Did you stash your heels in
your gear bag?”
“Shelby wears heels?” Clint asks from his post a few feet away. Shaggy blond hair peeks out
beneath his helmet.
“Hey, I can class it up when I want to. Might even put on some mascara.”
Clint laughs, but the joke’s on him. I’m wearing mascara right now. It’s called waterproof.
Most everyone at West Oaks PD calls me Shelby, short for my last name, Shelborne. They say I’m
one of the guys, and I take that like the compliment it is. I can kick their asses on the track or the
sparring mat. But I enjoy being girly when the mood strikes. At holiday parties, I’m at least fifty
percent sequins.
 Not right now, though. At this present moment, I’m Kevlar and machine oil and layers of sweat.
But at least it’s Friday, and we have the weekend off.
We’ve got our dummy rifles ready, eyes on the east exit door. According to the primary plan,
Alpha team will approach from the north with the negotiators. They’ll make contact with the suspect
—our pretend suspect, anyway—and that’s where the action is.
My team is Bravo, and we’re on containment, which means waiting and watching.
Then Lia’s radio squawks, and we all freeze.
“Alpha team is under fire! Go to alternate! Bravo team, you’re go for breach!”
Here’s something I didn’t expect. Jennings is giving my team a chance to show what we’ve got.
Lia nods at me. We fix our earpieces, joining the open channel.
“Bravo team is go,” Lia says.
Tyler, the fourth member of Bravo, tries the door. It’s locked, but a swift kick gains us entry.
The door opens into a long hallway. Tyler and Clint sweep inside, their guns raised. Then they
stand aside, guarding the hall, while Lia and I enter.
Sergeant Jennings’ voice booms in our earpieces. “Spotter reports suspect and civilian are in the
north lobby. Civilian has been taken hostage. Sniper confirms no shot.”
“Bravo copies,” Lia says. “We’ve breached the east entrance and we’re on our way.”
We have half a dozen rooms to clear. If this were a drive and drop, another team would be coming
in right behind us to handle the clearing. But it’s just us four. I know this is a training, but even so, my
pulse surges. We might not get many chances to prove ourselves, so we’d better not screw this up.
Lia and I head for the nearest doorway to the left.
We enter a Sunday school classroom, where white boards and colorful artwork hang on the walls.
SWAT has already cut utilities to the building, per standard procedure, so the lights are off. Sunlight
barely penetrates through the curtains over the high windows.
I check along the right side of the room, while Lia covers the left. I peer into the shadows, my
body tense and ready.
There’s a faint squeak as my boot eases onto the wood floor. Another.
When I reach the far wall, I turn around.
“Clear,” Lia says.
There’s something nagging at me, but I can’t put my finger on it. Do I stay here? Or do I continue
on?
“Clear,” I echo.
I give the room one last glance before following Lia into the hallway. We have to keep moving.
Jennings is probably out there with his stopwatch, and if we let the “hostage” die, it won’t look too
good on our evals.
It’s Clint and Tyler who check the next room, while Lia and I keep watch in the hall. I’m standing
with my back to the room I just cleared.
A bead of sweat rolls down my back. My grip is steady but loose on my rifle.
Then I feel a cold poke of metal against the bare skin of my neck.
“Boom. You’re dead.”
I turn around and find Detective Sean Holt from West Oaks PD’s major crimes department behind
me, a crooked smirk on his face.
Lia groans. “Aww, dammit.” She pulls her earpiece free.
Holt lowers his pistol. Like us, he’s using a dummy weapon for these training exercises. No live
rounds. “Nice to see you, too.”
 Clint and Tyler have joined us. Tyler’s mouth is hanging open, and Clint tugs off his helmet. “What
the hell, Holt? The sergeant said on the radio that the suspect was in the lobby.”
“I’m not the suspect. I’m his girlfriend.” Holt poses. “Don’t I look pretty?”
“Where were you hiding?” Lia asks the detective.
“Classroom. I climbed a bookcase. There’s an alcove above the door.”
Crap. I knew, I knew, that something didn’t feel right in that room.
Clint nudges my elbow. “I can’t believe that bookcase held Holt’s weight.”
“That’s enough, Bravo team,” Jennings says on the radio. “Charlie and Delta teams, continue
with the scenario. Bravo, you’re back to base with me.”
We cringe and head outside. This is not going to be good.
Sergeant Jennings is waiting for us in the parking lot, thick arms crossed over his broad chest as
we approach.
Lia leans into me. “Jennings is pissed. If I had balls, they’d be shriveling.”
“Good thing we don’t have any.” I press my lips flat. This would be a poor moment to laugh. But I
do have a tendency to laugh at inappropriate times. Like at church when I was growing up, and my
eldest brother Jake would make faces behind his hand.
“Bravo team,” Jennings says, deep and smooth and dripping with disappointment. “You want to
explain how you missed an armed individual in a room you’d supposedly cleared?”
No one speaks.
Four years ago, Jennings and I were in the same academy class. But we couldn’t be more
different. Where I’m pale blond, his hair is coal black. I’m a hundred-twenty pounds soaking wet, and
he looks like double that, and all of it muscle.
I came to West Oaks PD straight from college. Nash? He’s a former Navy SEAL sniper with over
a decade’s military special ops experience.
People say I’m approachable, always ready with a smile. But Nash’s dark-eyed gaze alone is
hard enough to break rocks and demolish dreams. His jaw is razor sharp, and his muscles bulge under
his long-sleeved T-shirt and tactical pants like he’s made of stone.
No question, Nash is smoking hot. But he’s the kind of hot that you don’t want to mess with. Some
people in our training call him “Sergeant Scary.”
Back in the academy, he didn’t seem so intimidating. Not to me. I guess things change.
But my friends and I? We work hard. We might goof around during downtimes, but we take our
job seriously. And while I agree we messed up, I don’t intend to cower at his feet.
“It was me,” I blurt.
Everyone’s eyes land on me, including the sergeant’s. And they’re all surprised. Hell, so am I. I
didn’t know for sure I’d say that until it came out.
Guess I’m following my instincts, even if Jennings wouldn’t approve.
“Shelby,” Lia whispers behind me, but I ignore her.
“I take responsibility. I said the room was cleared. The intel reported one suspect, and that’s what
I assumed.”
“Intel can be incomplete. Even flat-out wrong.”
“Yes, sir. But we only had so much time. We needed to reach the hostage. Holt had climbed up a
bookcase and into an alcove. He got creative, and I didn’t spot him.”
“Sounds like you’re making excuses.”
I stand up straighter. “No, sir. I’m saying I made a calculated risk, even if it turned out to be the
wrong choice. Because no plan accounts for everything.”
 There’s silence.
“Do you agree, Bravo team? It was Officer Shelborne’s fault?” Sergeant Jennings is speaking to
my teammates, but his gaze hasn’t wavered from mine.
Lia steps forward. “I was squad leader. I’m responsible too.”
Tyler’s glaring at both of us. Clint looks like he wants to run.
The rest of the teams are trailing out of the church, having finished with their part of the exercise.
Some of their steps falter as they see us in the sergeant’s sights, but others speed up, probably hoping
to hear us get reamed.
Jennings doesn’t seem to notice the audience. He clasps his hands behind his back again, legs
spread. “Bravo team, you failed your mission today. We’ll talk about what went wrong and what
you’ll do better when we’re in the classroom on Monday.”
There’s a collective exhale from my teammates. Yet I’m holding my breath. I can sense this isn’t
over.
Then the voice of Sergeant Jennings booms out again across the concrete.
“Officer Shelborne, see me in twenty minutes. The rest of you can go.”
Shit.
Lia gasps. Once again, I feel the stares of my fellow officers, but these are wide with horror.
“What did she do?” someone from Alpha team mutters, obviously late to the show.
Guess I’m going to be late to the bar tonight.

CLINT SLUMPS INTO LIA AND ME. “I NEED TEQUILA. THAT ’ S THE ONLY WAY TO GET MY MIND OFF THIS
afternoon.”
“I was thinking vodka martini earlier, but you’re right. Tequila’s better.” I could use some mind-
erasure right about now.
We’re leaning against the trunk of Lia’s squad car, half out of our gear. Everyone else has been
dismissed, and cars are pulling out of the parking lot, heading back to the station.
I don’t see the sergeant. He and Detective Holt ducked inside the church a few minutes ago,
probably talking to the SWAT commander.
What does Jennings need to say to me? And why couldn’t he do it in front of everyone else?
Is he kicking me out of SWAT training?
“You look like someone who needs a distraction.” Lia nudges my shoulder. “Has the rehearsal
dinner started?”
“Yep. There’s photo evidence.” I take out my phone and open Instagram, showing Lia my siblings’
latest posts. “They’re having the dinner on a rooftop in Malibu. With Grammy-nominated jazz
musicians. Catered by somebody from a past season of Top Chef.”
“Bleh. So basic.”
“I know. Gross.”
“So gross.”
Clint is eying us, head tilted like a bewildered puppy dog. Lia and I crack up, but my laughter dies
fast. I know she’s trying to cheer me up. But this is yet another subject I’d rather not think about.
My high school boyfriend is getting married tomorrow. My entire family is going to the wedding
weekend. I was invited too, but I skipped out. Both the rehearsal dinner and the wedding sound epic.
Amazing. Worthy of the record books. And I swear I’m not jealous. At least, not jealous of the girl
who’s marrying him. I’m happy for my ex. I’m in no rush to fall in love and settle down for a baby,
dog, and mortgage.
I just wish I could answer my parents’ questions about what I really want and where my future is
going.
Not heading for the SWAT team, apparently.
“You still coming tonight?” Lia asks me.
“I’m definitely coming, so don’t let Clint drink all the Jose Cuervo. I’ll meet you there.”
“You don’t want us to wait for you?”
“I’ll catch up.” If this is a bloodbath, I’d rather my friends didn’t witness it.
She hugs me. “Whatever Jennings says, you’re amazing. Don’t forget that.”
“Not as amazing as you. It’ll be Sergeant Perez leading this training someday.”
“Then I’d better work on my scowl.” She makes a face, sticking out her lower lip, then dissolves
into laughter.
Lia and Clint take off, and I sit on the curb. While I’m waiting, I scroll through my phone. My
siblings have posted more photos of the rehearsal dinner to our family’s group text thread. I send a
response so they know I’m alive and not in any way jealous.

Me: You all look gorgeous. Steal some floral arrangements on the way out. Maybe some
silverware? Bet it’s expensive.
Aiden: Good idea, sis. We need supplies for the lunch we’re catering at the West Oaks
Country Club this week.
Mom: I would never allow such a thing. Madison, don’t joke.
Me: It was Aiden!
Jake: I’m not bailing anybody out if this goes south. Will be LMAO when you’re all
explaining yourselves to the judge.
Mom: Madison, you should be here. Everyone’s asking about you.

Aaaand I’m out.

I open my news feed instead. A headline blares from my screen. My smile vanishes.
Midnight Slasher Still At Large; West Oaks Residents Demand Answers.
It’s from a local news blog, California Crimes Uncovered. I don’t need to read the article to know
what it’s about. It’s the case that’s been dominating the attention of West Oaks PD and the rest of our
Southern California town for months.
The Midnight Slasher is the reason we’re having this SWAT training.
In the last several months, a ski-masked man has invaded homes at night, attacking the
homeowners with a military combat knife and stealing thousands of dollars in jewelry and cash. The
media gave him his nickname because he strikes in the early hours of the morning.
The slasher part? It's gruesome, but accurate. Thankfully, only one victim has died. But it’s like
the Slasher wants to keep his victims alive, left with skin-deep cuts but soul-deep terror after what
they’ve endured.
With the Midnight Slasher’s one-man crime spree, West Oaks residents want to see more being
done. Faster response times, more manpower. They want the Midnight Slasher caught so they can
sleep securely at night.
 Meanwhile, my parents ask when I’ll be done with this law enforcement phase and do something
more practical. Something less dangerous. Something easier.
It’s one thing for your brother, Mads. But you?
I thought if I could upgrade my job title, they’d finally understand why I’m working so hard.
They’d be proud of me. But that’s clearly not happening any time soon. Instead, my mom is at my ex’s
fabulous rehearsal dinner, wishing I was the one getting married.
And I’m stuck alone in this parking lot, waiting for Sergeant Jennings to hand me my ass.
Glamorous indeed.
 3

Nash

I see the three dots bounce, then disappear, then appear again while Emma drafts yet
another response. My kid is as stubborn as me. Some might call that irony, but I’m too
frustrated to see the potential for humor.
A throat clears, and I look up to see Detective Sean Holt eying me with concern from the church
steps. “Everything all right?”
I pocket my phone. “My teenager’s giving me heartburn.”
Holt smirks. “Along with half the students in this training?”
I groan. “Try more than half.”
My commander was not impressed.
Bravo team did a piss-poor job with the last exercise. But Alpha, Charlie, and Delta weren’t
stellar today either. I’m used to working with operators who’ve surpassed every expectation set out
for them. These kids are police officers, but still, I’m starting from almost the ground up. It’s my job
to get them ready.
When most of the students are failing, is it really their fault? Or does the problem lie with the
teacher?
Holt and I walk down the steps and into the parking lot. Holt crosses his arms and rests his weight
against my SUV. “If you don’t mind me saying, I hope you aren’t going to be too hard on Shelby.”
“Shelby?”
“Officer Shelborne. Bravo team.”
“Right. Of course.”
I forgot that was her nickname. To me, she’s Madison. Blond, green-eyed Madison, who stood in
front of me and took responsibility and didn’t wilt under my criticism. Meanwhile, guys built like
linebackers struggled to maintain eye contact with me.
Even when I try not to notice her, it’s impossible not to.
“She’s one of our best patrol officers in major crimes,” Holt says. “I don’t want to lose her to
SWAT, but that’s me being selfish. She’d be an asset anywhere.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I cringe. Holt must think I’m reacting to what he’s just said.
“You don’t agree?” he asks.
“It’s not that. It’s Emma. We’ve been arguing over text, and my ex is out of town, so Simone’s not
going to swoop in to the rescue.”
“Ouch. Henry’s not even two yet, so I have a long way to go. Toddlerhood is bad enough.”
“You have no idea what you’re in for.”
Holt claps me on the arm. “Good luck, then. Janie and I have a date night tonight, so I’m gonna
take off. I’ll check in with you on Monday.”
“Thanks for helping out today, man.”
“It was fun. I missed my calling. Should’ve been an actor.”
“I’ll have to take your word on that.”
As he walks away, Holt crosses paths with Madison, who’s right on time for our chat. They say
hello to one another, and Holt murmurs something. Probably encouragement. She nods.
Then Madison marches over to me. She’s got her hands clenched on the straps of her gear bag.
Like she’s bracing herself. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
For a brief moment, my attention lingers on her heart-shaped face. Her long nose, bowed pink
lips, the slight flush to her cheeks… I scrub those thoughts from my mind. I’m a professional, and this
is a professional conversation.
“I’d like to discuss what happened earlier.”
“I hope I didn’t offend you, sir. I was just trying to explain why…”
She trails off when she sees me shaking my head. “I heard your story. I don’t need to hear it again.
That’s not why I wanted to talk.”
“It wasn’t a story. Sir.”
That’s her third “sir” in as many minutes.
“Fair enough. But I know you weren’t the only one who overlooked Detective Holt in that room.”
“If you want me to rat someone out, I’m not—”
“That isn’t what I mean. You took responsibility for your entire team, and I respect that. So now, I
want you to step up for your teammates again. Tell me what I can do better as your instructor.”
Madison’s eyes narrow. There’s a long pause. Way too long.
“Is this a trick?” she finally says. “Sir?”
She looks so skeptical and so damn cute that I almost crack a smile. Which is something that
doesn’t happen too often, at least not at work. Lately, not even at home. I spend too much of my time
with Emma playing bad cop.
“Not a trick.” I sigh. “I’m going to level with you. I’ve never actually taught anything before.”
Madison shrugs. “I had a hunch,” she mutters.
Thank you, I say silently. The last thing I want is for her to humor me.
My SWAT commander wants to choose ten new operators to build up our tactical team. At this
rate, he’ll be lucky to find half that.
And whose fault will that be?
I hate needing help and I really hate asking for it, but the commander doesn’t want to hear my
excuses. I didn’t want this instructor gig, but now that I have it, it’s my duty to excel.
 And if the woman with the knowledge I need also happens to be stunning? That is irrelevant.
Madison is the best person for this. It’s not just that we went to the academy together, though that’s a
factor. It’s Madison herself. The very things—apart from her physicality—that make me notice her.
“Here’s how I see it,” I say. “In the classroom, I’ve been looking at blank faces. I get almost no
questions. Then today, there’s screw-ups all over the place. As if they didn’t hear a word I said.”
“I was one of the screw-ups. I’m no teaching expert.”
“But I’ll bet you’re an expert on your fellow students. I want full honesty. I won’t get offended.
Just think of it as helping out a former classmate from the academy.”
She bites her lip. “I wasn’t sure you remembered that.”
“You think I’d forget you?”
My phone buzzes with a new text. I know I’m being rude, but I just can’t resist looking.

Emma: You’re always annoyed at me when I’m home, and then you get pissed at me when
I’m gone. It’s not my fault you have no one else in your life! If you’re miserable, do
something about it instead of taking it out on me!! [Angry emoji.]

I sputter as I read Emma’s words.

“Is something wrong?” Madison asks.
“It’s nothing.” I switch my screen off. I’m sick of this back and forth with my kid. I’m sick of
feeling like I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. There’s nothing I hate more. “Actually, a family thing
came up. Can we finish this talk on Monday?”
She looks confused again. Then she shakes her head. “Sorry, yeah. Just trying to keep up. This has
been a weird conversation, Sergeant.”
“Didn’t mean it to be.”
“Okay, then.” She smiles with her mouth closed. “I’m going to call a ride.”
“You don’t have a ride back to the station?”
“I rode with Officer Perez earlier, and I told her not to wait. But that’s what Uber’s for, right?”
Jeez. I’m being an asshole. I can’t just leave her here by herself. If someone did that to Emma, I’d
be mad as hell.
I point at my SUV. “I’ll drive you.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, we can keep talking on the way. If you don’t mind making a quick stop first?” I slide into
the driver’s seat. She dumps her gear bag in the trunk and gets in beside me. Madison buckles her
seatbelt, and I steer the SUV out of the parking lot.
“What’s the quick stop?”
“To pick up my daughter.”
If Madison is present for this, it might keep me and Emma from going full nuclear on each other.

MADISON TUGS HER HAIR FREE OF ITS TIE. P ALE GOLDEN WAVES TOPPLE OVER HER SHOULDERS . “S O ,
what’s she like? Your daughter?”
We’ve been making our way across town, stuck in Friday evening traffic. The cabin of the SUV is
getting dimmer by the minute as the sun goes down. The streetlights along the route flicker on, and
we’re surrounded by the honking of horns and the revving of engines with nowhere to go.
Neither Madison nor I have brought up my request for honesty, and I get the sense she’s stalling.
But I don’t call her on it.
“Emma’s a sophomore at West Oaks High,” I say. “A good kid. Most of the time.”
“Why do I get the sense tonight is not one of those good times?”
“I just wish Emma would take things more seriously.”
Madison stiffens beside me. “In what way?”
I know how gruff and freaking old I sound. I’m thirty-seven, which I still count as pretty young, no
matter what my daughter thinks. But I can’t help it. “Making smart choices. Being responsible for
herself so I don’t have to be the grumpy guy all the damned time.”
Sometimes, I want to be the fun guy. Believe it or not.
The tension in Madison’s shoulders evaporates, and she laughs. “Jennings, come on. Aren’t you
always the grumpy guy?”
At first, I’m speechless. Which isn’t remarkable because I’m no prolific speaker as it is. But she
just called me out, and I gotta say, I like it.
Her eyes widen. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Sergeant.”
You called me Nash in the academy, I want to say. Instead I go with, “Nah, I asked for honesty,
didn’t I? To respond to your question, I’m not the grumpy guy on purpose.”
“Sounds like someone’s making excuses.”
“Oof. I walked right into that one.”
Her teeth show as she smiles, and her emerald eyes shine as they study me. I feel a warm glow of
satisfaction. See, Emma? Your dad can be funny.
We reach the slumber party house and stop at the curb. I pick up my phone and open the messaging
app. “It’ll just be a moment. Emma’s at a sleepover. I told her to come home, but I think I’m being
ignored.”
I’m going to give Emma one last chance to come outside before I make a scene in front of her
friends.
“Wait. Why do you want Emma to leave this sleepover?”
I explain the whole boys-at-the-party situation, my pulse thundering again with indignation.
Madison asks to see Emma’s messages, and I scroll through them.
I’ve heard the horror stories about teens and social media. Videos that go viral and ruin girls’
lives. That’s not going to be my daughter. It’s my job to protect her. And teenage boys? That’s threat
number one.
“Besides,” I say, “if I don’t do something now, my credibility is lost. She’ll never listen to me
again. And she’ll end up in some terrible situation and won’t come to me for help.”
These are the thoughts that keep me up at night since Emma moved in with me full-time.
Madison doesn’t say anything, but I can hear the gears moving in her head. “What about Emma’s
mom? What does she say about it?”
I don’t want to explain that history. Tops on my list of failures. “I should be able to take care of
this myself.”
Madison nods. “Do you know the parents who’re hosting this sleepover?”
“Yeah. Pretty well.”
“Do you know Chad and Toby? Are they seniors? Troublemakers with tattoos? Footballers with a
bad rep?”
“No, I looked them up on social media. They’re sophomores. No visible ink. In the debate club,
like Emma. But…”
“According to Emma’s messages, they’re eating pizza and watching a movie. Under the
supervision of parents you know. And your daughter is otherwise level-headed?”
I sigh, slumping back in my seat. I can see where this is going. “You think I’m being an asshole.”
“I wouldn’t presume to go that far. But are you being grumpy?” Her eyebrows are trying to reach
her hairline.
I throw my hands toward the windshield, as if that communicates something. “Sometimes, grumpy
is warranted!”
“But you said you didn’t want to be the grumpy guy with your daughter. This is your chance.”
I glare at the house, with its lit-up windows. My breath catches when I spot someone pass by. It’s
Laura Chen, the mom, carrying a stack of pizza boxes. I see no signs of a raging orgy or meth lab. Or
any other indication of trouble.
I’m calmer now. I realize if I storm in there and drag Emma out, she won’t forgive me in the next
decade. If that.
There’s a reason my personal life is a mess. And that reason is me.
“Fine. You may have a point.” I don’t know why I sound so gruff. I could try for grateful, but the
best I can manage is a slight movement at the corner of my mouth. I put the car in gear and drive away
from the curb before I can change my mind. “I’d appreciate if you don’t mention this to anyone.”
“Mention what?”
“Thanks.”
Traffic isn’t so bad now. I exhale as I turn onto the main boulevard, leaving the sleepover behind.
I hope I made the right choice.
No, I did.
“You’re not as terrifying as some people think,” Madison says a couple minutes later.
“Terrifying? You find me terrifying?”
“I didn’t say that. But other people do.”
“Who?”
“I’m not naming names!”
“Why do these nameless individuals find me terrifying?” I know I can be intense. I prefer being
quiet over running my mouth. But it’s never been a problem with my teammates, either in the Navy or
on SWAT.
“It’s because of your whole vibe. All scowly.” She gestures at me. “The Navy SEAL sniper
thing.” She points. “See? That. Right there.”
“What?”
“You’re frowning.”
That’s just my face. “Do I come across as arrogant?”
“Not exactly. But you don’t go out of your way to be approachable. If you want students to ask
questions, they can’t be scared of the teacher.”
I grunt, thus proving her point.
She snickers. “Sorry you asked my opinion?”
“No,” I grind out.
“Am I kicked out of SWAT training yet?”
“We’re former classmates, remember? You’re doing me a favor. This has no bearing on your
standing in training.”
“Careful. Former classmates almost sounds like friends.”
 “Can’t we be friends?”
That sentence is out of my mouth before I consider it.
Danger, I tell myself. She’s your student.
I remember the day she introduced herself to me at the academy. Somehow, everyone knew I was
a former SEAL, though I hadn’t said anything about it. I could feel my classmates’ and instructors’
curiosity, but nobody worked up the courage to ask how I’d ended up there. While tons of police are
ex-military, ex-SEALs are rarer, especially among the rank and file. Everybody expected me to be a
cocky asshole.
But when I arrived in West Oaks, fresh from my discharge, I was a mess. Everything on my home
front was falling apart.
And there came this vibrant girl with an easy smile, approaching me like I was the misfit loner on
the playground.
Hey, I’m Madison. You’re Nash, right?
I wasn’t in the right place to accept her implied offer of friendship. But now, I wonder where
we’d be if I had.
Since I left the military, I’ve been trying to hold together the remains of my family. I haven’t had
the mental space or energy for much else. Four years have passed, and I can count my friendships in
West Oaks on one hand.
At the next red light, Madison bends one leg and twists her body so she’s facing me. “Okay, I have
a proposal for you. Between friends. You want to be a better instructor. And I could use some career
advice.”
“Career advice? About SWAT?”
She hesitates. “Yeah.”
“My door’s always open. That’s what I said the first day of training. Nobody’s taken me up on it
yet.”
“Well, here I am.” She opens her hands. “Not asking for special treatment. Just some tips on how
to improve.”
That seems reasonable to me. “What’s your proposal?”
“Drinks with your students. That’s allowed, isn’t it?”
There’s a jolt down my spine. “Drinks with you?”
“With a bunch of people from the training. We’re all meeting up.”
A flash of disappointment cuts through me, and I ignore it. Off limits, I remind myself. But I can
make this work. I don’t have other plans tonight. When’s the last time I had plans on any Friday night?
New plan: a drink with my trainees so I can get to know them.
“Why not? I’m in.”
Madison’s smile is dazzling. “I’ll pull up the directions.”
“Should I stop by the station first?”
“Nah, we’re late enough as it is. You drive and practice not scowling.”
“Two things at once? This is hard.”
She laughs and shakes her head. That warm glow inside me is back, the flames catching and
igniting.
Fuck. I am in trouble.
 4

Madison

T his is turning into a really strange night. But it’s the good kind of strange. It’s the kind
of strange that excites me. Like I have no clue where it’ll lead, but I’m pretty sure it’s
somewhere fun.
Major contrast to where this evening started.
“Where are we headed?” Nash asks.
I give him the address, which I’ve just pulled up on my phone. I’m still wearing my sweaty T-
shirt, black tactical pants, and boots. But if I swing by the bathroom at the bar, I can freshen up. I tug
my fingers through my hair to fluff it.
At the next red light, Nash drums his fingers on his thigh. “Should you warn them I’m coming? If
they find me so terrifying, they might not be thrilled about me showing up.”
“Don’t worry. It’ll be good. If they see you drink beer and eat nachos like a regular human, you’ll
be less intimidating.”
“But you’re not intimidated by me.”
Earlier, I was. But I’d rather not admit that now. “That’s because I have two grumpy older
brothers.” Aiden is a chef, and he’s mellowed with age. Jake is a dad and works in drug enforcement
for the feds. But unlike Nash, Jake usually won’t shut up. I also have two younger siblings, who are
even louder.
I side-eye Nash across the cabin. “You do drink beer and eat nachos, right?”
His mouth curves. “It’s been known to happen.”
My eyes are stuck on his mouth for a moment. Nash’s whole aura changes when he smiles.
“I promise it will be fun,” I say.
“Fun? I’m not familiar with this concept.”
 I snicker, watching as headlights wash over him.
I thought he was going to chew me out for my mistake. Instead he wants my advice. Weird, right?
Though I’m not sure how useful I’ll be. Compared to Nash and his impressive resume, I’m basically
nobody. I’m squeaking by on patrol, despite trying for more. I’m still single, still the middle child,
still never more than second best. Or maybe third. That about sums it up in my parents’ eyes.
Back when we were in the academy, everybody knew Nash’s military credentials. Even the
instructors were deferential to him. Yet he always sat quietly at the back. He had this bewildered air
about him. Like he wasn’t quite sure how he’d gone from an elite operator deployed overseas to a
police academy cadet with twenty-somethings like yours truly.
I tried a few times to get him talking because he looked lonely. Okay, maybe also because he’s a
smokeshow. He wore a wedding band, and when I chatted him up, I was careful to keep any trace of
flirtation out of my tone. I wanted nothing more than to be friendly. I thought he gave me the brush off.
But talking comes naturally to me. Nash isn’t the same. Waiting beneath his brawny, stoic exterior
is an intriguing guy. He’s like a painting that changes depending on your perspective. You have to
catch him at the right angle to see his whole picture.
And this picture? Not too hard on the eyes.
His dark hair is short on the sides but long enough on top to fall over his forehead. His nose and
jaw cut strong lines on his profile, but from the side, his lips look surprisingly soft. Especially with
the hint of a smile that’s lingering there.
When I subtly peer at his left hand, I don’t see a ring anymore. Either way, it shouldn’t matter to
me. Whether he’s married or not, he’s my superior now. My instructor.
He’s so far out of my league, he’s in the next galaxy.
The sign for the Shore Lounge appears on the next block. “There’s the bar. I texted Lia I was on
my way.”
“Is there a parking lot?”
“Try the next right. There should be street parking.”
He turns at the corner. We’re in a neighborhood, packed with rows of homes built in the last
century. Nash parks in front of a brick house, careful not to block the driveway.
When I go to open the passenger door, Nash rests a hand on my arm. “I know today could’ve gone
better. I’ll tell you one thing. Detective Holt thinks highly of you. He said you’d be an asset no matter
where you end up.”
“That means a lot. Holt’s a nice guy.”
“True. But from what I can tell, he also knows what he’s talking about.”
“Thanks.” Blood rushes to my cheeks. I’m not sure if it’s the encouragement or his hand on my
arm, but my body’s reacting to him.
Back it up, I tell myself. He might be nicer than I thought, but he’s still Sergeant Jennings.
This is not a date.
I push out of the SUV.
“I need to put the weapons and gear in my locker,” Nash says. “It’s in the trunk.”
We lock away our belongings. There’s my SWAT training gear, including the dummy rifle. But
Nash and I stow our handguns as well. I usually carry when I’m off duty. But we’ll be drinking, and
West Oaks PD policy requires that we leave our weapons here.
The streetlight directly above us is out, casting this part of the block in darkness. Windows are lit
up, TVs on, the residents oblivious to the fact that anyone out here can see inside. When I’m home, I
keep my curtains closed even though I’m on the third floor. Maybe I’ve seen too many crime scenes.
But Nash’s presence keeps my mind from going anywhere too dark.
I can hold my own against bad guys. But a man like Nash on my six? I wouldn’t say no.
We reach the bar. Nash opens the door. “After you.” The light from the bright blue sign makes his
hair look like spilled ink.
When I walk past him, I feel his warmth inches away from me.
The Shore Lounge is a dive, with sticky floors, bad lighting, and too few tables. But the energy’s
great here. It’s always packed. Classic rock plays from the overhead speakers.
Nash stays close as we push through the crowd, angling his shoulder like a bodyguard might.
Lia and Clint both raise their glasses when they see me. They’re at a long table with a dozen
people from our training.
“Shelby!” Clint shouts. “Finally! We were worried you didn’t survive having your ass handed to
you by Sergeant Scary. Scale of one to infinity, how bad was it?”
Lia freezes. Her mouth forms an O, and she nudges Clint. Then, in less than a second, all activity
at the table ceases.
They all stare. Clint’s skin slowly turns pink.
“Do you think they’ve noticed me yet?” Nash murmurs. I feel his breath against my ear.
“Hey guys,” I say. “I brought a plus one.”
Immediately, I regret my word choice. Not. A. Date.
Lia’s the first to move again. She gets up from her chair and heads over. “Sergeant. Good to see
you, sir.”
Nash steps out from behind me. “Hope I’m not crashing the party?”
“Of course not! More the merrier!” She’s a little too enthusiastic. “Grab a chair!”
“How about I order a pitcher for the table?” He turns to me. “Madison, what do you like?”
“Fat Tire?”
Nash nods and turns to the others. “Anyone want to give me a hand?”
Wide eyes stare back until Tyler jumps up. “I will, sir.” He practically salutes.
They head for the bar.
A bumpier start than I was hoping for.
Lia grabs my arm. “Um, what is happening?” she hisses.
Conversation among our friends has picked up slightly, but they’re all whispering and casting
nervous glances at Nash’s back.
“What do you mean?” I ask. “He didn’t have plans, so I invited him to get to know everyone. He’s
actually a decent guy.”
She leans back and studies me like I might’ve been replaced by a body double. “Let me get this
straight. You were supposed to be in trouble. Now you show up with Jennings like he’s an adorable
stray you decided to bring home?”
I scoff. “He’s hardly a stray.” We both turn our heads. Nash is leaning his elbows against the bar,
all wide shoulders and curvy triceps. He’s ready to burst out of that shirt. “He’s more of a
thoroughbred.”
Her expression grows even more incredulous. “You have a crush on Sergeant Scary!”
“I do not,” I hiss.
Clint pops up behind Lia. “Hey Shelby, why’d he call you Madison?”
I force my brain to switch gears. At least Clint didn’t hear what Lia said. “When we met in the
academy, I went by my first name.”
He squints at me. “Wait, I thought your first name was Shelby.”
 “You thought my name was Shelby Shelborne? You’re an idiot.”
“Whatever. You’re the one who brought Sergeant Jennings here. Tonight was supposed to be
relaxing. He’s freaking everyone out.”
“He’s standing right behind you,” I whisper.
Clint spins around. Nash is still across the room, paying for the pitcher. I burst out laughing.
“Jeez, you spend an hour with Jennings, and you’re already turning mean like him.”
Clint jumps again when Nash actually appears, holding a pitcher of golden-brown beer, while
Tyler carries a stack of glasses. We join the table, and the other officers make room. They’re quiet
and wary. But Lia and Clint say thanks and smile when Nash pours glasses of beer and passes them
around.
Lia lifts her drink. “To bringing home strays.”
Nash and half the officers at the table scrunch up their faces, confused.
I raise my glass. “How about, to new friends?”
“New friends,” Nash repeats.
We all clink our glasses together and take a sip. It’s cold and malty, a hint of hops spreading
across my tongue. I’m close enough to Nash that his arm and thigh brush against me.
Nash said in the car that he wanted to be friends. I’m still not sure if it’s possible. But do I mind
having him here next to me?
Nope. I don’t mind at all.
As we settle in, fresh drinks in hand, the conversation starts to flow more easily. But Nash is
quiet, taking long pulls of his beer. A wrinkle settles in between his eyes. He’s going back to brooding
and intense. Nash’s very presence is commanding. And yes, intimidating. But the others have it
wrong. It’s not scary so much as compelling. Nash is someone. A man who knows who he is. At least,
that’s how he seems to me.
But I genuinely want him to get to know the others. Not because I’m trying to score points with our
instructor or prove that I’m useful. I like seeing the different angles of him. Everyone else should see
them too.
I’m about to ask him a question and get him talking, but another of my teammates beats me to it.
“Hey, Sergeant,” someone says from the other end of the table. “What’s the real story behind the
Midnight Slasher?”
 5

Nash

I nstantly, our table goes quiet. A dozen pairs of eyes turn toward me.
“What do you want to know?” I ask.
I thought these patrol officers were going to turn tail and run when they saw me. Not
the best start when they’re supposed to be candidates for the tactical team. They might think I’m scary,
but they’ll have to be able to face a lot worse.
Lia brushes a thumb through the condensation on her glass. “The Slasher is the reason West Oaks
is scrambling to add people to SWAT. So you must know a lot about it.”
Everyone in West Oaks has heard a lot about the break-ins. The way the guy cuts his victims,
attacks in the early hours of the morning when the homeowners are alone. But I suppose I have more
intimate knowledge than most.
“I helped respond to the call to the Cowling residence,” I say.
The Slasher’s most recent victim.
It happened a few weeks back. An insomniac neighbor reported a possible burglary at the house
next door. When patrol officers responded, they realized it might be the Slasher. The guy was wearing
a dark balaclava and had the homeowner tied up, bleeding from shallow wounds to his limbs.
Patrol called SWAT. We rolled in, treating it as a hostage situation. But by then, the Slasher had
escaped.
I’ll never forget the victim’s face or name. Eugene Cowling, age sixty-five. Widower, parent of
two. The attacker sliced cuts down Cowling’s arms and legs. The other victims described the
Slasher’s knife as combat-style, similar to a k-bar. While the Slasher hasn’t killed his other victims,
Cowling succumbed to a heart attack—literally scared to death.
If we don’t catch the Slasher, we’re all worried Cowling won’t be the last. Especially if the
Slasher decides to escalate.
“We had a chance to catch him, and we were too late,” I say. “Could we have helped save the
homeowner if we’d made it there quicker? If we’d had a bigger team?” I shrug. “Mayor Ackerman
and Chief Liu seem to think so.” Cowling’s son has been on every local news show and podcast,
giving tearful testimonials about police incompetence.
“The chief has stepped up patrols at night,” someone says.
“But we don’t know where to do extra patrols,” Madison chimes in. “The Slasher’s been striking
homes all over town in different neighborhoods. There are a few commonalities, like the fact that he
always goes after people who are alone. But it’s not enough to narrow the field.”
Clint spins his beer glass on the table. “We’ve all seen nasty stuff before. But this guy? He’s
twisted.” Clint glances around, lowering his voice, and the others lean in. “He must enjoy torturing
them. Making them bleed. Why else would he do it?”
Madison chews her lip.
If they’re looking for reassurance, I’m not sure I can give that to them.
“Trying to understand is a waste of time,” I say. “Ninety percent of what we do in SWAT is
executing high-risk search and arrest warrants. When we do it right, it’s boring. We train for the
hardest stuff, the situations we may never see. We plan for the ‘what ifs’ so we know that, if shit
happens, we’ll be ready. That’s the real question. Not worrying about what motivates the sickos out
there. When you get the call, are you going to be ready?”
Uneasy faces stare back at me.

TEN MINUTES LATER, THE SOMBER MOOD PERSISTS . THEY’ RE STARING INTO THEIR BEERS .
I think I broke them.
Then Madison drains her glass and grabs the pitcher for a refill. “You must have some great
stories, Jennings. What about the fun parts of SWAT?”
“Fun parts?”
Madison’s eyes are so damn bright, full of good humor. “Yeah. You know. Tell us the sexy stuff.”
Chuckles turn into laughs and jeers. But at least they’re lightening up.
Fun stories. I can handle this. Right?
“Okay, this was a couple years back. We were called in on a bank robbery. The robbers were
positioned in the front of the bank, firing AR-15s at patrol and getting more unstable by the minute.
They’d herded the hostages into a back room. We got the order from the commander—get the hostages
out of there. Whatever it takes. We decided on an extreme solution. A no-entry assault.”
I pause for another sip of beer. No one else says a word. “There were three walls between our
operators and the civilians. So, what did we do? We set charges and blew our own exit path. Boom.
Boom. Boom. It was like one of those old cartoons where Wile E. Coyote plows a hole through a
bunch of brick walls. Then one of the robbers comes barreling through the smoke, waving his rifle. I
was on the roof of the building across the street, saw him in my scope. Bam. Took him out. The
negotiators got the other suspects to give themselves up. No other casualties.”
“Whoa.” Clint’s eyes are wide. “What about when you were a SEAL? You must have even crazier
stories from that.”
“I do. But all the best ones are classified.”
 “Aw, Sarge. Not fair.”
The others ask more questions, coaxing me into telling war stories from the SWAT team. Then
some from BUD/S on Coronado Island, when I was going through my qualifications to become a
SEAL. Even a few from my deployments overseas, with the details I’m allowed to share. Other patrol
guys with military experience pitch in with their own stories.
The conversation moves onto their wildest nights on patrol here in West Oaks. Like that time a
certain movie star stripped naked and ran down Ocean Lane, high on psychedelic mushrooms. Or a
billionaire up in the hills who was inconsolable after his vintage porn collection was stolen. I enjoy
hearing their stories, but it’s Madison my eyes keep searching out. Her smiles as she fills in details.
Her easy laughter, her head tipped back.
My students have finally relaxed. They’re still green. But for the first time since this training
started, I’m optimistic. Given the chance, I think I can make them into decent operators.
The only downside? I’m beginning to wish Madison wasn’t in my SWAT training at all. For
purely selfish reasons.
And that makes me a real asshole.
After a while, Clint gets up, then returns with a tray of shot glasses. There are cheers, and my
students pass them around.
Madison ends up with two in her hand. “Want one?” she asks me.
I hesitate. This is probably a bad idea. But with Madison watching me expectantly, I can’t bring
myself to say no.
“Just one.”
One shot can’t do any harm.
 6

Madison

N ash and I clink shot glasses. The tequila burns my throat on the way down, but it’s a good
burn.
He tips his back and swallows. I follow the bob of his Adam’s apple.
“If Emma could see you now,” I say, nudging his knee with mine.
He smiles. “She’d probably pour me another one.”
“That could be arranged.”
“Don’t tempt me.” The corner of his mouth ticks up again.
Temptation. I’m feeling that right now.
“What have you been doing since the academy?” I ask. “I knew you’d joined SWAT, but I haven’t
seen you around otherwise.”
He shifts in his seat. “Emma’s been living with me the past year. Before that, she spent the
weekends with me. We worked on my house together, went to the beach.” He shrugs. “I tried to stay
out of trouble.”
“You have a habit of getting into trouble, Jennings?”
“Usually, no.”
Our eyes lock, and I’m the first to look away. “Speaking of trouble, do you remember in the
academy when Chase Collins streaked all the way from headquarters to the beach?”
“Along with half our class? Yeah. Wish I could forget that image.”
I snort. Lia and Clint were in the class below us. I have no idea if their group was as crazy as
ours.
“You didn’t streak though,” I point out.
“I was still married then. I kept my behavior in check.”
 Still married. Which means he’s not married anymore.
I’ve been reining in my thoughts—or at least, trying—because I wasn’t sure if he was attached.
But if he’d stripped down that night in the academy, there’s no way in the universe I’d have forgotten
the view. And that just makes me wonder. Does Nash have hair on his chest? Is he smooth? Does a
happy trail lead down to his…
A wave of heat passes through me.
At the other end of the table, Clint and Tyler are singing along to the music. Lia’s telling a story
with big hand gestures. But she’s also watching us.
“You didn’t streak either,” Nash says.
“Actually, I did. But I ran so fast, hardly anybody saw me.” I had to cover my boobs along the
way, just to fight the bouncing. Ouch. I close my mouth on a giggle.
“I can’t tell if you’re kidding or not.”
“Guess you’ll never know.”
“Guess not.”
A nearby group erupts into braying laughter. I lean closer so he’ll hear me over the noise. “Be
honest. Are you having fun?”
His only response is a half-smile as he watches me from the corner of his eye. We’re not touching
now, but his solid presence is like a magnetic field. I feel him even when I’m not looking.
Still my instructor. Still not happening. But, a naughty voice in my brain says. But…
Tingles rush through my body, and it’s not just the tequila.
“Admit it, I have great ideas,” I say. “I didn’t even plan this out. Pure instinct.”
“You’re knocking my answer to your question earlier at training?”
“Just a little.”
“Maybe your instincts are better than mine.”
“What do you mean?”
He shakes his head. “Never mind. Ignore me.”
Lia waves at me. Uh oh. I’m getting the signal. “Want another drink?” I ask Nash.
“A beer maybe. I can get it.”
“No, I’ve got this round. I’ll be right back.” I go toward the bar, and Lia heads me off. We drop
our elbows onto the bartop, waiting for the bartender.
“So, you and the sergeant are looking pretty cozy.”
“He’s a friend from the academy.”
“You’re friends with the guy suddenly? I get that you make friends just by breathing, but come on,
Shelby.” She turns to her side, facing me. Lia must’ve showered at the station before coming here.
She’s French-braided her dark hair, and shiny pink gloss coats her lips. “If you spend all tonight
whispering with him and then make the tactical team, you know what people will say. Right?”
Acid rises in my throat. “That’s bullshit for a million different reasons. Jennings doesn’t pick the
team. The commander does.” I glance around, making sure none of the others are close enough to
listen in. “And nothing is going to happen between me and him.”
“You sure he knows that? ’Cause the way he’s been staring at you could melt the North Pole in
January.”
Don’t look, I tell myself. Don’t even think about it.
I look over my shoulder. Nash is sitting back in his chair, arms crossed. His eyes are locked on
me. They don’t move away. But there’s nothing lascivious in his gaze. If anything, it’s protective.
I only glance away from Nash when the bartender asks for our order. “Two Bud Lights,” I say.
Then to Lia, “You’re wrong.”
“I just hope you’ll be careful.”
“I’m always careful.”
But do I sometimes take risks? Risks that could end in disaster? I’ve already proven that today.
 7

Nash

A n hour or two later, Madison and I are still sitting at the table, laughing about our academy
days. It’s not that I can’t talk to people. I just choose not to. But Madison? She asks me a
question, and suddenly I’m telling her my innermost thoughts.
I don’t tell her everything I’m thinking, of course. That would be stupid. And could lead me to
places I have no business going.
Tyler plunks down another tray of tiny glasses and a pile of lime wedges. There are shouts and
cheers.
This is their third round. Or fifth? I’ve lost count.
Clint pushes a tiny glass into my hand. “C’mon Sarge. Have fun with us!”
“Nope.” I set my shot glass back on the tray. “I’m done.”
“No more shots?” Madison asks.
“We’ve had plenty.” I grab an untouched pitcher of water instead. I pour a glass for myself and
one for Madison. I hold it out to her, but instead, she downs her tequila. The shot glass thumps as she
sets it on the table, and she flashes a sexy little smirk. As if she’s saying, You’re not the boss here,
Jennings.
Shit.
My mind has been straying to dirtier places. Such as—I can’t stop wondering if Madison streaked
to the ocean with our academy classmates. I wouldn’t have looked then, but I’d have no problem
doing it now.
My dick’s plumping up, and suddenly my dirty thoughts are translating into physical reality.
Nope. Not happening. Down boy.
“I’ll stick with water.” I lift my glass. “Here’s to good behavior.”
 Madison laughs like I was making a joke.
Slowly, members of our group peel away. Lia and Clint remain, plus Tyler and a couple more
guys. I can read their restless expressions, the way their eyes have been roving over the room.
Hookup time. And none of them seems to be finding suitable prospects. I’m glad they’re not
looking Madison’s way.
I should be showing that level of judgment.
Clint slaps the flat of his hand on the table. “I’m ready to bail. The place across the street has a
dancefloor. Who’s in?”
Chairs scrape as Lia and the others stand.
Madison gives me a questioning look. “What do you think?”
The plan was one drink with my students. That’s turned into several beers and a tequila shot.
I should say no. I’d better get myself to bed. Alone.
But when I open my mouth, that’s not what comes out.
“I’ll stick around. I should make sure you get home safely.”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t make it sound like a hardship. I can find another ride.”
That’s what I’m worried about. I don’t know if that makes me less of an asshole, or more of one.
“Not a hardship at all. I’m not ready for the night to end.”
She smiles slowly. “Good. I’m not ready for that either.”
Cold air blows into my face as we head across the street. The bouncer checks the others’ I.D.s,
but he barely glances at mine.
I pay Madison’s cover. She seems surprised, but doesn’t comment.
Once we’re inside, a haze of heat and alcohol greets us. Pink and green and blue neon shimmer in
the glass bottles behind the bar. An upbeat song plays by a singer I can’t place.
It’s a lot louder in here. Instinctively, I reach for the small of Madison’s back as our group heads
toward the bar. When we get there, I edge forward. “Two club sodas with lime,” I shout at the
bartender. I pass one to Madison without comment.
I’m probably being overbearing. I just feel like I should look out for her. But do I try ordering for
Lia or Clint or my other students? No.
It’s because I drove Madison here. I feel responsible for her.
Sure. That’s it.
When we’ve got our drinks, we crowd around a bar-height table with no chairs. Madison’s
friends down their drinks and head for the dancefloor. I think she might follow them, but she stays at
my side, leaving a couple inches between us. She sips her club soda and bobs her head in time with
the music. She’s like the kid at the prom hanging out with the chaperone.
“You don’t want to dance with them?” I ask.
“I’ll dance if you do.”
“I don’t dance.”
“You don’t have drinks with your students, either. Until tonight.”
I’m still pondering that bit of wisdom when my phone dings. I see a new text message notification,
and anxiety grips my stomach. It’s from my daughter.

Emma: Dad, we’re having a very PG night. Thought you’d want to know.

I huff a small laugh of both gratitude and relief. There’s a photo attached showing all six of the
teenagers at the sleepover. Two are vaguely boy-like. They’re all grinning at the camera and flashing
signs with their hands. I will assume those are not gang related.
“Looks like it’s going well?” Madison’s head is tilted in my direction, sneaking a peek at my
screen.
I hold it up so she can see better. “Emma’s that one,” I shout over the music. I puff up my chest a
little, pointing to my kid. She’s got my dark hair, plus her mom’s button nose. Emma’s smile is pure
mischievous magic. No clue where that came from. My ex is subdued like me.
“Beautiful. PG night indeed. I don’t even spot any hickeys.”
I make a horrified sound, somewhere between shouting and retching. She snorts.
Madison lifts up her phone. “My family’s having fun without me too.” She shows me a picture of a
crowd in cocktail attire. Their arms are raised, holding champagne glasses. “There’s my brother
Aiden. And that’s Jake. Those are the twins. I’m a double-middle child. Two older, two younger.”
No wonder she’s skilled at talking to people. She was constantly surrounded growing up. My skin
itches as I imagine it. I had my older sister, but she left me alone, and I valued my space.
Of course, I’m not craving space as much at the moment. I shift an inch closer to Madison. So I
can hear her better.
“I get along best with my brother Jake,” she says. “He’s one of my best friends.”
“One of your best friends?”
“What? Everyone has more than one best friend.”
“No, Madison. No, they don’t. I don’t.”
“But are you the exception? Or the rule?”
“I don’t know people’s lives well enough to say.”
“Exactly,” she whispers, leaning into me. My hand ends up on her hip to brace her. But then, it
stays.
I clear my throat.
“So, you have a lot of friends,” I say. “What about a boyfriend?”
Her eyes slide to mine and hold. “Nope. I’m single.”
I nod like this is mildly interesting. But I’m overheating. My heart’s thumping to the beat of the
music.
Dangerous fucking territory.
She’s still got the photo on her phone screen. “What about those two?” I ask, pointing to the
couple in the center of the group, their arms wrapped around one another. A guy in a suit and a girl in
a white sequin dress. They have that kind of happiness that stock models do. So over-the-top it
doesn’t seem real.
Madison grumbles. “That’s the bride and groom. The rehearsal dinner is tonight.” She chews her
lower lip. “My high school boyfriend is getting married this weekend. To my former best friend.”
“Oh. Yikes.”
“Yikes is the correct response. But it’s not as bad as it sounds. They got together after he and I
broke up. My whole family’s still close friends with their families. There’s no SWAT training
tomorrow, so I could go to the ceremony. But really? I can’t face it.”
I study the picture on Madison’s screen. There’s a twinge in my chest. A discomfort as I look at
this guy who once had his arms around Madison the way he’s holding onto his fiancée.
“You can do better,” I announce. I don’t mean myself. My relationship track record is shit. She
deserves somebody amazing.
She bows her head, laughing self-deprecatingly. “Not everyone thinks so.”
 Then they’re idiots, I want to say. “This high school boyfriend. Is he the one that got away?” My
lips almost brush her ear.
She looks confused for a moment. Then a grin breaks over her face. “No. That’s not… That’s not
what I meant. At all.”
“Then I’m lost.”
“I’m glad they’re both happy. I’m over him. I just don’t like what he represents.”
“Which is?”
She locks her screen and puts the phone away. “I’m warning you, this is going to sound dramatic.”
“You witnessed my drama earlier. I almost did a breach and extraction on my kid’s slumber
party.”
I shouldn’t remind her of my grumpy asshole tendencies, but she laughs again. “I’ll tell you. But
we have to find a quieter place to stand. If I have to keep shouting, I’ll go hoarse.”
We retreat further into the club, away from the dancefloor. I don’t see Lia or Clint anymore. Or
anyone else we know.
We lean against a wall, turned slightly toward one another. The room is painted black. It’s so dark
I see her in shadows, in glimpses of washed-out color.
There’s a charge to the space between us. Electromagnetism, making the hairs on my arms stand
on end.
“My ex represents all the ways I’ve disappointed my parents. I dated him through high school, and
we were off and on in college. Everyone had assumed I’d get married and join my parents’ catering
company. But then I decided to switch my major from business to criminal justice. My mother still
isn’t over it.”
“She’s not happy you’re a cop?”
“She thinks it’s dangerous. But both my older brothers were in the military. Jake did two tours in
Afghanistan in the army, and he’s with the DEA now. Nobody says boo about how his job is risky.”
“That must be hard.” If Emma wanted a career in the military or law enforcement, I’d worry too.
But I have the utmost respect for women who serve.
“Jake is proud of me. But I’d love for the rest of my family to respect what I’ve accomplished,
too. So far, being on patrol isn’t enough.”
“It matters that much what they think?”
She exhales. I feel the tickle on my cheek.
“Yes and no. I didn’t care about their disapproval when I applied for the academy. But I still want
to prove to them that I made the right choice. That I’m good at this and I belong here. You know?”
“Is this why you joined SWAT training? Because of what it would prove to your family?”
She cringes, looking away. “And why I took the detective exam a few months back. Sounds bad, I
know. Like I didn’t do it for the right reasons.”
“Not necessarily.” I can understand making career choices for other people rather than yourself.
I’m in no place to criticize her for that. It’s why I left the Navy. “But are you sure joining SWAT is
what you want?”
“I don’t know,” Madison murmurs. “Honestly? I’m not sure what I want.” Her full lips part. They
look plush. Soft. “What about you?”
My throat goes tight. “What about me?”
“Do you know what you want out of your career? Out of life?”
“I want my daughter to be happy.”
“I mean you. Not just your family.” Those grass-green eyes look up at me, sparkling with light.
Music thrums around us like the rapid beating of my heart.
What I want…
Her glossy hair falls over her shoulder, and I wonder what it would feel like between my fingers.
I wonder what she’d feel like pushed against this wall, my body covering hers, her mouth on mine. In
this dark corner past midnight, where we’d just be two people who crave each other.
I go lightheaded at the rush of need that pounds through my blood. It comes from nowhere, but it
also comes from everywhere. It surges like the music pumping from the speakers. What I want… I
know exactly what I want. It’s pure, instinctual desire.
And fuck, this isn’t good.
“I haven’t got a clue.” That’s the first lie I’ve told her tonight.
I don’t do this kind of thing. I haven’t dated at all since my divorce, much less one of my
subordinates.
But I’m right up to the line with her. So close, a single breath will take me over it.
She nudges my arm. “You’re supposed to be encouraging me. You have a successful career and a
daughter who loves you, no matter how much trouble she gives you at times. If you don’t know what
you want, then what hope do I have?”
I’m surprised by the low, rumbly voice that comes out of me. “If you’re looking for a mentor, I’m
not the right person.”
“Why?”
“Because the thoughts I’m having about you aren’t the kinds a teacher should have for his student.”
 8

Madison

I ’m speechless. For maybe the first time in my life.

He just…
Did he mean…
Somehow, words surface on my tongue. “What kinds of thoughts are you having about me?”
Slowly, Nash’s dark brown eyes trail down my body. Like his stoic mask has slipped, and
underneath is pure longing, naked and raw. It sends a jolt of lightning into my veins, ricocheting up
and down my arms and legs. The heat in his gaze burns me all the way through. Stealing my voice
again.
Shadows pool around us like they’re holding us close, and the melody playing from the speakers
repeats, again and again, in an endless loop.
“As your instructor, I should probably say goodnight and see that you get home. I could leave you
at your doorstep, watch you go inside, and see you again on Monday at our next training session.”
“Or?” I say the word on an exhale. A breathy whisper.
“Or we could stay here.” His voice has dropped another octave. “But if we do that, we’ll just be
Nash and Madison. Friends from the academy. The choice is yours.”
I don’t want to break eye contact, but I quickly glance around for Lia and Clint. I don’t see anyone
I know. I’m not even sure the others are still in the building. Yet if she were here beside me, I know
what Lia would say. I just want you to be careful.
But I’m not scared of Nash. I can’t imagine ever being scared of him.
And if no one else knows? It doesn’t matter what they’d think.
When I find his eyes again, they’re back to inscrutable. They’re the color of whiskey. Rich, deep
brown, hints of smoke and earth and smoldering fire. It’s like I’m drinking him in, and he hits me
much harder than the tequila did. I can’t look away.
I’m not inexperienced with men. But I’ve never been with a man like Nash. A guy who’s got so
much more knowledge of the world, who has a teenage kid. My superior. My instructor.
I asked Nash what he wants.
Is it possible that he actually wants me?
We stare at one another for a long, drawn-out moment. But it’s the kind of moment that’s
unforgettable. That feels bigger than just a few ticks of a clock. The song ends and a new one starts.
Someone shouts and laughs. A gust of cooler air winds through the club as the front door opens and
closes.
My heart is still thumping in time with the last song.
He’s still waiting for me to respond.
“I’ll stay,” I breathe. “If you dance with me.”
His gaze drifts away from me, moving to the next room, where we can see the main dancefloor.
Colored lights rove over the couples as they lean into one another.
He grabs my hand and tugs me along, moving with steady determination, his jaw set. When we
reach a far corner of the dancefloor, he faces me. We’re in each other’s space. Noses, lips almost
touching. I inhale his spicy, musky scent. But his arms hang at his sides.
“I’m gonna need you to take the lead.”
He speaks with authority. This isn’t a request, and I think I understand what he means. There’s a
skewed power dynamic between us, and each step closer that we take now—now, when we’re just
Nash and Madison instead of instructor and student—is a risk. If anyone sees us dancing like this, it
would mean trouble for both of us at work.
But it’s a risk that sets my blood on fire.
I want him. I want those rare, sexy smiles. The toe-curling way he just looked at me.
I take his big hands and put them around my waist. I hold on to his deltoids, squeezing the firm
muscle. I’m tall, so I don’t have to crane my head much to look up at him. We sway to the music.
Nash’s hard edges fit perfectly against my softer curves, like puzzle pieces.
One song flows into the next. Neither of us lets go.
Instead, I move closer, my arms circling his neck. Our stomachs press together. His palms slide
down to my hips as we follow the rhythm of the music.
I imagine us in his bed. His firm touch running over my naked skin.
The blood rushes from my head. My vision goes blurry. Goosebumps spread across my skin. The
night’s turned dreamy and fluid, like it’s no longer real. I have no idea what time it is. If time is still
moving at all.
We dance and hold one another until I can’t see anything but him. And the longer we dance, the
less this seems real.
It was strange enough that Sergeant Jennings, our gruff instructor, ended up at the bar with me and
Lia and the rest of us tonight. Taking shots with us, laughing, sharing stories and listening avidly to
ours.
Except now, the only us is me and Nash.
Our arms are wrapped around each other, stomachs and chests brushing. My cheek rests on his
collarbone, and my lungs fill with his masculine scent. His warmth floods into me through the barriers
of our clothes. This man who, this morning, I thought didn’t even remember my name.
It doesn’t make sense. Which might explain why it feels so right.
I lift my head, and Nash’s eyelids have fallen closed.
 It’s pure dream-logic when I touch his cheek. Stubble scratches my palm. The pad of my thumb.
People and lights rotate around us, but we’re in the center, unmoving. I’m not even breathing.
Nash opens his eyes. His lips part. I tilt my face upward.
And suddenly, my mouth is on his.
His heat, almost too intense, right up against my skin. The smooth softness of his lips. I taste his
richness. His fire. My hand snakes around the back of his neck, pulling him closer. My fingers sift into
the short, silky strands of his hair.
But just as quickly as it started, Nash breaks the kiss, pulling away from me. His chest heaves.
His eyes are dilated. Shocked—at me, at himself, I don’t know. He doesn’t look happy.
And I’m crashing back to the ground.
Did I read this completely wrong?
“I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I thought…” That Sergeant Jennings wanted me? Really?
Friends from the academy. That was what he said. Friends. And I threw myself at the man. Like a
fool. Like a schoolgirl with a crush.
I have to get out of here.
“I’m just going to—” I start backing away, pointing my thumb at the bathrooms. I need to get away
from this moment that’s so mortifying, it’s scraping my skin raw.
But the words cut off when Nash cinches his arms around me, and his mouth crashes down onto
mine.
 9

Nash

I ’d almost forgotten how good this could feel. A sweet, beautiful woman up against me.
Her mouth eager, opening to the demanding pressure of my tongue.
But Madison isn’t just anyone. It’s this woman I want.
This woman, who should be off limits.
When her lips first touched mine, I tried to stop. I really fucking did. I’ve built my life on doing
the right thing, and this is wrong, wrong, wrong. But we’ve been edging toward this all night—maybe
even since the academy—and I just want her too fucking badly.
My hands move downward, tracing the contours of her body. The curves and valleys along her
sides. A lush landscape to explore. I taste her, drink her in, fill up my senses with Madison. Summer
and sunlight, strawberries and fresh-cut grass.
I push my tongue deeper into her pliant mouth. She lets out this tiny moan, almost a purr, a
vibration that makes my body hum at the same frequency. My fingers tangle in her cornsilk hair,
thumbs stroking each side of her face.
Madison’s hands flatten on my chest. They run along the fabric of my shirt to my stomach, pause at
my waistband, move back up again.
My dick hardens against the seam of my pants.
Still taking her mouth, I walk her further into the shadows until her back hits the wall. Music and
lights pulse in the background. Sweat beads at my temples. I taste salt on Madison’s lips.
I picture everything I want. Her long hair brushing my bare hip. Her tongue moving over my skin.
Her body tangled with mine, the heat between us building until we can’t contain it.
Come home with me. Those words are on the very edge of my tongue. An order, not a request. I’m
taking her to my bed.
 Fuck. I should stop.
I have to stop.
We both could be disciplined if anyone sees us. What the hell will happen on Monday when I go
back to being Madison’s instructor?
What will my daughter say if she finds out?
Stop. Stop. Stop.
I pull myself away. Our kiss breaks. I’m gasping for breath. Madison’s eyes are wide, shining.
Her lips are pink, swollen from kisses.
I want to dive back into her again, take her to my empty house—my so very empty bed—strip her
and explore every square inch of her sweat-damp body with my mouth and my hands and with my
aching cock and—
“Fuck, I have to go. I’m sorry. I have to go.”
“But…” Her hand touches my arm, and I ease away.
“That was a mistake.”
Her face falls. My guts lurch with guilt and everything else that’s mixed up inside of me.
I might be sick.
I practically run out of there. I push through the exit onto the sidewalk, and cool air hits my skin,
shocking me awake and all the way back to reality.
My pulse is still wild. I tell my vitals to slow down, but they won’t. My body is in full rebellion,
my testosterone spiking, tremors spreading to the tips of my fingers.
And I was worried about my teenage kid misbehaving?
Madison is my student. Even if I’m a shitty excuse for a teacher, that doesn’t change my role. She
asked for my advice about her career. She made it clear that she sees me as a mentor.
Then a few minutes later, I’m coming onto her? Shoving my tongue down her throat?
What the hell is wrong with me?
It doesn’t matter that she chose to stay. That she kissed me first. I practically held her hand and
pulled her along. I knew what I was fucking doing. I can’t blame the alcohol because I haven’t had a
drink in hours and I’m stone-cold sober by now.
I expect more of myself than that. Better judgment. Better self control.
It must be nearly two in the morning. The street’s nearly deserted. I know when the door to the
club opens, because the music gets louder, then fades. “Nash?”
I can’t even look at her.
“I’m sorry.” I take out my phone, fumbling it as I try to unlock the screen. “I’m going to call you a
cab.”
“You don’t need to be sorry. That was…um, well…I guess we got carried away.”
“It was my fault,” I say. “I take full responsibility.” I hear the echo of her words from earlier, the
training exercise at the church. My shame increases.
From the corner of my eye, I see her hugging her waist, shifting from foot to foot. “I just don’t
understand what happened.”
“I wasn’t thinking. You kissed me, and I reacted.” God, I sound like an insensitive prick. Like I’m
blaming her. I close my eyes and shake my head. “I wasn’t thinking about anything except that I
wanted to kiss you back. Really wanted it. In that moment.”
“But I don’t understand why you stopped.”
I chew the inside of my lip so hard I taste salt and metal.
“Oh, shit. Are you still married?”
 “No.” I spin around. “I’m divorced. And single. It’s not that. But you’re my student, and way too
young for me, and—”
“That didn’t seem to matter a little while ago. But if you’re not feeling it anymore, that’s fine. No
need to say more.” There’s sarcasm behind these words. She’s mad, as she should be, though not for
the same reasons that I’m kicking myself.
“Madison…”
“I’m gonna go.” She points her thumb down the block and then starts walking away.
“I was calling you a cab.”
“So you don’t have to drive me home? Yeah, I gathered that. I live a mile away. I’ll get there
myself.”
“Are you going to walk?”
“Maybe. You wanted to be done with me, and now you are. I’m letting you off the hook. I’ll get
my gear from you on Monday.”
Dammit. I can’t let her walk home by herself. Madison is hardly defenseless, but it wouldn’t be
right.
Before, I needed space between us. I was worried about what I’d do if we were alone together.
But I’ve very clearly killed the mood. Kissing me again won’t be an issue.
I’ll be lucky if Madison speaks to me after this.
“I’ll drive you. Just wait. I’ll get the car.”
“No thanks.”
“Madison.”
She’s already halfway down the block. I curse and head in the opposite direction, running down
the side street to get my SUV. The engine roars to life. I pull out and drive around the block until I’m
back on the main boulevard.
But I don’t see her. Where is she? I slam the heel of my hand against the steering wheel.
I wish I could go back in time. Stop myself from kissing her back. But that still would’ve meant
rejecting her. Hurting her.
I should’ve stopped myself from dancing with her. I should never have agreed to come here at all.
I knew I was blurring the lines between us long before I crossed them entirely.
But then, how would I have spent tonight? Lonely in my house? Pretending I’m satisfied with the
piecemeal life I’ve allowed myself? Even before Madison kissed me, tonight was one of my best
nights in ages. If I truly had the choice to take it back?
Enough. This is exactly why I keep this shit locked down. I know my job. I know my duty.
Rejecting Madison is the only right choice I could’ve made.
Finally, my body obeys me. My spine straightens, my racing heart slows. The world tunnels back
into focus—the essentials. Like I’m staring through my scope.
I need to find Madison and get her home. I need to write up my notes from SWAT training today,
something I should’ve done hours ago. I should get the house cleaned up and ready for Emma to come
home.
And next weekend, I’ll go out and find an attractive woman. Tall, slender, blond… I shake my
head, forcing Madison’s image out of my brain. I’ll find someone and get myself laid. Someone warm
and willing and uncomplicated. Someone who doesn’t expect anything from me but a wild night,
because that’s all I can possibly offer.
It’s just been too long.
While I school my thoughts, my eyes scan street after street for a sign of Madison. She couldn’t
have gotten far.
I punch the brakes when I spot her, hair lit up like spun gold beneath a spotlight. I want to run my
fingers through it, tug her close, cradle her against me.
Stop.
The engine revs as I accelerate into the turn, barreling over the asphalt. I buzz down the window,
stopping beside her.
She’s standing frozen in the middle of the street.
Words dry on my tongue when I see her expression. She’s deadly serious, and her hand ghosts
over her hip like she’s searching for her gun.
“Burglary in progress,” she says breathlessly, pointing at a house two doors down from where
she’s standing. “I heard glass breaking. Saw the perp enter. Dark ski mask.”
“Are there occupants inside?”
“Don’t know. I just called for backup, but we need to move, Nash. Now. It could be him.”
She doesn’t have to say the name. We both know who she means.
The Midnight Slasher.
Fuck.
 10

Madison

O nce again, my night’s taken another twist. I really don’t like where this one is going.
I was heading away from the bar and away from Nash as fast as my feet could take me. I
knew it was stupid to take off instead of waiting for a cab. But I just had to get out of there.
Nash kissed me back. Kissed me back thoroughly. And it was the hottest, most world-shaking kiss
I’ve ever experienced. Nash’s tongue and hands moved over me with wild abandon, like he wanted to
strip me and devour me right on that dancefloor with strangers watching.
I wanted it too. Wanted Nash with an intensity I haven’t felt in ages, if ever. I wanted to find out
what his bronze skin is like under those clothes. Soft and smooth? Marked by scars?
Is he careful and deliberate in bed, controlled like he is at work? Or does he let go and turn into a
man who’s savage, primal, eager to take me over and give me the ride of my life? I’m guessing it’s the
second.
But then, suddenly, that incredible moment—that yes, this is what I need moment—vanished
before my eyes when Nash pulled away. Because I’m still technically a part of SWAT training?
Because I’m younger than he is? It’s all bullshit. Excuses to explain whatever’s really going on in his
head.
I don’t think Nash was trying to hurt me. But he wasn’t trying not to hurt me either.
Why did he even kiss me if it was going to end like that?
So I was running away, my shoes tapping faintly on the concrete. And that’s when I heard the
tinkle of glass shattering. Everything inside me went cold.
A silhouette ducking into a window. A ski mask.
My mind skips back to the present. “We need to move, Nash. Now. It could be him.”
Backup is a few minutes out, but we can’t afford to wait. Thank goodness my last drink was hours
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
Fig. 35.—19 specimens of Purpura lapillus L., Great
Britain, illustrating variation.
(1) Felixstowe, sheltered coast; (2), (3) Newquay,
on veined and coloured rock; (4) Herm, rather
exposed; (5) Solent, very sheltered; (6) Land’s End,
exposed rocks, small food supply; (7) Scilly, exposed
rocks, fair food supply; (8) St. Leonards, flat mussel
beds at extreme low water; (9) Robin Hood’s Bay,
 sheltered under boulders, good food supply; (10)
Rhoscolyn, on oyster bed, 4–7 fath. (Macandrew);
(11) Guernsey, rather exposed rocks; (12) Estuary of
Conway, very sheltered, abundant food supply; (13),
(14) Robin Hood’s Bay, very exposed rocks, poor food
supply; (14) slightly monstrous; (15), (16), (17)
Morthoe, rather exposed rocks, but abundant food
supply; (18) St. Bride’s Bay; (19) L. Swilly, sheltered,
but small food supply. All from the author’s collection,
except (10).
The common dog-whelk (Purpura lapillus) of our own coasts is an
exceedingly variable species, and in many cases the variations may
be shown to bear a direct relation to the manner of life (Fig. 35).
Forms occurring in very exposed situations, e.g. Land’s End, outer
rocks of the Scilly Is., coasts of N. Devon and Yorkshire, are stunted,
with a short spire and relatively large mouth, the latter being
developed in order to increase the power of adherence to the rock
and consequently of resistance to wave force. On the other hand,
shells occurring in sheltered situations, estuaries, narrow straits, or
even on open coasts where there is plenty of shelter from the waves,
are comparatively of great size, with a well-developed, sometimes
produced spire, and a mouth small in proportion to the area of shell
surface. In the accompanying figure, the specimens from the
Conway estuary and the Solent (12, 5) well illustrate this latter form
of shell, while that from exposed rocks is illustrated by the
specimens from Robin Hood’s Bay (13, 14). Had these specimens
occurred alone, or had they been brought from some distant and
unexplored region, they must inevitably have been described as two
distinct species.
 Fig. 36.—Valves of Cardium edule from the four upper
terraces of Shumish Kul, a dry salt lake adjacent to the
Aral Sea. (After Bateson.)

Mr. W. Bateson has made[195] some observations on the shells of

Cardium edule taken from a series of terraces on the border of
certain salt lakes which once formed a portion of the Sea of Aral. As
these lakes gradually became dry, the water they contained became
salter, and thus the successive layers of dead shells deposited on
their borders form an interesting record of the progressive variation
of this species under conditions which, in one respect at least, can
be clearly appreciated. At the same time the diminishing volume of
water, and the increasing average temperature, would not be without
their effect. It was found that the principal changes were as follows:
the thickness, and consequently the weight, of the shells became
diminished, the size of the beaks was reduced, the shell became
highly coloured, and diminished considerably in size, and the
breadth of the shells increased in proportion to their length (Fig. 36).
Shells of the same species of Cardium, occurring in Lake Mareotis,
were found to exhibit very similar variations as regards colour, size,
shape, and thickness.
Unio pictorum var. compressa occurs near Norwich at two similar
localities six or seven miles distant from one another, under
circumstances which tend to show that similar conditions have
produced similar results. The form occurs where the river, by
bending sharply in horse-shoe shape, causes the current to rush
across to the opposite side and form an eddy near the bank on the
outside of the bend. Just at the edge of the sharp current next the
eddy the shells are found, the peculiar form being probably due to
the current continually washing away the soft particles of mud and
compelling the shell to elongate itself in order to keep partly buried at
the bottom.[196]
The rivers Ouse and Foss, which unite just below York, are rivers
of strikingly different character, the Ouse being deep, rapid, with a
bare, stony bottom, and little vegetable growth, and receiving a good
deal of drainage, while the Foss is shallow, slow, muddy, full of
weeds and with very little drainage. In the Foss, fine specimens of
Anodonta anatina occur, lustrous, with beautifully rayed shells. A few
yards off, in the Ouse, the same species of Anodonta is dull brown in
colour, its interior clouded, the beaks and epidermis often deeply
eroded. Precisely the same contrast is shown in specimens of Unio
tumidus, taken from the same rivers, Ouse specimens being also
slightly curved in form. Just above Yearsley Lock in the Foss, Unio
tumidus occurs, but always dwarfed and malformed, a result
probably due to the effect of rapidly running water upon a species
accustomed to live in still water.[197] Simroth records the occurrence
of remarkably distorted varieties in two species of Aetheria which
lived in swift falls of the River Congo.[198]
A variety of Limnaea peregra with a short spire and rather strong,
stoutly built shell occurs in Lakes Windermere, Derwentwater, and
Llyn-y-van-fach. It lives adhering to stones in places where there are
very few weeds, its shape enabling it to withstand the surf of these
large lakes, to which the ordinary form would probably succumb.[199]
Scalariform specimens of Planorbis are said to occur most
commonly in waters which are choked by vegetation, and it has been
shown that this form of shell is able to make its way through masses
of dense weed much more readily than specimens of normal shape.
Continental authorities have long considered Limnaea peregra
and L. ovata as two distinct species. Hazay, however, has
succeeded in rearing specimens of so-called peregra from the ova of
ovata, and so-called ovata from the ova of peregra, simply by placing
one species in running water, and the other in still water.
According to Mr. J. S. Gibbons[200] certain species of Littorina, in
tropical and sub-tropical regions, are confined to water more or less
brackish, being incapable of living in pure salt water. “I have met,”
says Mr. Gibbons, “with three of these species, and in each case
they have been distinguished from the truly marine species by the
extreme (comparative) thinness of their shells, and by their colouring
being richer and more varied; they are also usually more elaborately
marked. They are to be met with under three different conditions—
(1) in harbours and bays where the water is salt with but a slight
admixture of fresh water; (2) in mangrove swamps where salt and
fresh water mix in pretty equal volume; (3) on dry land, but near a
marsh or the dry bed of one.
“L. intermedia Reeve, a widely diffused E. African shell, attaches
itself by a thin pellicle of dried mucus to grass growing by the margin
of slightly brackish marshes near the coast, resembling in its mode
of suspension the Old World Cyclostoma. I have found it in vast
numbers in situations where, during the greater part of the year, it is
exposed to the full glare of an almost vertical sun, its only source of
moisture being a slight dew at night-time. The W. Indian L. angulifera
Lam., and a beautifully coloured E. African species (? L. carinifera),
are found in mangrove swamps; they are, however, less independent
of salt water than the last.”
Mr. Gibbons goes on to note that brackish water species
(although not so solid as truly marine species) tend to become more
solid as the water they inhabit becomes less salt. This is a curious
fact, and the reverse of what one would expect. Specimens of L.
intermedia on stakes at the mouth of the Lorenço Marques River,
Delagoa Bay, are much smaller, darker, and more fragile, than those
living on grass a few hundred yards away. L. angulifera is unusually
solid and heavy at Puerto Plata (S. Domingo) among mangroves,
where the water is in a great measure fresh; at Havana and at
Colon, where it lives on stakes in water but slightly brackish, it is
thinner and smaller and also darker coloured.
(c) Changes in the Volume of Water.—It has long been known that
the largest specimens, e.g. of Limnaea stagnalis and Anodonta
anatina, only occurred in pieces of water of considerable size.
Recent observation, however, has shown conclusively that the
volume of water in which certain species live has a very close
relation to the actual size of their shells, besides producing other
effects. Lymnaea megasoma, when kept in an aquarium of limited
size, deposited eggs which hatched out; this process was continued
in the same aquarium for four generations in all, the form of the shell
of the last generation having become such that an experienced
conchologist gave it as his opinion that the first and last terms of the
series could have no possible specific relation to one another. The
size of the shell became greatly diminished, and in particular the
spire became very slender.[201]
The same species being again kept in an aquarium under similar
conditions, it was found that the third generation had a shell only
four-sevenths the length of their great grandparents. It was noticed
also that the sexual capacities of the animals changed as well. The
liver was greatly reduced, and the male organs were entirely lost.
[202]

K. Semper conducted some well-known experiments bearing on

this point. He separated[203] specimens of Limnaea stagnalis from
the same mass of eggs as soon as they were hatched, and placed
them simultaneously in bodies of water varying in volume from 100
to 2000 cubic centimetres. All the other conditions of life, and
especially the food supply, were kept at the known optimum. He
found, in the result, that the size of the shell varied directly in
proportion to the volume of the water in which it lived, and that this
was the case, whether an individual specimen was kept alone in a
given quantity of water, or shared it with several others. At the close
of 65 days the specimens raised in 100 cubic cm. of water were only
6 mm. long, those in 250 cubic cm. were 9 mm. long, those in 600
cubic cm. were 12 mm. long, while those kept in 2000 cubic cm.
attained a length of 18 mm. (Fig. 37).
An interesting effect of a sudden fall of temperature was noticed
by Semper in connection with the above experiments. Vessels of
unequal size, containing specimens of the Limnaea, happened to
stand before a window at a time when the temperature suddenly fell
to about 55° F. The sun, which shone through the window, warmed
the water in the smaller vessels, but had no effect upon the
temperature of the larger. The result was, that the Limnaea in 2000
cubic cm., which ought to have been 10 mm. long when 25 days old,
were scarcely longer, at the end of that period, than those which had
lived in the smaller vessels, but whose water had been sufficiently
warm.

Fig. 37.—Four equally old shells

of Limnaea stagnalis,
hatched from the same mass
of ova, but reared in different
volumes of water: A in 100, B
in 250, C in 600, and D in
2000 cubic centimetres.
(After K. Semper.)
 CHAPTER IV
USES OF SHELLS FOR MONEY, ORNAMENT, AND FOOD—CULTIVATION OF
THE OYSTER, MUSSEL, AND SNAIL—SNAILS AS MEDICINE—PRICES GIVEN
FOR SHELLS

The employment of shells as a medium of exchange was

exceedingly common amongst uncivilised tribes in all parts of the
world, and has by no means yet become obsolete. One of the
commonest species thus employed is the ‘money cowry’ (Cypraea
moneta, L.), which stands almost alone in being used entire, while
nearly all the other forms of shell money are made out of portions of
shells, thus requiring a certain amount of labour in the process of
formation.
One of the earliest mentions of the cowry as money occurs in an
ancient Hindoo treatise on mathematics, written in the seventh
century a.d. A question is propounded thus: ‘the ¼ of 1/16 of ⅕ of ¾
of ⅔ of ½ a dramma was given to a beggar by one from whom he
asked an alms; tell me how many cowry shells the miser gave.’ In
British India about 4000 are said to have passed for a shilling, but
the value appears to differ according to their condition, poor
specimens being comparatively worthless. According to Reeve[204] a
gentleman residing at Cuttack is said to have paid for the erection of
his bungalow entirely in cowries. The building cost him 4000 Rs.
sicca (about £400), and as 64 cowries = 1 pice, and 64 pice = 1
rupee sicca, he paid over 16,000,000 cowries in all.
Cowries are imported to England from India and other places for
the purposes of exportation to West Africa, to be exchanged for
native products. The trade, however, appears to be greatly on the
decrease. At the port of Lagos, in 1870, 50,000 cwts. of cowries
were imported.[205]
A banded form of Nerita polita was used as money in certain parts
of the South Pacific. The sandal-wood imported into the China
market is largely obtained from the New Hebrides, being purchased
of the natives in exchange for Ovulum angulosum, which they
especially esteem as an ornament. Sometimes, as in the Duke of
York group, the use of shell money is specially restricted to certain
kinds of purchase, being employed there only in the buying of swine.
Among the tribes of the North-West coasts of America the
common Dentalium indianorum used to form the standard of value,
until it was superseded, under the auspices of the Hudson’s Bay
Company, by blankets. A slave was valued at a fathom of from 25 to
40 of these shells, strung lengthwise. Inferior or broken specimens
were strung together in a similar way, but were less highly esteemed;
they corresponded more to our silver and copper coins, while the
strings of the best shells represented gold.
The wampum of the eastern coast of North America differed from
all these forms of shell money, in that it required a laborious process
for its manufacture. Wampum consisted of strings of cylindrical
beads, each about a quarter of an inch in length and half that
breadth. The beads were of two colours, white and purple, the latter
being the more valuable. Both were formed from the common clam,
Venus mercenaria, the valves of which are often stained with purple
at the lower margins, while the rest of the shell is white. Cut small,
ground down, and pierced, these shells were converted into money,
which appears to have been current along the whole sea-board of
North America from Maine to Florida, and on the Gulf Coast as far as
Central America, as well as among the inland tribes east of the
Mississippi. Another kind of wampum was made from the shells of
Busycon carica and B. perversum. By staining the wampum with
various colours, and disposing these colours in belts in various forms
of arrangement, the Indians were able to preserve records, send
messages, and keep account of any kind of event, treaty, or
transaction.
Another common form of money in California was Olivella
biplicata, strung together by rubbing down the apex. Button-shaped
disks cut from Saxidomus arata and Pachydesma crassatelloides, as
well as oblong pieces of Haliotis, were employed for the same
purpose, when strung together in lengths of several yards.
 “There is a curious old custom,” writes Mr. W. Anderson Smith,
[206] “that used formerly to be in use in this locality [the western coast
of Scotland], and no doubt was generally employed along the sea-
board, as the most simple and ready means of arrangement of
bargains by a non-writing population. That was, when a bargain was
made, each party to the transaction got one half of a bivalve shell—
such as mussel, cockle, or oyster—and when the bargain was
implemented, the half that fitted exactly was delivered up as a
receipt! Thus a man who had a box full of unfitted shells might be
either a creditor or a debtor; but the box filled with fitted shells
represented receipted accounts. Those who know the difficulty of
fitting the valves of some classes of bivalves will readily
acknowledge the value of this arrangement.”
Shells are employed for use and for ornament by savage—and
even by civilised—tribes in all parts of the world. The natives of Fiji
thread the large Turbo argyrostoma and crenulatus as weights at the
edge of their nets, and also employ them as sinkers. A Cypraea tigris
cut into two halves and placed round a stone, with two or three
showy Oliva at the sides, is used as a bait for cuttles. Avicula
margaritifera is cut into scrapers and knives by this and several other
tribes. Breast ornaments of Chama, grouped with Solarium
perspectivum and Terebra duplicata are common among the Fijians,
who also mount the Avicula on a backing of whales’ teeth sawn in
two, for the same purpose. The great Orange Cowry (Cypraea
aurantiaca) is used as a badge of high rank among the chieftains.
One of the most remarkable Fijian industries is the working of
whales’ teeth to represent this cowry, as well as the commoner C.
talpa, which is more easily imitated.
Among the Solomon islanders, cowries are used to ornament their
shields on great field days, and split cowries are worn as a necklace,
to represent human teeth. Small bunches of Terebellum subulatum
are worn as earrings, and a large valve of Avicula is employed as a
head ornament in the centre of a fillet. The same islanders ornament
the raised prows of their canoes, as well as the inside of the stern-
post, with a long row of single Natica.
 The native Papuans employ shells for an immense variety of
purposes. Circlets for the head are formed of rows of Nassa
gibbosula, rubbed down till little but the mouth remains. Necklaces
are worn which consist of strings of Oliva, young Avicula, Natica
melanostoma, opercula of Turbo, and valves of a rich brown species
of Cardium, pendent at the end of strings of the seeds known as
Job’s tears. Struthiolaria is rubbed down until nothing but the mouth
is left, and worn in strings round the neck. This is remarkable, since
Struthiolaria is not a native Papuan shell, and indeed occurs no
nearer than New Zealand. Sections of Melo are also worn as a
breast ornament, dependent from a necklace of cornelian stones.
Cypraea erosa is used to ornament drinking bowls, and Ovulum
ovum is attached to the native drums, at the base of a bunch of
cassowary feathers, as well as being fastened to the handle of a
sago-beater.
In the same island, the great Turbo and Conus millepunctatus are
ground down to form bracelets, which are worn on the biceps. The
crimson lip of Strombus luhuanus is cut into beads and perforated for
necklaces. Village elders are distinguished by a single Ovulum
verrucosum, worn in the centre of the forehead. The thick lip of
Cassis cornuta is ground down to form nose pieces, 4½ inches long.
Fragments of a shell called Kaïma (probably valves of a large
Spondylus) are worn suspended from the ears, with little wisps of
hair twisted up and thrust through a hole in the centre. For trumpets,
Cassis cornuta, Triton tritonis, and Ranella lampas are used, with a
hole drilled as a mouthpiece in one of the upper whorls. Valves of
Batissa, Unio, and Mytilus are used as knives for peeling yams.
Spoons for scooping the white from the cocoa-nut are made from
Avicula margaritifera. Melo diadema is used as a baler in the
canoes.[207]
In the Sandwich Islands Melampus luteus is worn as a necklace,
as well as in the Navigator Islands. A very striking necklace, in the
latter group, is formed of the apices of a Nautilus, rubbed down to
show the nacre. The New Zealanders use the green opercula of a
Turbo, a small species of Venus, and Cypraea asellus to form the
eyes of their idols. Fish-hooks are made throughout the Pacific of the
shells of Avicula and Haliotis, and are sometimes strengthened by a
backing made of the columella of Cypraea arabica. Small axe-heads
are made from Terebra crenulata ground down (Woodlark I.), and
larger forms are fashioned from the giant Tridacna (Fiji).
Shells are used to ornament the elaborate cloaks worn by the
women of rank in the Indian tribes of South America. Specimens of
Ampullaria, Orthalicus, Labyrinthus, and Bulimulus depend from the
bottom and back of these garments, while great Bulimi, 6 inches
long, are worn as a breast ornament, and at the end of a string of
beads and teeth.[208]
The chank-shell (Turbinella rapa) is of especial interest from its
connexion with the religion of the Hindoos. The god Vishnu is
represented as holding this shell in his hand, and the sinistral form of
it, which is excessively rare, is regarded with extraordinary
veneration. The chank appears as a symbol on the coins of some of
the ancient Indian Empires, and is still retained on the coinage of the
Rajah of Travancore.
The chief fishery of the chank-shell is at Tuticorin, on the Gulf of
Manaar, and is conducted during the N. E. monsoon, October-May.
In 1885–86 as many as 332,000 specimens were obtained, the net
amount realised being nearly Rs.24,000. In former days the trade
was much more lucrative, 4 or 5 millions of specimens being
frequently shipped. The government of Ceylon used to receive
£4000 a year for licenses to fish, but now the trade is free. The shells
are brought up by divers from 2 or 3 fathoms of water. In 1887 a
sinistral specimen was found at Jaffna, which sold for Rs.700.[209]
Nearly all the shells are sent to Dacca, where they are sliced into
bangles and anklets to be worn by the Hindoo women.
Perhaps the most important industry which deals only with the
shells of Mollusca is that connected with the ‘pearl-oyster.’ The
history of the trade forms a small literature in itself. It must be
sufficient here to note that the species in question is not an ‘oyster,’
properly so called, but an Avicula (margaritifera Lam.). The ‘mother-
of-pearl,’ which is extensively employed for the manufacture of
buttons, studs, knife-handles, fans, card-cases, brooches, boxes,
and every kind of inlaid work, is the internal nacreous laminae of the
shell of this species. The most important fisheries are those of the
Am Islands, the Soo-loo Archipelago, the Persian Gulf, the Red Sea,
Queensland, and the Pearl Islands in the Bay of Panama. The shell
also occurs in several of the groups of the South Pacific—the
Paumotu, Gambier and Navigator Islands, Tahiti being the centre of
the trade—and also on the coasts of Lower California.[210]
Pearls are the result of a disease in the animal of this species of
Avicula and probably in all other species within which they occur.
When the Avicula is large, well formed, and with ample space for
individual development, pearls scarcely occur at all, but when the
shells are crowded together, and become humped and distorted, as
well as affording cover for all kinds of marine worms and parasitic
creatures, then pearls are sure to be found. Pearls of inferior value
and size are also produced by Placuna placenta, many species of
Pinna, the great Tridacna, the common Ostrea edulis, and several
other marine bivalves. They are not uncommon in Unio and
Anodonta, and the common Margaritana margaritifera of our rapid
streams is still said to be collected, in some parts of Wales, for the
purpose of extracting its small ‘seed-pearls.’ Pink pearls are obtained
from the giant conch-shell of the West Indies (Strombus gigas), as
well as from certain Turbinella.
In Canton, many houses are illuminated almost entirely by
skylights and windows made of shells, probably the semitransparent
valves of Placuna placenta. In China lime is commonly made of
ground cockle-shells, and, when mixed with oil, forms an excellent
putty, used for cementing coffins, and in forming a surface for the
frescoes with which the gables of temples and private houses are
adorned. Those who suffer from cutaneous diseases, and
convalescents from small-pox, are washed in Canton with the water
in which cockles have been boiled.[211]
A recent issue of the Peking Gazette contains a report from the
outgoing Viceroy of Fukhien, stating that he had handed over the
insignia of office to his successor, including inter alia the conch-shell
bestowed by the Throne. A conch-shell with a whorl turning to the
right, i.e. a sinistral specimen, is supposed when blown to have the
effect of stilling the waves, and hence is bestowed by the Emperor
upon high officers whose duties oblige them to take voyages by sea.
The Viceroy of Fukhien probably possesses one of these shells in
virtue of his jurisdiction over Formosa, to which island periodical
visits are supposed to be made.[212]
Shells appear to be used occasionally by other species besides
man. Oyster-catchers at breeding time prepare a number of imitation
nests in the gravel on the spit of land where they build, putting bits of
white shell in them to represent eggs.[213] This looks like a trick in
order to conceal the position of the true nest. According to
Nordenskjöld, when the eider duck of Spitzbergen has only one or
two eggs in its nest, it places a shell of Buccinum glaciale beside
them. The appropriation of old shells by hermit-crabs is a familiar
sight all over the world. Perhaps it is most striking in the tropics,
where it is really startling, at first experience, to meet—as I have
done—a large Cassis or Turbo, walking about in a wood or on a hill
side at considerable distances from the sea. A Gephyrean
(Phascolion strombi) habitually establishes itself in the discarded
shells of marine Mollusca. Certain Hymenoptera make use of dead
shells of Helix hortensis in which they build their cells.[214] Magnus
believes that in times when heavy rains prevail, and the usual
insects do not venture out, certain flowers are fertilised by snails and
slugs crawling over them, e.g. Leucanthemum vulgare by Limax
laevis.[215]
Mollusca as Food for Man.—Probably there are few countries in
the world in which less use is made of the Mollusca as a form of food
than in our own. There are scarcely ten native species which can be
said to be at all commonly employed for this purpose. Neighbouring
countries show us an example in this respect. The French, Italians,
and Spanish eat Natica, Turbo, Triton, and Murex, and, among
bivalves, Donax, Venus, Lithodomus, Pholas, Tapes, and Cardita, as
well as the smaller Cephalopoda. Under the general designation of
clam the Americans eat Venus mercenaria, Mya arenaria, and
Mactra solidissima. In the Suez markets are exposed for sale
Strombus and Melongena, Avicula and Cytherea. At Panama Donax
and Solen are delicacies, while the natives also eat the great Murex
and Pyrula, and even the huge Arca grandis, which lives embedded
in the liquid river mud.
The common littoral bivalves seem to be eaten in nearly all
countries except our own, and it is therefore needless to enumerate
them. The Gasteropoda, whose habits are scarcely so cleanly, seem
to require a bolder spirit and less delicate palate to venture on their
consumption.
The Malays of the East Indian islands eat Telescopium fuscum
and Pyrazus palustris, which abound in the mangrove swamps. They
throw them on their wood fires, and when they are sufficiently
cooked, break off the top of the spire and suck the animal out
through the opening. Haliotis they take out of the shell, string
together, and dry in the sun. The lower classes in the Philippines eat
Arca inaequivalvis, boiling them as we do mussels.[216] In the
Corean islands a species of Monodonta and another of Mytilus are
quite peppery, and bite the tongue; our own Helix revelata, as I can
vouch from personal experience, has a similar flavour. Fusus
colosseus, Rapana bezoar, and Purpura luteostoma are eaten on
the southern coasts of China; Strombus luhuanus, Turbo
chrysostomus, Trochus niloticus, and Patella testudinaria, by the
natives of New Caledonia; Strombus gigas and Livona pica in the
West Indies; Turbo niger and Concholepas peruvianus on the Chilian
coasts; four species of Strombus and Nerita, one each of Purpura
and Turbo, besides two Tridacna and one Hippopus, by the natives
of British New Guinea. West Indian negroes eat the large Chitons
which are abundant on their rocky coasts, cutting off and swallowing
raw the fleshy foot, which they call ‘beef,’ and rejecting the viscera.
Dried cephalopods are a favourite Chinese dish, and are regularly
exported to San Francisco, where the Chinamen make them into
soup. The ‘Challenger’ obtained two species of Sepia and two of
Loligo from the market at Yokohama.
The insipidity of fresh-water Mollusca renders them much less
desirable as a form of food. Some species of Unionidae, however,
are said to be eaten in France. Anodonta edulis is specially
cultivated for food in certain districts of China, and the African
Aetheriae are eaten by negroes. Navicella and Neritina are eaten in
Mauritius, Ampullaria and Neritina in Guadeloupe, and Paludina in
Cambodia.
The vast heaps of empty shells known as ‘kitchen-middens,’ occur
in almost every part of the world. They are found in Scotland,
Denmark, the east and west coasts of North America, Brazil, Tierra
del Fuego, Australia and New Zealand, and are sometimes several
hundred yards in length. They are invariably composed of the edible
shells of the adjacent coast, mixed with bones of Mammals, birds,
and fish. From their great size, it is believed that many of them must
have taken centuries to form.
Pre-eminent among existing shell-fish industries stands the
cultivation of the oyster and the mussel, a more detailed account of
which may prove interesting.
The cultivation of the oyster[217] as a luxury of food dates at least
from the gastronomic age of Rome. Every one has heard of the
epicure whose taste was so educated that

“he could tell

At the first mouthful, if his oysters fed
On the Rutupian or the Lucrine bed
Or at Circeii.”[218]

The first artificial oyster-cultivator on a large scale appears to

have been a certain Roman named Sergius Orata, who lived about a
century b.c. His object, according to Pliny the elder,[219] was not to
please his own appetite so much as to make money by ministering to
the appetites of others. His vivaria were situated on the Lucrine
Lake, near Baiae, and the Lucrine oysters obtained under his
cultivation a notoriety which they never entirely lost, although British
oysters eventually came to be more highly esteemed. He must have
been a great enthusiast in his trade, for on one occasion when he
became involved in a law-suit with one of the riparian proprietors, his
counsel declared that Orata’s opponent made a great mistake if he
expected to damp his ardour by expelling him from the lake, for,
sooner than not grow oysters at all, he would grow them upon the
roof of his house.[220] Orata’s successors in the business seem to
have understood the secret of planting young oysters in new beds,
for we are told that specimens brought from Brundisium and even
from Britain were placed for a while in the Lucrine Lake, to fatten
after their long journey, and also to acquire the esteemed “Lucrine
flavour.”
Oysters are ‘in season’ whenever there is an ‘r’ in the month, in
other words, from September to April. ‘Mensibus erratis,’ as the poet
has it, ‘vos ostrea manducatis!’ It has been computed that the
quantity annually produced in Great Britain amounts to no less than
sixteen hundred million, while in America the number is estimated at
five thousand five hundred million, the value being over thirteen
million dollars, and the number of persons employed fifty thousand.
Arcachon, one of the principal French oyster-parks, has nearly
10,000 acres of oyster beds, the annual value being from eight to ten
million francs; in 1884–85, 178,359,000 oysters were exported from
this place alone. In the season 1889–90, 50,000 tons of oysters were
consumed in London.
Few will now be found to echo the poet Gay’s opinion:

“That man had sure a palate covered o’er

With brass or steel, that on the rocky shore
First broke the oozy oyster’s pearly coat,
And risq’d the living morsel down his throat.”

There were halcyon days in England once, when oysters were to

be procured at 8d. the bushel. Now it costs exactly that amount
before a bushel, brought up the Thames, can even be exposed for
sale at Billingsgate (4d. porterage, 4d. market toll), and prime
Whitstable natives average from 3½d. to 4d. each. The principal
causes of this rise in prices, apart from the increased demand, are
(1) over-dredging; (2) ignorant cultivation, and to these may be
added (3) the effect of bad seasons in destroying young oysters, or
preventing the spat from maturing. Our own principal beds are those
at Whitstable, Rochester, Colchester, Milton (famous for its ‘melting’
natives), Faversham, Queenborough, Burnham, Poole, and
Carlingford in Co. Down, and Newhaven, near Edinburgh.
The oyster-farms at Whitstable, public and private, extend over an
area of more than 27 square miles. The principal of these is a kind of
joint-stock company, with no other privilege of entrance except birth
as a free dredgeman of the town. When a holder dies, his interest
dies with him. Twelve directors, known as “the Jury,” manage the
affairs of the company, which finds employment for several thousand
people, and sometimes turns over as much as £200,000 a year. The
term ‘Natives,’ as applied to these Whitstable or to other English
oysters, requires a word of explanation. A ‘Native’ oyster is simply an
oyster which has been bred on or near the Thames estuary, but very
probably it may be developed from a brood which came from
Scotland or some other place at a distance. For some unexplained
reason, oysters bred on the London clay acquire a greater delicacy
of flavour than elsewhere. The company pay large sums for brood to
stock their own grounds, since there can be no certainty that the spat
from their own oysters will fall favourably, or even within their own
domains at all. Besides purchases from other beds, the parks are
largely stocked with small oysters picked up along the coast or
dredged from grounds public to all, sometimes as much as 50s. a
bushel being paid for the best brood. It is probably this system of
transplanting, combined with systematic working of the beds, which
has made the Whitstable oyster so excellent both as to quality and
quantity of flesh. The whole surface of the ‘layings’ is explored every
year by the dredge, successive portions of the ground being gone
over in regular rotation, and every provision being made for the well-
being of the crop, and the destruction of their enemies. For three
days of every week the men dredge for ‘planting,’ i.e. for the
transference of suitable specimens from one place to another, the
separation of adhering shells, the removal of odd valves and of every
kind of refuse, and the killing off of dangerous foes. On the other
three days they dredge for the market, taking care only to lift such a
number as will match the demand.
 The Colne beds are natural beds, as opposed to the majority of
the great working beds, which are artificial. They are the property of
the town of Colchester, which appoints a water-bailiff to manage the
concern. Under his direction is a jury of twelve, who regulate the
times of dredging, the price at which sales are to be made, and are
generally responsible for the practical working of the trade. Here,
and at Faversham, Queenborough, Rochester, and other places,
‘natives’ are grown which rival those of Whitstable.
There can be no question, however, that the cultivation of oysters
by the French is far more complete and efficient than our own, and
has reached a higher degree of scientific perfection combined with
economy and solid profits. And yet, between 40 and 50 years ago,
the French beds were utterly exhausted and unproductive, and
showed every sign of failure and decay. It was in 1858 that the
celebrated beds on the Ile de Ré, near Rochelle, were first started.
Their originator was a certain shrewd stone-mason, by name Boeuf.
He determined to try, entirely on his own account, whether oysters
could not be made to grow on the long muddy fore-shore which is
left by the ebb of the tide. Accordingly, he constructed with his own
hands a small basin enclosed by a low wall, and placed at the
bottom a number of stones picked out of the surrounding mud,
stocking his ‘parc’ with a few bushels of healthy young brood. The
experiment was entirely successful, in spite of the jeers of his
neighbours, and Boeuf’s profits, which soon began to mount up at an
astonishing rate, induced others to start similar or more extensive
farms for themselves. The movement spread rapidly, and in a few
years a stretch of miles of unproductive mud banks was converted
into the seat of a most prosperous industry. The general interests of
the trade appear to be regulated in a similar manner to that at
Whitstable; delegates are appointed by the various communities to
watch over the business as a whole, while questions affecting the
well-being of oyster-culture are discussed in a sort of representative
assembly.
At the same time as Boeuf was planting his first oysters on the
shores of the Ile de Ré, M. Coste had been reporting to the French
government in favour of such a system of ostreiculture as was then
practised by the Italians in the old classic Lakes Avernus and
Lucrinus. The principle there adopted was to prevent, as far as
possible, the escape of the spat from the ground at the time when it
is first emitted by the breeding oyster. Stakes and fascines of wood
were placed in such a position as to catch the spat and give it a
chance of obtaining a hold before it perished or was carried away
into the open sea. The old oyster beds in the Bay of St. Brieuc were
renewed on this principle, banks being constructed and overlaid with
bundles of wood to prevent the escape of the new spat. The attempt
was entirely successful, and led to the establishment or re-
establishment of those numerous parcs, with which the French coast
is studded from Brest to the Gironde. The principal centres of the
industry are Arcachon, Auray, Cancale, and la Teste.
It is at Marennes, in Normandy, that the production of the
celebrated ‘green oyster’ is carried out, that especial luxury of the
French epicure. Green oysters are a peculiarly French taste, and,
though they sometimes occur on the Essex marshes, there is no
market for them in England. The preference for them, on the
continent, may be traced back as early as 1713, when we find a
record of their having been served up at a supper given by an
ambassador at the Hague. Green oysters are not always green, it is
only after they are placed in the ‘claires,’ or fattening ponds, that they
acquire the hue; they never occur in the open sea. The green colour
does not extend over the whole animal, but is found only in the
branchiae and labial tentacles, which are of a deep blue-green.
Various theories have been started to explain the ‘greening’ of the
mollusc; the presence of copper in the tanks, the chlorophyll of
marine algae, an overgrowth of some parasite, a disease akin to liver
complaint, have all found their advocates. Prof. Lankester seems to
have established[221] the fact,—which indeed had been observed 70
years before by a M. Gaillon,—that the greening is due to the growth
of a certain diatom (Navicula ostrearia) in the water of the tanks. This
diatom, which is of a deep blue-green colour, appears from April to
June, and in September. The oyster swallows quantities of the
Navicula; the pigment enters the blood in a condition of chemical
modification, which makes it colourless in all the other parts of the