Page 22 of Rules

I stare at the station building, my decision crystallizing. I can't send a deputy to warn Ruth about security. This is too important—she is too important, regardless of what my rules say. I'll go myself tomorrow morning. Just to talk about security systems, I tell myself.

Nothing more.

Chapter 9

Tobias

Knocking on the door of Tim and Dianna's house, I can already smell the chili, and despite the large lunch I had, my stomach growls appreciatively. Their brick bungalow sits on a quiet street lined with mature oaks, the kind of neighborhood where people still bring pies over when someone moves in and casseroles when someone's sick.

"Come on in, Dad, the door's open!" Tim yells from somewhere inside.

Tim and I are as different as night and day. He has his mother's sense of adventure and endless romantic attitude—the genes I apparently lack. Growing up, he wanted to travel the world, go backpacking through different countries before settling into a career. I wanted him to join the armed forces, earn money while seeing the world, all under the watchful eye of Uncle Sam. Structure, discipline, purpose. Those fights were just the first in a long line of father-son standoffs that defined his teenage and twenties.

I'm thankful that as we've gotten older, we've learned how to communicate better. We still see the world very differently, but we've reached an unspoken agreement to respect our differences rather than trying to change each other. With an understanding that we both just want the other to be happy.

"Hey, Dad." Dianna greets me as I enter, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel decorated with—what else—ducks. "Come on in. Can I get you a beer?"

"Hello. Sure, that would be great." I follow her into the kitchen, breathing in the rich aroma of spices. "Smells delicious. I could smell it from outside."

"Really?" Dianna held her arms out. "You look like you need a hug." As she steps forward she engulfs me, bear hugging me against her plus size frame. Her short bob haircut smells like strawberries. The hugs aren't annoying, actually they're very comforting.

"You always give the best hugs."

"Aww, thanks Dad. What can I say, I'm a hugger."

"Where's your friend?" I asked scanning the room.

"Oh," Dianna placed her finger to her lips and stepped closer to me. "I canceled her. I figured you could use a night off to just relax. But, as far as my husband knows, she cancelled." She winked and smiled as she went back to the stove.

"Thank you."

"You bet pops, I got your back. There's a time and place for everything. And now isn't it, you've got enough on your plate."

Her kitchen makes me feel like I'm in the middle of the country in a farmhouse kitchen. White, blue and yellow with duck figurines everywhere. Dianna's obsession with ducks borders on clinical—duck salt and pepper shakers, magnets, towels, curtains, and potholders. She even has duck plateware and painted her wooden table white so the ducks would standout more. She calls it the shabby coop style. I used to find it odd; now I find it endearing.

"Hi, Dad." Tim comes into the room, and we hug. Another thing he got from his mother. I was raised in a house where men shook hands. I don't remember my dad ever hugging me. Now, I'd miss it if I didn't get one when I visited. "Have a seat." Tim gestures toward the table, and Dianna hands us both a beer once we've settled in.

"You guys hungry now or do you want to wait a bit?" Dianna asks. She's lovely, a perfect match for Tim. A spitfire—organized, scheduled, well-spoken, and beautiful. It was obvious early on that my son inherited my appreciation for curvy women.

"I like the cut," I gesture to her hair, trying to be present despite the day's events still churning in my mind.

"Oh thank you." She tries to pinch Tim, who slides away with practiced ease. "Your dad noticed."

"I said, I was sorry," Tim says defensively, already anticipating her reaction. "It looks great, baby."

She rolls her eyes dramatically before walking to the cabinet for bowls.

"How are you, Dad? These break-ins have to be stressful," Tim says, leaning forward with genuine concern.

"And no clues, all we've got to go on are vague descriptions of men in masks," I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. "The Hendersons got hurt pretty badly this morning at their antique shop."

"I heard. Sue at the bakery is still in the hospital too, right?" Dianna asks, returning with steaming bowls of chili.

"Yeah, broken jaw and ribs. She'll be there a while. These aren't just property crimes anymore—they're violent. That's what worries me."

"Must be a crew, then," Tim jumps up to help Dianna distribute the food. "Hard to catch those. Someone's always got their eyes out."

Tim has his mother's demeanor and a much more laid-back approach to life, but there's no denying he's my son in the looks department. Same height, wavy hair, broad shoulders, and permanently tan skin.

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