Murphy's Law (or Sod's Law) says anything that can go wrong will.

I've decided to time-jump to Thanksgiving 2017 next chapter - and yes the Summerville crew will be there :s

Credit to ATL's Make it up with love for Gina's line and the fabulous Perry Como for Fusco's.

I don't think I'll get the Thanksgiving chapter out on time but for all who celebrate, Happy Thanksgiving!

As always, enjoy x

A week later, Monday 16th October 2017, 5.40am, Galah Apartments, Washington Street, West Village, Manhattan

Mr and Mrs John Harvey Nichols' 8-foot wide bed was a very-special place. As ridiculous as it looked outsizing all other furniture, and as expensive as it was to cover in custom-made bedding, and as hard as it was to keep clean of red wine, massage oil and wax; it was the best place they had ever slept in their lives. Joss' alarm went off right on time for her to hit snooze and roll over; delaying adulthood, work and responsibility for another 10 minutes. But as she did her inner thigh landed on his right hand. "So you do know the way home." She murmured, having fallen asleep alone to The Wiz Live.

He rubbed his nose against hers. "How could I forget? When all roads lead to Joss."

She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. "You gonna tell me where you were last night?"

There went that smirk. "I'll spare you the details. That's someone else's report to write."

"Don't get me started on Operation Neptune. It's gonna be a crazy 'til Thanksgiving."

He understood from her tone that she had committed mentally to the assignment at the 114th Precinct and wouldn't get much rest in the near future. "Well, if it's downhill from here; let's make it count."

That was some thinking she could agree with. At times like these, she could agree with anything he had to say. Not just times with his tongue in her ear, or across her collarbone, or around her nipples because she liked that; but uncertain times that involved seeing the worst of a broken community caving in on itself. John was a generous lover, always had been, in many ways. His touch could be as gentle as brushstrokes and still affect her deeply. It wasn't his skin in autumn that kept her warm inside; it was joy.

"John," She called his name between breaths with a longing to stop time and prolong what he was doing to her body. Her body spoke to him; how tight she clenched and held on, the jerk in her back as aimed-shot-and-scored at her G spot, and the thick wetness he brought forth. They made love through her alarms' second and third snoozes until duty called louder and stronger than pleasure. "My hair…Queens…traffffffffffffffffffffic."

He kissed her forehead, knowing she couldn't be the woman he loved if she didn't care so much. "It's okay to admit defeat. Tap out, Joss."

She rolled her eyes. "It's a forfeit – day job."

It's really not. "It's whatever you want it to be…"

13.43pm, Mary Jackson Math and Science Centre, Emory University

"…Eat the frog…" Taylor remembered the first person to utter those words to him. It was the Afro-Cuban girl who stayed on his mind even when she shouldn't. Doing the very thing you want to avoid first was sage advice, nonetheless. The frog in question was his diminutive Math professor whose magnanimous presence made up for her short stature. He was surprised to find the same person who booted Brock out of Emory in between herbal teas was clear, concise and patient during her office hour and his new assignment on two-way Anova wasn't so daunting after all. As Joss' son took a chewy fruity sweet from Prof. Sleurben's desk with his mind on datasets and calculations, Zahra Khalif was on her own mission. He couldn't have known that the cherry choo would be the highlight of the coming weeks because Margot O'Donnell's blog on youth extremism hit 6000 views that morning, and became both the subject of Zahra's ire and the reason why the Somali-born Hijabi filed a formal complaint against her for 'Discriminatory Harassment of a Non-Sexual Nature'. And the University would investigate. And what did an investigation need? Witnesses.

Thursday 19th October 2017, 7.10pm, Paul's House, Elmhurst, Queens

Ever since the day she left the 8th Precinct with egg on her face, Gina had kept up appearances. She never told Paul that she heard him call his ex-wife at 1.30am six months ago, never confronted him for reaching out after she gave him the heave-ho, and never let him know she had a counsellor and comforter of her own. While Paul sat on Susan's couch working through his response to Taylor's gun club membership (that they still hadn't spoken about despite her urging), she sat at the kitchen table on a Skype call with Pastor Dorian Haywood of the Living Waters Baptist Church in Savannah, Georgia. Dorian was her best friend's college sweetheart and headed straight from Hillman to Seminary but Lena wasn't cut out for the First Lady life. Few women were, it seemed, as his vow of celibacy as a teen was still intact 30 years later. Since early May, he was the voice (or face) on the other end of the line and talking to him was good for her mental health and her blood pressure. "I'm sorry I'm late, Sister Gina. My last meeting overran. How've you been?"

She sighed deeply. If she was honest, the only thing keeping her in relationship with Paul was having another man to support her in doing so. If she was honest, she could admit the Pastor was meeting her emotional needs. If she was honest, Lena would've known about the man she was sharing her innermost thoughts and feelings with. "It's hard to say."

"Then let us pray…"

9.21pm, Ravenswood Houses, South Jamaica, Queens

The scent of curly fries, barbacoa and coffee filled the dark grey sedan. Carter and Fusco were in for a long night of surveillance as part of Operation Neptune – the collaborative effort between the Gang Squad and Homicide to reduce gang-related violence and murder rates in several public housing (under)developments. "The suspense is killing me, Fusco." Carter hinted, as they watched a covert drug-deal on a basketball court while some teens played on the other end.

He sniffed, feigning nonchalance. The truth was, he liked it when she fished around his personal life. "What'd you wanna know?"

"MollyMia. How was she? How'd it go? Is she really that cute or was it a filter?"

"Her profile pic's about 5 years old…and 20 pounds ago."

"So is yours." She reminded him.

His side-glance shut her up for the moment. "She has bags under her eyes. Twin boys. Penny, that's the dog's name. Ossobuco's her favourite but she can't cook it. And…" She has the warmest hands and the smile to match, and she's the type to throw a penny in a fountain and make a wish, and I think she's the one.

"And?" She prompted.

He snapped himself out of the thoughts that went along with a Perry Como's And I love you so. "And she's a housing officer for the Lower East Side."

Joss knew her partner so she teased him a little. "What's her name?"

"Not a chance in hell, Carter."

Just like I thought.