Kendell Lane wasn't far from Meadow Creek, the gated community where Rick and his family resided. He knew about the street and had a few friends living there. His dropped when he realized what was going on with the suspect. The scene replayed in his mind as he sat at his desk, thumbing through his paperwork.

While Shane was busy slapping handcuffs on the suspect, Rick decided to go ahead and check the house. He walked stealthily with his drawn-out pistol. As soon as he stepped inside, the stench of blood hit his nose. He immediately threw up toward his nose and grimaced from the revolting odor. The man took cautious steps, his blue eyes surveying every corner of the house as he stepped inside the living room, moving further toward the back. Almost every room was clear except the room located in the back. As Rick walked in, the smell of death grew valiant, dancing around his nostrils.

The room was disoriented, just like the rest of the house. The door looked as if it had been kicked in, and there were several holes in the walls, indicating there could've been a fight. He noticed a figure lying in the bed and covered by a sheet. Slowly, Rick grabbed the sheet and pulled it down, revealing a greying corpse. His eyes ballooned in puzzlement as he backed away.

"We have to get out of here—is that the body?"

The random question startled him, but he didn't jump. He glanced at Shane, who looked unruly and fidgety. He stepped over and narrowed his eyes before rubbing the back of his head.

Rick's thoughts were interrupted by a knock at his door. He looked over and realized it was one of his deputies, Abraham Ford. He instructed him to come in and watched as the man marched inside with a scowl.

"I understand you want us out there on the front line, but I can no longer do it," Abraham complained. His face grew as red as his hair.

"What seems to be the problem, Officer Ford?"

"The problem is evident, Sheriff Grimes." Abraham rasped. "Those reporters are stubborn as a leech on skin. They won't leave unless they get a story."

Rick sighed and leaned his head to the side. He ran his fingertips across his bearded face before checking the clock. It was almost time for him to clock out and head home. He figured he could take the time and give the news reporters something. Everyone was interested in the homicide, and he knew they wanted an update on how he would handle the case.

"Don't worry about it. Take a break." Rick eyed him sternly. "I'll handle it."

"Good." Abraham nodded as he swiped his reddened forehead. "Just so you know…there's a feisty woman out there who goes by the name of Florence. Her questions are—"

"It's alright," Rick interjected with his southern drawl. "I'll handle it."

He watched as the giant man left his office. Rick sighed as he tried to mentally prepare for the quick interview he planned to give them. Recently, they booked a young woman who went by the name of Rosita Espinosa. From the interrogation, she claimed to be the suspect who murdered a forty-five-year-old man who went by the name of Philip Blake—a prestigious state representative in Pixie, Georgia.

At the beginning of the interrogation, Rick didn't understand why Philip was around Rosita. He was a married man with children. Not only did he have a family, but he was well-loved in his community and in the process of running for governor.

The young woman answered most of his questions, and Rick realized Philip was having an affair with Rosita. What made matters worse was that Rosita revealed she was pregnant, and she and Philip had been arguing about her terminating the pregnancy. She was against it, but he wanted her to go through with it since he knew it would damage his reputation. Philip grew abusive that night and decided to put his hands on her. Rosita reported that Philip punched her in the face and choked her until she was barely conscious. She also revealed to Rick how she decided to wait until he was asleep to kill him with his gun by shooting him in the chest.

A few reporters crowded Rick as soon as he stepped outside the station. He looked handsome in his sheriff outside. Rick wore a tan shirt with his badge sitting on his chest. The matching khaki pants fit him nicely while unintentionally showing off his bowlegged stance. He adjusted the hat on his head of curly hair as he listened to one of the reporters.

"Can you confirm the identity of the victim?"

"Good afternoon, everyone…" He trailed off in his southern accent, leaning to the side. Rick's cerulean eyes looked over the herd of people holding a microphone or camera. "At this time…we can confirm that the victim is State Representative Philip Blake. A member of the Georgia House of Representatives. Our investigators are working closely with the representative's family during this difficult time. We ask for patience and understanding from the public…as we continue our work on this case. Thank you."

Rick began walking away but halted as soon as a petite woman jumped from the herd and shoved a handheld microphone in his face. She wore her inky hair in an updo and tossed on heavy makeup that made her look shiny.

"Sheriff Grimes, Florence Taylor from Pixie News." She announced in a hurried speech, flashing her badge while managing to hold her microphone. "The public deserves to know—was Representative Blake targeted because of political motives? Or is this being treated like just another random homicide? And if you are looking into political ties, why hasn't the department released any suspects yet?"

The question caught Rick off guard, but he should've known better. Abraham warned him about the woman. He mentioned Florence being feisty, and he didn't take heed of it. A puzzled expression was etched across his face as he eyed the reporter, trying to remain calm.

"We are investigating all possible motives, including political ones. At this time, we have no information we can release. Our focus is on conducting a thorough investigation."

Rick stepped away, but that didn't stop the reporter from following him.

"Sheriff, public records and photos show you had a personal relationship with Representative Blake—attending events together, even hunting trips. How can the community trust that this investigation is truly impartial?"

The sheriff couldn't help but stop in his steps to pinpoint Florence. He wasn't sure what the reporter was trying to say, but she was on the wrong track.

"The investigation is being handled. Personal ties won't sway the evidence."

The craftsman bungalow-style home gave Michonne a familiar feeling. She placed her hands on the steering wheel of her Cadillac as she eyed the home, growing nervous. The house still looked lively and modern. Her dad kept the house maintained. Even the yard was manicured and filled with greenery grass and blooming flowers that sprouted proudly around the appropriate seasons.

Her phone buzzed, distracting her from leaving her vehicle. She rummaged through her Chanel bag and realized she had an incoming call from her ex-boyfriend Mike. She almost tapped the screen but hesitantly pulled away, not wanting to hear his voice. Michonne wasn't ready to have a conversation with the man. She didn't want to fall for his persuasive talk. He was smooth with coaxing her back into his life.

A few knocks at her window startled her. Michonne jumped and looked at her window carefully. Her eyes widened after realizing it was her father. He stood there looking at the vehicle strangely, unable to see her. Michonne's windows were tinted. She opened her door, pushing it open as he stepped away.

"I didn't know you were out here." The older man announced. "What a surprise."

Instead of hugging her, he stood there surveying her with his eyes.

"It's good to see you." Michonne rasped, giving him a soft smirk.

"Well, it's great to see you." He muttered. "You've grown since the last time we saw each other. When was that? Six years ago?"

Michonne looked off, trying to keep her composure. She was used to her dad and his slick remarks.

"Four years ago…" She corrected him.

He sucked his teeth and asked, "What's the difference?"

They walked, climbed the stairs, and made their way inside the house. Michonne was thrown off by the new interior. The new wallpaper, flooring, and furniture made the house look strange. She couldn't believe her parents remodeled the interior of their home.

"Wow, you guys changed everything."

"Well…" He shrugged while tugging at his shirt. "You would've known that if you had visited more."

Michonne cut her eyes at her dad but didn't say anything.

"David, who are you talking to?" A strong feminine voice questioned the man.

A woman who appeared to be average height left the kitchen and entered the living room where David and his daughter, Michonne, were conversing. When she noticed them, her eyes pinpointed Michonne and widened in amazement.

"Mickie." The woman rasped softly. "You're home."

"Hi, mom," Michonne spoke meekly, nearing her mom.

They kept their eyes trained on each other without speaking. Michonne stood in front of her mom, longing for a hug. She grabbed her daughter by the shoulders and squeezed her firmly before pulling her into a hug.

"My baby girl is home…" Michonne's mom voiced with her eyes closed. She shook her head while letting out a shaky breath.

David looked down at his shoes, not knowing how to react to this moment.

She kissed her on the head and eventually pulled back to examine Michonne. "Let me take a long look at you. It's been so long since we've seen each other in person."

Michonne started her locs in her first year of college. They'd grown since then, reaching her shoulder blade. Her dark complexion was smooth and free from blemishes. She was dressed in.

"How are you?"

"I'm fine." Michonne gave her a small smirk.

"Did you have anything to eat?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Vanessa stopped by earlier, but she won't be back until tomorrow."

"That's fine." Michonne rasped, glancing at her father. "I just stopped by to see you and dad."

"You haven't changed at all. Look at you." Michonne's mom cackled as she took in the sight of her daughter. She had a faint accent. Her parents were originally from Zimbabwe but migrated to America. "Well, nothing but your occupation, eh?"

"I disagree. She's changed a lot." David objected with his hands folded. "I guess moving to New York will do that for you, Michonne?" David jeered.

"Dad." Michonne leaned her head to the side.

"David. Leave her alone."

"What?" He spread his hands. "It's the truth. You know that, Constance."

Constance cut her eyes at her husband and watched as he left the room. She grabbed Michonne by her hand and pulled her into the kitchen.

"Sit down. I'll make us some tea."

"Make sure it's not that sleep time tea," Michonne warned her mom. "I'm driving myself and don't need to be sleepy. I have too much to do."

Michonne watched her mom grab two mugs from the cabinet. She proceeded to start making the hot tea by adding water to her electric kettle.

"How do you like your new home?"

"Well…" Michonne folded her arms and sighed, "I have to get used to it. I'm so used to living in an apartment. The house is too big and quiet."

"You will definitely get used to it," Constance stated, nearing the counter. "If you would like, I can stop by and help you decorate. You'll feel better once you get your furniture in order."

"Yes, ma'am. I would love that." Michonne eyed her mom with a faint grin wiped away by the thought of her dad. "I see dad is still holding on to that grudge."

"What grudge?"

"He's still upset with me for choosing to go to NYU instead of a college in Georgia." Michonne rasped.

Both of her parents were strict. However, Constance could be lenient at times. David was the stern, stubborn parent who could hold a grudge for decades. Michonne left for college at eighteen and decided to stay in New York after graduating and landing a junior position at one of the law firms in Manhattan.

During that time, she was in a long-term relationship with her boyfriend, Mike. They met him once but didn't adequately address him as her boyfriend since they were still unhappy about her moving so far away from home.

"Well…you left wrong, Mickie," Constance stated, not biting her tongue. "You told us you would attend Spelman, and then…you left without consulting with your father and I."

"I apologized so many times, mother." Michonne stressed out. "What more can I do?"

"And then…you met that Mike guy, and… ended up pregnant during your junior year of college." Constance continued as she poured the hot water over the leaves.

Michonne wasn't expecting her to bring up her past. She sat there with her mouth agape. It had been a few years since she completed college altogether, and she was now working as a criminal defense lawyer. She tried to bury those memories, but they were constantly being dug up.

"I'm afraid your father will never let you live this down."

"He thinks I'm a disappointment to this entire family." Michonne eyed her mom. "Do you feel the same way?"

Constance sighed and looked off.

"I'm not the first person to get pregnant in college." Michonne continued to express herself with a shaky voice as her eyes fluttered, threatening to drop tears. "I still went to law school. I completed school altogether, and I'm working." She eyed her mom. "I am successful. Does that even matter?"

"What matters is that you're here," Constance stated, touching her daughter's hand. "You've moved back, and you're with us again."

Michonne eyed her mom, wanting an explanation, but she knew she wouldn't get one.

Later that day, Michonne found herself pulling her trashcan. She'd finished throwing away a lot of boxes and wanted to put her trashcan by the curb so the garbagemen could pick it up in the morning. She was at the front of her door when she noticed a charcoal-grey metallic Chevrolet Silverado approaching the house next door.

Instead of keeping her eyes on the vehicle, she continued to pull the heavy trashcan while stepping in her heels. A random rock stuck on the pavement caused her to almost trip and fall. She went stumbling but was able to catch herself. However, the trashcan fell over, knocking some of the torn boxes out of the trashcan.

Michonne cursed under her breath while crouching to grab the items and return them to the trash. While doing that, she was interrupted by a deep voice with a southern drawl. She looked at the worn cowboy boots that stepped into her view. Her eyes danced up toward the bowlegs until she landed on the handsome face of a man dressed in a police uniform.

"Do you need some help?" He called out, questioning her as he touched his hairy face.

Slowly, Michonne stood up and brushed off her dress. She was able to get a great view of the man. He was handsome and seemed very attentive in the way he surveyed her. He wore a hat, but that didn't stop her from seeing those thick, chocolate curls underneath.

"No, thank you."

Instead of leaving, he watched as she tossed a few boxes into the garbage can with his eyes narrowed in suspense.

"I don't mean to intrude, but…wearing heels and taking out the trash isn't the best combination."

Michonne paused from cleaning up the mess she had made. She didn't find him funny.

"I didn't ask for your help, and you can keep your jokes, too." She retorted while throwing the last item in the bin and slamming the top. Michonne proceeded to pull the trashcan but was interrupted by the strange man. She stood there and watched as he pulled it toward the curb.

"You're welcome." He rasped, wiping his hands.

"I didn't thank you."

He shrugged and said, "That's fine. My name is Rick, by the way."

Michonne didn't bother to respond to his attempted introduction. She gave him a side-eye before heading toward the door to her house.

Unbeknownst to them, Lori was washing dishes when she realized her husband was talking to the new neighbor. She kept her eyes trained on them as she observed. The interaction seemed friendly, but she was on the edge about her husband being friendly with a woman she didn't know.

TO BE CONTINUED