The Five Minute Mistake

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 Four 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