♣𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐀𝐃𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐘♣ 𝐴 𝐿𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝐼𝑛 𝑆𝑡. 𝐿𝑜𝑢𝑖𝑠

♣ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 4: ᴠɪɢɪʟᴀɴᴛᴇ♣

The morning in St. Charles drifted along lazily, the neighborhood content under the Missouri sun, stretching all the way to the horizon. It was the kind of quiet that could lull anyone into a sense of ease. But for Nina McMurray, elbow-deep in her laundry with a serene smile on her face, the peace was about to be short-lived.

A sudden, spluttering engine broke the calm as a familiar car screeched to a halt outside her house. Nina's expression flattened. She didn't even have to look to know who it was. Sure enough, out stepped Rocky, sporting his typical crooked grin that spelled trouble.

"Aunt Nina! Good morning!" he hollered, bounding up like a kid who'd just found a dollar.

"Roark." Nina's voice had the weight of a sigh seasoned with suspicion. She placed her hands on her hips, eyeing him like a stray dog that'd rolled in something unpleasant. "...All right. What is it y'want?"

Rocky, not the least bit fazed, held out a coat that had seen better—and much cleaner—days. "Well, since you asked, my jacket—it could use, uh, it needs—"

Before he could finish, Nina snatched the filthy garment from his hands, holding it between her fingers like it was liable to bite. "A proper burial, by the looks of it. What the devil did you get into?"

Rocky shrugged, all innocence and charm. "Oh, just some dirt and mud... and railroad gravel, hay, pig drool, and—"

Nina gave him a look that could've curdled milk. "I don't know how someone who earns a living playing the violin manages to destroy his clothing on a daily basis..."

Rocky chuckled, unruffled, his grin turning impish. "It's a competitive field."

"And I get to be your laundress, hm?" she shot back, her words dripping with sarcasm sharp enough to slice bread.

"Why, sure! And I have a little errand to run, so I'll just be—" Rocky made to slip away, but Nina snagged his collar with a well-practiced hand.

"Hold on! You're going to do me a favor in return. Take Calvin with you. He could do with a bit of a distraction."

Rocky's brow shot up in surprise. "What? Shouldn't that little officer in training be at the academy or some-such at this hour?"

"Not anymore," she replied, her gaze drifting toward the backyard. "There was... some sort of incident. He won't tell me about it. Just been mopin' around, mowing and mowing, like he's lost to the world."

Rocky paused, absorbing her words with a slow nod, then shrugged. "Well, I suppose I could... if you insist."

Nina didn't grant him the satisfaction of a smile, only nodded curtly. "Good. Get him some lunch, too. And bring him back before dark. And stay outta trouble."

"Naturally," Rocky said with a wink, tipping an imaginary hat before heading toward the backyard. There, he found his cousin Calvin—or Freckle, as he was often called—pushing a mower in slow, dreary circles, his face a mask of gloom.

Rocky approached, throwing out his usual infectious grin. "Hey there, sunshine. How are ya?"

Freckle jumped, startled, then recognized Rocky and quickly smoothed his expression. "Oh. Fine. How are you?"

Rocky, as if rehearsing for the stage, clutched at his chest in mock anguish. "Well, better than you, I reckon. My face isn't melting off the way yours appears to be." He leaned in, his voice conspiratorial. "I bet I've got just the thing to fix that. Why don't you go get yourself washed up and meet me out front?"

A short while later, the cousins were bouncing along in Rocky's jalopy, which rattled down the road as if held together by luck alone. Freckle's eyes wandered to the odd collection of objects Rocky had in the car, his gaze landing on a bottle stuffed with an oil-soaked rag. He picked it up, curiosity clear on his face.