Previously on DOOL:
Saturday morning, Cheryl strutted into the HOA Board meeting like she owned the place, violation notice crumpled in her fist. Lynette trailed behind, already bracing for impact.
“Provision 6, Section 3, my booty!” Cheryl barked. “If the HOA wants to fine me for Ferguson’s jungle, then they can manicure it themselves!”
Heads turned. Whispered side chatter swept the room. Sawyer heard the words treasure chest and pearls float past her. Someone had been talking. Who was the mole?
Blake leaned against the wall, calm as ever, arms folded. “Funny how fast news travels when people dig where they shouldn’t.”
Maya shot him a look. “Or maybe it’s funny how certain families always want to keep things buried.”
Sawyer blinked. What was going on here? Blake and Maya’s eyes locked across the room like flint and steel. Sparks flew. Real ones.
The Box Debate
That evening, the group gathered again in Cheryl’s garage. The box sat on the bench, locked away but looming like a guest nobody invited.
The door creaked, and Blake stepped in like he belonged there, arms folded tight. Cheryl stiffened. “You weren’t invited.”
Blake didn’t flinch.
Cheryl glanced at Sawyer. “You told him, didn’t you?”
Sawyer squinted and shook her head. “Are you crazy?” she shot back.
“If Malcolm Patterson’s name is on that covenant, then I have every right to be here,” Blake said.
Before Cheryl could snap back, another voice cut through. Maya, slipping in behind him, chin high. “If Patterson’s here, so am I!”
Blake’s eyes flicked toward Sawyer for a beat. Not accusatory, not warm either – something in between, like he expected her to back him up. Her stomach knotted. Why would he look at her like that?
The room groaned. Nobody wanted them here, but here they were.
Nathan paced. “We can’t keep this quiet. Somebody already blabbed. Best thing is to turn it over to the Heritage Foundation before it blows up.”
Cheryl crossed her arms. “And let them claim it all while we get nothing? Not happening.”
Maya tapped the covenant. “This is history. Real history. It belongs in the light.”
Blake’s voice cut sharp. “Or it belongs to the families tied to it. Not strangers sniffing around.”
Sawyer couldn’t take her eyes off the faded ‘D.C.’ carved into the lid. Finally she blurted, “It could stand for Davy Crockett. He was here in Tennessee in the 1800s. What if it is tied to him?”
Nathan snorted. “Sawyer, come on. Every tourist shop between here and Gatlinburg sells a fake Crockett knife.”
Sawyer fired back, “That would be a Bowie knife. Jim Bowie. Different guy. They met at the Alamo, so…yeah. I know a little something about history.”
Lynette tilted her head. “Or, I don’t know…D.C. could just stand for DeKalb County. Or Dickson County. Or Davidson County – that one makes the most sense to me.”
Cheryl let out a snort. “Lord, Sawyer, you’re the only one who could turn a haunted-looking box into a Texas history lesson.”
Heat rose in Sawyer’s cheeks, but she doubled down. “Say what you want, but D.C. has to mean something.”
They shrugged it off, steering the talk back to the covenant. But the doubt clung to her like a burr.
HOA Escalation
Cheryl heard a faint metal thud outside. She yanked open the door to find another HOA notice jammed halfway out of her mailbox.
“Noise complaint,” she read aloud, fuming. “Are you kidding me? They can hear us whispering through brick walls now?”
Lynette cracked a grin. “Maybe it’s not the HOA. Maybe it’s them.”
“Them?” Nathan asked.
“Them,” Lynette repeated, eyes narrowing toward the Fergusons’ dark, empty windows.
Sawyer’s Unease
By the time Sawyer got home, Dem Boyz were restless. Russo barked at shadows in the backyard, Rafa pawed at the door like he’d scented something, and Riggins leaned his heavy head against her leg, anchoring her.
She dropped to the floor, arms wrapping them all. “Okay, okay. Mama’s home. Secrets are safe.”
She refreshed her bank app for the third time in an hour. Same story – balance too low, bills too high. The electric bill autopay had hit, the car payment sat in “pending”, and a cheerful red banner at the top reminded her the credit card minimum was due tomorrow. She flicked through tabs like she was flipping through cards in a losing hand. Insurance premium, internet bill, the ever-looming medical charge she swore she’d already paid. Numbers shuffled, but they never landed in her favor.
She leaned back, pressing the phone to her forehead. “I’m billing to eleven different construction projects, and I can’t manage my own bills.” The bitter laugh startled even her. She locked the screen, tossed the phone onto the table, and stared at the ceiling. Secrets in digital form. Secrets stacking up just like the ones in Cheryl’s garage.
She reached for the stack of receipts crammed in a shoebox in a drawer in her desk. Gas, groceries, dog food – it all bled together in crooked paper slips. She shoved them back, lid half-closed. Nobody wanted to look too close at a mess like that, least of all her. She was already juggling Cheryl’s drama, HOA notices, and a century-old covenant that didn’t belong in anyone’s garage. And now her own numbers were starting to look like the kind of problem that might end up in collections if she didn’t get ahead of them.
Her phone buzzed again. Blake. Just his name lit across the screen, no preview. She hesitated, thumb hovering, then opened it.
Blake: Rough night?
Sawyer: You could say that.
Blake: Sometimes it helps to talk. You know where to find me.
She locked the screen without replying. The words sat there, heavy. Did he care – or did he just want what he thought she knew?
As the boys’ warmth and breathing steadied her, the box weighed heavy in her mind. And the carved letters – D.C. would not let her go. They had all dismissed her Davy Crockett guess. Maybe she was wrong. But Sawyer couldn’t shake the itch that D.C. meant something more, and she would have to be the one to prove it.