Angie's eye twitched. Her smile froze on her face like a computer screen that had just crashed. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Yeah, seemed like a nice guy. Very relatable. Very 'man of the people.' Said something about 'sticking it to the big banks' and 'power to the people' and 'down with corporate tyranny.' Gave me his card and everything. Had a whole speech prepared. Very inspiring. I almost cried."
Marcus pulled a business card from his pocket. It read: "Christopher Nielson FOR TOWN COUNCIL - A VOTE FOR Christopher IS A VOTE FOR YOUR WALLET."
There was even a photo of Christopher giving a thumbs up, looking like the world's most trustworthy politician.
Angie's vision went red. The fruit basket trembled in her hands. Somewhere in the distance, a bird stopped singing, as if sensing the rage building in her soul.
"That son of a—" Angie caught herself, remembering she was supposed to be nice. She took a deep breath. Then another. Then a third, because the first two hadn't worked. "I mean, that's very interesting. Did you happen to catch what his platform was?"
"Oh yeah, he had a whole thing. Said he was going to fight for lower taxes, better roads, and 'keeping Gator Creek weird.' Also something about free ice cream on Fridays. I'm not sure if he was serious about that last part, but honestly, it sold me. I love ice cream."
"Of course you do," Angie said through gritted teeth, her smile now resembling a grimace. "Well, Mr. Thompson, I should inform you that Mr. Rodriguez is not actually running for town council. He's a bank executive from Chicago who is currently LYING TO YOU."
"Huh. Well, that's disappointing. I was really looking forward to that ice cream."
Angie's phone was already out, her fingers flying across the screen with the fury of someone who'd just been betrayed by their closest ally, their secret boyfriend, and the man she'd been planning to marry.
"Christopher Nielson, YOU ARE DEAD. DEAD. I AM GOING TO KILL YOU AND FEED YOU TO THE ALLIGATORS. AND THEN I'M GOING TO KILL YOU AGAIN. AND THEN I'M GOING TO BRING YOU BACK TO LIFE JUST SO I CAN KILL YOU A THIRD TIME."
Her phone buzzed with a response almost immediately: "It's called strategy, babe. Don't hate the player, hate the game. Also, I'm trademarking 'Keep Gator Creek Weird.' 😘"
Oh, it was ON.
It was SO on.
It was more on than anything had ever been on in the history of things being on.
Angie spent the rest of day two systematically visiting every person on Christopher's list before he could get to them.
She introduced herself as his supervisor, apologizing profusely for his "inappropriate behavior" and "possible intoxication" and "recent head injury that has affected his judgment."
She suggested he might've been suffering from heat stroke. She implied he was under investigation by the bank for misconduct. She mentioned—very casually, very subtly—that he'd been seen talking to himself in the motel parking lot at 3 AM, wearing only his underwear and a cowboy hat, singing "Don't Stop Believin'" at the top of his lungs.
(This had not actually happened, but it was plausible enough that people believed it.)
By the time Christopher figured out what she was doing, she'd already poisoned the well with at least fifteen people on his list.
His revenge was swift and creative and absolutely diabolical.
He headed to the local print shop—a cramped storefront run by a woman named Gladys who was thrilled to have a customer and asked approximately zero questions about why he needed 500 copies of anything—and printed up flyers.
The flyers were MAGNIFICENT in their absurdity.
They featured a grainy photo of Angie (lifted from the bank's website and enlarged until she looked like a blurry cryptid), with text that read in bold, aggressive letters:
"⚠️ WARNING: CON ARTIST OPERATING IN GATOR CREEK ⚠️
This woman is impersonating a bank employee and attempting to steal YOUR money!
Known aliases: "Angie Dawson," "That Lady with the Fancy Shoes," "The Woman Who Keeps Buying Fruit Baskets"
Approach with caution! She is considered ARMED (with banking regulations) and DANGEROUS (to your financial wellbeing)!
If spotted, do NOT give her money! Do NOT engage in conversation! Do NOT accept her fruit baskets!
Report all sightings to local authorities immediately!
REWARD: $50 for information leading to her capture!
(This message paid for by the Committee for Honest Banking Practices and Also Christopher Nielson)
He plastered them EVERYWHERE.
And when I say everywhere, I mean EVERYWHERE.
- On telephone poles—he used an entire roll of duct tape per poster, ensuring they'd survive a hurricane.
- In the windows of local businesses—he sweet-talked Darlene, Flo, and at least six other shop owners into displaying them "for public safety."
- On the community bulletin board at the library—right over the poster for the upcoming bake sale.
- On the side of the town's only bus—he paid the driver $20 to let him tape one to the exterior.
- On the bathroom mirrors at the gas station—he used Post-it notes to create a mosaic of Angie's face with the word "WANTED" underneath.
He even convinced a local teenager with a drone to fly one over the town square during lunch hour, trailing a banner with Angie's face on it.
By lunchtime, half the town thought Angie was a criminal. The other half thought she was some kind of celebrity and wanted autographs.
Angie discovered this when she walked into the local hardware store and the owner immediately locked the door and called the sheriff.
"I'M NOT A CON ARTIST!" she shrieked, pounding on the glass. "I'M A SENIOR VICE PRESIDENT!"
"That's exactly what a con artist would say!" the owner yelled back, holding up one of Christopher's flyers. "It says right here you're dangerous!"
Angie retaliated by calling the local radio station—WGTR, "Gator Creek's #1 Source for News and Country Music" (also Gator Creek's only source for news and country music, and possibly the only radio station in a fifty-mile radius that still played actual radio instead of just streaming).
She did a FIFTEEN-MINUTE interview about "predatory banking practices" and "the importance of consumer protection," subtly implying that anyone who worked for the Southeast Division (Christopher's division) was incompetent at best and possibly criminal at worst.
She used phrases like "fiduciary irresponsibility" and "gross negligence" and "a danger to the financial wellbeing of hardworking Americans."
She may have also implied that Christopher had been fired from three previous banks for "ethical violations."
She may have also suggested that he was currently under investigation by the FBI.
She may have also mentioned that he'd once tried to sell her a timeshare in a building that didn't exist.
(None of this was true, but she was on a roll, and the radio host—a man named Chuck who clearly hadn't had this much excitement in years—kept encouraging her to continue.)
By the time the interview ended, Christopher's phone was ringing off the hook with people demanding to know if he was a criminal.
Christopher fired back by showing up at Flo's Diner, where Angie was having lunch, and loudly announcing to everyone in the restaurant that he'd just recovered $5,000 from the Henderson family.
This was a complete lie—the Hendersons had told him to get lost and threatened to sic their dog on him (the SAME dog that had chased Angie)—but it made Angie choke on her sweet tea.
And not just a little choke.
A FULL, DRAMATIC, THEATRICAL choke that involved her standing up, clutching her throat, making sounds like a dying walrus, and knocking over her entire glass of tea in the process.
The tea went EVERYWHERE.
All over the table. All over her lap. All over the floor. All over the elderly couple sitting at the next table, who looked mildly annoyed but also somewhat entertained.
"Five thousand?" she sputtered, tea dribbling down her chin, her eyes watering, her face turning an alarming shade of red. "You did NOT recover five thousand dollars!"
"Sure did," Christopher said cheerfully, addressing the entire diner like he was giving a campaign speech. He even climbed up on a chair for better visibility. "The Hendersons were very understanding. Very cooperative. Very impressed with my professionalism and dedication to customer service. Unlike some people I could mention who are currently drowning in sweet tea."
"You're a LIAR!"
"And you're a sore loser!"
"I'M NOT LOSING! YOU'RE LOSING!"
"I'M UP $250! YOU'RE UP $0!"
"THAT'S ONLY BECAUSE YOU CHEATED!"
"IT'S NOT CHEATING, IT'S STRATEGY!"
The other diners watched this exchange with the fascination of people watching a car crash in slow motion. Several of them had their phones out, recording. One elderly man was taking notes. A teenager in the corner was live-streaming the whole thing.
Flo herself—a woman in her sixties with bright red hair and a no-nonsense attitude that suggested she'd seen everything and was tired of all of it—came out from behind the counter.
"You two," she said firmly, pointing at them with a spatula that looked like it had seen some things, "need to take this outside. You're disturbing my customers. And you're scaring the pie."
"He started it!" Angie said, immediately feeling like she was six years old and tattling to the teacher.
"She started it!" Christopher shot back, also regressing to childhood.
"I don't care who started it. Out. Now. Before I ban you both for life. And trust me, you don't want to be banned from Flo's. It's the only place in town with decent coffee."
They left the diner and continued their argument in the parking lot, which quickly escalated into a full-blown chase scene that would've made Benny Hill proud.
Angie chased Christopher down Main Street, both of them running at full speed, dodging pedestrians and parked cars and a very confused chicken that had escaped from someone's backyard.
"You're a CHEATER!" Angie shouted, her lungs burning, her heels clicking against the pavement like a demented tap dance. When had she gotten so out of shape? She used to run marathons. Well, one marathon. Okay, a 5K. But still.
"You're a sore LOSER!" Christopher yelled back, running surprisingly fast for someone in cowboy boots. He'd clearly been hitting the gym. Or maybe adrenaline was just a hell of a drug.
Angie's heel caught in a crack in the sidewalk.
She went down HARD, tumbling forward in a move that was part pratfall, part gymnastics routine, part cry for help.
She rolled twice, her briefcase flying open and scattering papers everywhere, her remaining fruit basket (yes, she'd bought ANOTHER one) exploding in a shower of apples and oranges that bounced down the street like edible chaos.
Christopher looked back, saw her on the ground, and made the mistake of laughing.
Big mistake.
HUGE mistake.
Angie grabbed an apple and hurled it at his head with the accuracy of a major league pitcher.
It hit him square in the back of the skull with a THUNK that echoed down the street.
"OW!" Christopher stumbled, tripped over his own feet, and crashed into a newspaper stand, sending papers flying everywhere.
"WE'RE NOT DONE YET!" Angie screamed, scrambling to her feet and continuing the chase, now limping because she'd lost a heel. "I'M STILL GOING TO WIN!"
"KEEP DREAMING, MARTINEZ!"
They rounded a corner and nearly collided with Sheriff Wade Cooper, a man who looked like he'd been carved from a single piece of leather and disappointment and had been left out in the sun too long.
He stood in front of the sheriff's office, holding a cup of coffee and wearing the expression of someone who'd seen this exact nonsense before and was tired of it. So tired. Exhausted, really. Ready to retire and move to a place where people behaved like adults.
Behind him, a small crowd had gathered—at least twenty townspeople who'd been following the chase like it was a parade. Some were cheering. Some were taking bets. One man was selling popcorn.
"You two," Sheriff Cooper said slowly, his voice carrying the weight of someone who'd dealt with too many idiots in his career and had reached his limit approximately five years ago, "are causing a disturbance."
Both Angie and Christopher stopped running, breathing hard. Angie had a stitch in her side. Christopher was bent over, hands on his knees. Both of them were covered in sweat, dirt, and fruit debris.
"He started it!" Angie said, pointing at Christopher with a trembling finger.
"She's been harassing the good people of this town!" Christopher shot back, jabbing a finger in her direction. "She told Mrs. Chen I was a gambling addict!"
"You told Mr. Patterson I was in a CULT!"
"You slashed my TIRE!"
"That was an ACCIDENT! Probably! I mean, I was holding a knife, but I was using it to open a package, and your tire just happened to be there—"
"You slashed my tire ON PURPOSE!"
"MAYBE I DID! MAYBE YOU DESERVED IT!"
"YOU'RE INSANE!"
"YOU'RE INSUFFERABLE!"
Sheriff Cooper held up a hand. "I don't care who started what. I care that I've had fifteen complaints about aggressive bankers in the last two days. Fifteen. Do you know how many complaints I usually get in a week? Maybe two, and they're usually about Mrs. Henderson's dog barking. Now, I suggest you both calm down and handle your business like professionals, or I'll handle it for you. Understood?"
They nodded meekly, like children being scolded by a parent.
"Good. Now get out of my sight before I decide to arrest you both for being annoying. And yes, that's a real charge. I'll make it a real charge if I have to."
As they walked away, maintaining a careful distance from each other, Angie muttered, "This is your fault."
"My fault? You're the one who told Mrs. Chen I was a gambling addict!"
"You told Mr. Patterson I was in a cult!"
"You slashed my tire!"
"That was an accident! Probably! I mean, I was holding a knife, but I was using it to open a package, and your tire just happened to be there—"
"You slashed my tire on purpose!"
They glared at each other, both breathing hard, both covered in sweat and dirt from three days of chasing reluctant money-returners through the Florida heat.
Angie's hair had escaped its professional bun and now hung in sweaty strands around her face. Christopher's flannel shirt was dark with sweat, with a tear in the sleeve from where he'd caught it on a fence during the chase.
"You look terrible," Christopher said.
"You look worse," Angie shot back.
Then, inexplicably, they both started laughing. It started as a chuckle, then grew into full-body laughter that left them gasping for air and leaning against a nearby wall for support. Passersby gave them strange looks, but they didn't care.
"This is insane," Angie wheezed, wiping tears from her eyes. "We're insane. We're acting like children."
"Completely," Christopher agreed, still laughing. "We're supposed to be senior executives, and here we are running around a small Florida town like we're in a bad sitcom."
"How much have you actually recovered?" Angie asked once she'd caught her breath.
"About $3,000. You?"
"$2,750. We're both failing spectacularly."
They looked at each other, and for a moment, the competition faded.
They were just Angie and Christopher again—the couple who'd been sneaking around for five years, who knew each other's coffee orders and favorite movies and the exact way to make each other laugh. The couple who'd spent countless nights talking about their dreams and fears, who'd supported each other through bad days and celebrated good ones, who'd built a secret life together.
"I miss you," Christopher said quietly.
"I'm right here."
"No, I mean... I miss us. When we're not trying to destroy each other's careers. When we're just... us."
Angie sighed, feeling the weight of the past few days settle on her shoulders. "Yeah. Me too. This competition was a stupid idea."
"It was my stupid idea," Christopher admitted. "I just... I didn't know what else to do. About the job situation. About us. I thought if we could decide who stays and who goes, it would be easier."
"Nothing about this is easy," Angie said. "And I don't think a competition's going to solve our problem. We need to actually talk about this. Like adults."
"I know. You're right. Maybe we should—"
"THERE THEY ARE!"
They spun around to see a crowd of angry townspeople marching toward them, led by Bobby Jenkins and his magnificent beard. At least twenty people, maybe more, and they all looked furious. Some carried signs. One read "Banks = Thieves." Another proclaimed "Give Us Back Our Money"—which seemed ironic given the situation.
"Uh oh," Angie said.
"Run?" Christopher suggested.
"Run."
They ran.
Chapter Five: Escalation
The crowd chased them for three blocks before giving up—probably because it was too hot and most of them were over fifty. Angie and Christopher ended up hiding behind the Gator Creek Public Library, a small brick building that looked like it had been built in the 1950s and forgotten about ever since.
"Okay," Angie panted, hands on her knees. "We need to figure out what's going on. Why are they so angry?"
"Maybe because we've been harassing them for three days?" Christopher suggested.
"We haven't been harassing them. We've been... persistently requesting the return of bank property."
"Angie, you told Mr. Patterson I was in a cult."
"You told Mrs. Chen I was a con artist!"
"You slashed my tire!"
"We've established that was an accident!"
Footsteps echoed around the corner. Bobby Jenkins appeared, alone this time, and he didn't look angry. He looked... amused?
"You two done running?" he asked.
"Are you going to chase us again?" Angie asked warily.
"Nah. I just wanted to talk. The others are all worked up about something, but it's not about you two. Well, not entirely."
"What's it about?" Christopher asked.
Bobby scratched his beard thoughtfully. "Seems someone's been going around town dressed up like a police officer, telling people they'll get arrested if they don't return the ATM money. Got folks all riled up. They think it's one of you."
Angie and Christopher exchanged glances.
"It's not me," Angie said.
"Not me either," Christopher added.
"Then who is it?" Bobby asked.
That's when they heard sirens.
A police car came speeding down the street, lights flashing, and screeched to a halt in front of the library. Out stepped someone in an official-looking uniform and sunglasses. The figure approached them with purposeful strides, hand resting on what appeared to be a gun holster.
"You two are under arrest for fraud, impersonation of bank officials, and general tomfoolery," the officer announced in a deep, authoritative voice.
Angie squinted at the figure. Something was off. The uniform didn't quite fit right. The badge looked... wrong. And was that a toy gun?
"Wait a second," she said. "That's not a real—"
The officer removed their sunglasses, revealing the grinning face of Marcus Thompson, the mechanic with the wrench from day two.
"Gotcha!" Marcus laughed, clearly delighted with himself. "Man, you should see your faces! I got you so good!"
"That's not funny!" Christopher sputtered. "Impersonating an officer is a crime! A real crime!"
"So is harassing people for money your bank gave them," Marcus countered. "Consider us even. Besides, I didn't actually arrest anyone. Just scared a few people. It's called a prank."
"It's called a felony," Angie said.
Sheriff Cooper appeared again, looking even more exhausted than before. He was starting to resemble a man who regretted every life choice that had led him to this moment.
"Marcus," he said wearily, "we talked about this. You can't just dress up as a cop whenever you feel like it."
"But Sheriff, it's hilarious!"
"It's illegal. Give me the uniform. Now."
Marcus reluctantly handed over the fake police gear, still grinning. "Worth it," he muttered.
As Sheriff Cooper confiscated the costume and lectured Marcus about the legal consequences of impersonating an officer, a commotion erupted from the other end of the street. A woman screamed, and people scattered in all directions.
"JACK'S LOOSE! JACK'S LOOSE!"
"Who's Jack?" Angie asked nervously, though she had a sinking feeling she didn't want to know.
Bobby Jenkins went pale—impressive for someone who'd spent most of his life in the Florida sun. "Oh no. Oh no no no."
"Who's Jack?" Angie repeated, more urgently this time.
"Jack is a crocodile," Sheriff Cooper said, already sprinting toward the chaos. "And if he's loose, we've got a problem."
Angie and Christopher looked at each other.
"Did he say crocodile?"
"He definitely said crocodile," Christopher confirmed.
They followed the crowd—because what else were they going to do?—and discovered that yes, someone in Gator Creek actually owned a pet crocodile named Jack. And Jack, who was approximately eight feet long with a temperament best described as "cranky," had escaped from his enclosure and was currently terrorizing the parking lot of Also Flo's.
Chapter Six: The Crocodile
The scene at Also Flo's was pure chaos.
Jack the crocodile—and he was definitely a crocodile, not an alligator, as several people kept helpfully pointing out—sat in the middle of the parking lot, hissing at anyone who came near. He was massive, easily eight feet long, with scales like armor plating and teeth that looked like they could bite through steel. His tail swished back and forth, knocking over trash cans with a sound like a whip cracking.
A family of four from Ohio—their matching t-shirts gave them away—had taken refuge on top of their minivan. The father was filming everything on his phone, naturally. The mother screamed every few seconds. The two kids looked like they were having the time of their lives.
"Whose idea was it to have a pet crocodile?" Angie shouted over the chaos.
"That would be Sergeant Sam!" Bobby yelled back, pointing to a grizzled man in his fifties standing at the edge of the parking lot, looking devastated. "He bought Jack with the extra ATM money! Said he always wanted a crocodile!"
"Of course he did," Christopher muttered. "Why would anyone buy something sensible like a car or a washing machine?"
"Actually, the Hendersons bought a washing machine," Angie said. "And the Pattersons bought a motorcycle. And Mrs. Chen bought a—"
"NOT THE TIME, ANGIE!"
Jack the crocodile had cornered the tourist family's minivan and was trying to climb onto the hood. The metal groaned under his weight. The father kept filming. The mother kept screaming. The kids were chanting "Jack! Jack! Jack!" like they were at a sporting event.
Sheriff Cooper approached with a catch pole—a long pole with a loop at the end, the kind animal control uses—but Jack wasn't having it. Every time the Sheriff got close, Jack hissed and snapped his jaws, flashing teeth that looked like they belonged in a horror movie.
"Someone call animal control!" the Sheriff shouted.
"We don't have animal control!" someone yelled back.
"Then call the zoo!"
"Nearest zoo is three hours away!"
"Then call someone who knows about crocodiles!"
"That's just Sergeant Sam, and he's the one who lost the crocodile in the first place!"
Sergeant Sam pushed through the crowd, tears streaming down his weathered face. "Jack! Jack, buddy, it's me! Come on, boy, let's go home!"
Jack responded by hissing louder and snapping his jaws in Sergeant Sam's direction.
"He's scared!" Sergeant Sam wailed. "He's never been out of his enclosure before! He doesn't know what to do!"
Angie watched the chaos unfold with a growing sense of dread. This was a disaster. This whole trip was a disaster. They'd barely recovered any money, they'd turned the entire town against them, and now there was a crocodile loose because someone had used the bank's money to fulfill their reptilian dreams.
"I have an idea," Christopher said suddenly.
"Does it involve running away and never coming back?"
"No, but that's Plan B." He turned to Bobby Jenkins. "You said you volunteer at the animal shelter, right? You know how to handle animals?"
"Well, yeah, but Jack ain't exactly a golden retriever—"
"Just trust me. Angie, you still have that fruit basket?"
"What? Yes, but—" She'd left it in her car after Marcus Thompson rejected it. "Why do you need a fruit basket?"
"Give it to me. And I need rope. Does anyone have rope?"
"I got rope in my truck!" Bobby said.
"Get it. Sheriff, when I give the signal, you move in with that catch pole."
"Son, I don't know what you think you're—"
"Trust me. I grew up in South Texas. I've dealt with gators before."
This was news to Angie, who'd always thought Christopher grew up in Houston—decidedly gator-free territory. But she kept her mouth shut and watched as Christopher orchestrated the most ridiculous crocodile capture she'd ever witnessed. Not that she'd ever witnessed a crocodile capture before, so the bar was pretty low.
Christopher grabbed the fruit basket from Angie's car and pulled out an apple. He walked calmly toward Jack the crocodile—too calmly, in Angie's opinion, like he was approaching a friendly dog instead of a prehistoric killing machine—and tossed the apple about ten feet to the left of the reptile.
Jack's head swiveled toward the apple. His eyes—cold, reptilian eyes that had probably seen the dawn of time—locked onto the fruit.
"Bobby, you got that rope?" Christopher called out, keeping his eyes on Jack.
"Right here!" Bobby came running with a coil of rope that looked like it had been used for everything from towing cars to tying down boats.
"Good. Make a lasso. You know how to make a lasso?"
"Son, I'm from Florida. Of course I know how to make a lasso."
While Bobby worked on the rope, Christopher threw another apple, this time closer to Jack. The crocodile moved toward it, his massive body sliding across the pavement with surprising grace. He snapped up the apple in one bite, his jaws slamming shut like a car door.
"Sheriff, get ready with that catch pole," Christopher said. "When I give the signal, you're going to loop it around his neck. Not too tight—we don't want to hurt him. Just enough to control his head."
"You're insane," Sheriff Cooper said, but he moved into position anyway.
"Angie," Christopher called out, "I need you to be a distraction."
"A distraction? Are you kidding me? I'm not getting anywhere near that thing!"
"You don't have to get near him. Just... wave something. Make noise. Get his attention while I get into position."
"Wave something? Like what?"
"I don't know. Your purse?"
Angie looked down at her designer purse—a Kate Spade that had cost $400 and was one of her favorite possessions. Then she looked at Christopher, who was risking his life to catch a crocodile. Then she looked at Jack, who was currently eating another apple and looking slightly less aggressive.
"Fine," she said. "But if that thing eats my purse, you're buying me a new one."
She moved to the opposite side of the parking lot and started waving her purse overhead. "Hey, Jack! Over here, you prehistoric handbag! Look at this! It's shiny! You like shiny things, right?"
Jack's head swiveled toward her. His eyes locked onto the purse.
"That's right," Angie continued, her voice shaking. "Come on, Jack. Come get the purse. It's very expensive. Real leather. You'd probably appreciate that, being a reptile and all."
While Jack was distracted, Christopher circled around behind him. Bobby followed with the lasso. Sheriff Cooper positioned himself with the catch pole. Marcus Thompson, apparently feeling guilty about the fake cop thing, had climbed into his fake police car and sat ready to blast the siren as backup.
"Now!" Christopher shouted.
Several things happened at once:
Marcus hit the siren, which blared loud enough to wake the dead.
Bobby threw the lasso, which sailed through the air and landed perfectly around Jack's midsection.
Sheriff Cooper moved in with the catch pole, looping it around Jack's neck.
Angie threw her purse at Jack's head—because she panicked and forgot she was supposed to be a distraction, not artillery.
The purse smacked Jack right in the snout. Startled by the sudden assault of noise, rope, and flying accessories, the crocodile let out a hiss that sounded like a deflating tire and tried to spin around.
But Bobby was already hauling on the rope, Sheriff Cooper had the catch pole locked tight, and Christopher was somehow on Jack's back, gripping like a rodeo cowboy.
"GET A CAGE!" Christopher yelled, riding the bucking crocodile like it was a mechanical bull. "SOMEONE GET A CAGE!"
Sergeant Sam sprinted to his truck and returned with a large metal crate—the kind used for transporting large animals. Several people helped him position it near Jack, who was still thrashing and hissing, making his displeasure abundantly clear.
It took another ten minutes of coordinated effort, but eventually, they managed to guide Jack into the crate. Christopher jumped off at the last second, rolling across the pavement and coming up with his flannel shirt torn and his jeans caked in dirt. Bobby and Sheriff Cooper secured the crate. Marcus killed the siren. The tourist family climbed down from their minivan, the father still filming.
The crowd erupted in cheers. People clapped, whistled, and shouted congratulations. Bobby Jenkins slapped Christopher on the back so hard he nearly toppled over. "You're alright, city boy! That was the craziest thing I've ever seen, and I once saw a man wrestle a gator for a case of beer!"
Angie collapsed against a wall, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might burst through her ribcage. Her purse lay in the middle of the parking lot, covered in crocodile saliva. Her hands trembled. She felt like she might throw up.
"That was insane," she gasped.
"That was awesome," Christopher corrected, grinning like a maniac. He was covered in dirt and sweat, his shirt was torn, and he had a scratch on his arm bleeding slightly, but he looked happier than she'd seen him in days.
"You could have been killed!"
"But I wasn't. And now the whole town loves us. Watch."
Sure enough, people swarmed them to offer thanks, shake their hands, and promise free meals at Flo's. Bobby Jenkins was telling everyone who would listen about how Christopher had ridden a crocodile like a rodeo cowboy. Mrs. Patterson appeared with a fresh batch of cookies. Even Marcus Thompson apologized for the fake cop thing and offered to fix Angie's car for free.
Sergeant Sam approached, tears streaming down his face again, but this time they were tears of relief. "You saved Jack. I can't thank you enough. I thought... I thought he was going to get hurt, or hurt someone else, and it would all be my fault."
"About that," Christopher said carefully, his expression growing more serious. "Jack's going to need a vet check after all that excitement. Crocodiles are tough, but that was stressful for him. He might have injuries we can't see."
"Oh, definitely," Sergeant Sam agreed. "I'll take him to Dr. Morrison over in Jacksonville. She specializes in reptiles. But that's going to run... probably a few thousand dollars."
Christopher and Angie exchanged glances. They were both thinking the same thing.
"Sergeant Sam," Angie said slowly, "how much extra money did you get from the ATM?"
"About $4,000. Spent it all on Jack and his enclosure. Built him a real nice habitat—temperature controlled, filtered water, the works. He's been so happy there."
"And you don't have any left?"
"Not a penny. But it was worth it. Jack's family. I found him as a baby, abandoned in a drainage ditch. Raised him myself. He's been with me for five years now."
Something twisted in Angie's chest. These people weren't criminals. They weren't trying to steal from the bank. They'd just been given an unexpected windfall and used it to buy things that made them happy, that improved their lives in small but meaningful ways.
A washing machine so Mrs. Henderson didn't have to spend hours at the laundromat, lugging heavy bags of wet clothes.
A motorcycle so Mr. Patterson could finally take that cross-country trip he'd been dreaming about since his wife died.
A new roof for the Johnsons' house, which had been leaking for three years.
A proper home for Jack, because Sergeant Sam had rescued an abandoned baby reptile and wanted to give him the life he deserved.
These weren't frivolous purchases. They were dreams fulfilled, problems solved, lives improved.
"We'll pay for Jack's medical bills," Angie heard herself say.
Christopher stared at her. "What?"
"We'll pay for them. Out of the money we've recovered. It's the right thing to do."
"Angie, that's $3,000. That's almost everything we've collected. We'll have recovered less than nothing."
"I know."
They looked at each other, and Angie saw the exact moment Christopher understood.
This wasn't about winning anymore. It wasn't about keeping their jobs or proving who was better. It was about doing the right thing, even when it was hard, even when it cost them something.
"Okay," Christopher said softly. "We'll pay for Jack's medical bills."
Sergeant Sam looked like he might cry again. "You folks are alright. You know that? You're alright."
That evening, back at the motel, Angie and Christopher sat on the curb outside their rooms, watching the sun set over Gator Creek. The sky glowed orange and pink, and the air had finally cooled to something approaching comfortable.
"We're going to get fired," Angie said.
"Probably," Christopher agreed.
"We recovered $750 out of $131,725. That's a 0.57% success rate."
"I'm aware."
"Pemberton is going to kill us."
"Also aware."
They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the evening sounds—crickets chirping, someone's TV playing in the distance, a dog barking somewhere down the road.
"I don't regret it," Angie said finally. "Paying for Jack's medical bills. These people needed that money more than the bank does."
"Me neither," Christopher said. "The bank can absorb the loss. These people can't."
"We're terrible bankers."
"The worst."
"But maybe we're okay people?"
"Maybe," Christopher said, smiling. "Maybe we're okay people."
Chapter Seven: The Reckoning
The flight back to Chicago felt like a funeral procession.
Angie and Christopher sat in separate rows—she in first class, he in economy—maintaining their usual professional distance even though everyone at the bank probably knew about them by now.
They'd spent the last day in Gator Creek trying to recover more money, but their hearts weren't in it. They managed to collect another $500 from people who genuinely felt bad about the situation, bringing their grand total to $1,250.
Out of $131,725.
A disaster by any measure.
Pemberton scheduled the meeting for 2 PM on Monday, exactly one week after they'd left for Florida.
Angie spent the morning updating her resume and scrolling through job postings. Christopher spent it staring at his computer screen, seeing nothing.
At 1:55 PM, they walked into Conference Room A together.
This time, fewer people waited inside—just Pemberton, Patricia Chen from Legal, and Sandra Morrison from PR. The absence of other executives was telling. This wasn't a meeting. This was an execution.
Pemberton sat at the head of the table, his expression unreadable. He wore another three-piece suit—this one navy blue—and his silver hair was perfectly styled as always. He looked like a man who'd never made a mistake in his life and couldn't fathom people who did.
"Sit," he said.
They sat.
Pemberton opened a folder in front of him and studied it for a long moment. The silence stretched out, becoming uncomfortable, then painful. Angie could hear her own heartbeat. Christopher gripped the armrests of his chair so hard his knuckles turned white.
"Let me see if I understand this correctly," Pemberton said finally, his voice dangerously calm. "You spent a week in Florida, recovered less than one percent of the missing money, and used the rest to pay for a crocodile's medical bills."
"In our defense," Christopher started, "it was a very sick crocodile."
Angie kicked him under the table.
"And the people of Gator Creek really needed that money," Angie added quickly. "They're not wealthy, sir. That windfall meant something to them. Mrs. Henderson finally has a washing machine that works. Mr. Patterson can take the trip he's been dreaming about for years. The Johnsons have a roof that doesn't leak. These are real people with real needs, and yes, technically the money belonged to the bank, but—"
Pemberton held up a hand, silencing her. He leaned back in his chair, studying them both with an expression that was impossible to read.
"The money meant something to the bank too," he said quietly. "$131,725 in losses. A software failure that could have been catastrophic. Two of my executives sent on what turned out to be a wild goose chase." He paused. "Or should I say, a wild crocodile chase."
Angie winced. Christopher stared at his shoes.
"However," Pemberton continued, and something in his tone made them both look up, "it also meant something else. Something I didn't expect."
He pulled out another document from his folder. "This morning, I received a wire transfer for $131,725. Every penny of the missing money, returned to the bank's accounts. The transfer came from an account belonging to..." He glanced at the paper. "Christopher Nielson."
Angie's head snapped toward Christopher so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash. "What?"
Christopher had gone pale. "Sir, I can explain—"
"I'm sure you can," Pemberton said. "But first, Ms. Martinez, did you know about this?"
"No!" Angie said, still staring at Christopher in shock. "I had no idea. Christopher, what did you do?"
Christopher wouldn't meet her eyes. "It was my wedding savings," he said quietly. "Five years of saving. I was going to use it to..." He trailed off. "Well, it doesn't matter now."
"You were going to use it to propose," Angie whispered, the realization hitting her like a freight train. "That's why you kept saying you had a plan. That's why you weren't worried about the money."
"I couldn't let you take the fall for this," Christopher said, finally meeting her gaze. "You worked so hard to get where you are. Twelve years of climbing the ladder, proving yourself, being the best. I couldn't let one stupid ATM glitch destroy all of that."
"So you destroyed your own savings instead?" Angie's voice cracked. "Christopher, that was our future. That was—"
"You are my future," Christopher said simply. "With or without the money. With or without the job. I just needed you to keep yours."
Pemberton cleared his throat, reminding them they weren't alone. "Yes, well. This brings me to another matter." He pulled out yet another document. "It seems that during my investigation, certain... irregularities came to light."
Angie felt her stomach drop. "Sir—"
"A five-year relationship between two employees," Pemberton continued, "one of whom reports directly to the other. Multiple policy violations. Failure to disclose a personal relationship that could constitute a conflict of interest." He looked at them over his reading glasses. "Did you really think no one would notice?"
"We were careful," Christopher said weakly.
"You were obvious," Pemberton corrected. "The entire office has been taking bets on when you'd finally admit it. Sandra from PR won the pool, by the way. She guessed 'catastrophic Florida disaster' as the catalyst."
Angie and Christopher exchanged glances. They'd been so sure they were being discreet.
"So," Pemberton said, folding his hands on the desk, "here's what's going to happen. Mr. Rodriguez, your generous repayment of the bank's losses has been noted and appreciated. However, we can't ignore the policy violations. One of you will need to resign."
"I'll do it," Angie said immediately.
"No," Christopher said at the same time. "It should be me."
"I'm the senior employee," Angie argued. "I should have known better. I should have disclosed the relationship. This is my responsibility."
"I'm the one who let it affect my judgment," Christopher countered. "I used personal funds to cover a professional mistake. That's on me."
"You used personal funds to save my career!"
"Because I love you more than I love this job!"
They both stopped, breathing hard, glaring at each other with the same competitive fire that had gotten them into this mess in the first place.
Pemberton actually smiled. "You know," he said, "I've been running this bank for thirty years. I've seen a lot of things. But I've never seen two people compete this hard to sacrifice their own careers for each other."
He stood up. "Ms. Martinez, Mr. Rodriguez, you're both excellent employees. You're driven, dedicated, and clearly willing to go to absurd lengths for what you believe in. But you're also clearly in love, and that's not something I can pretend doesn't exist."
He walked to the window, looking out at the Chicago skyline. "When I started this bank, I had a partner. My wife, actually. We built this company together. And you know what I learned? Sometimes the best business decision is to choose the person over the profit. The relationship over the rules."
He turned back to them. "So here's my decision. Ms. Martinez, you're going to resign."
Angie's heart sank, but she nodded. She'd expected this.
"But," Pemberton continued, "you're going to resign to take a position at our New York office. Senior Vice President of Regional Operations. It's a promotion, actually. Better pay, better benefits, and most importantly, no direct reporting relationship with Mr. Rodriguez."
Angie blinked. "I... what?"
"You'll be in a different office, different chain of command. The policy violations disappear. You both keep your careers. And," he added with a slight smile, "you can finally stop sneaking around like teenagers."
"Sir, I don't know what to say," Angie managed.
"Say yes," Pemberton suggested. "And maybe send me a wedding invitation. I do enjoy a good party."
Christopher stood abruptly. "Sir, with all due respect, I can't let you do this."
Everyone turned to stare.
"Angie's worked too hard to be shipped off to New York because of me," Christopher continued. "She loves Chicago. Her family's here. Her whole life is here. I'm the one who should go."
"Christopher—" Angie started.
"No, listen," Christopher said, turning to face her. "We've been hiding for five years. Sneaking around. Pretending we're just colleagues when you're the most important person in my life. And I'm done. I'm done competing with you when I should be supporting you. I'm done putting my career ahead of us."
He took a breath.
"Mr. Pemberton, I appreciate the offer, but I'm resigning. Effective immediately. No transfers, no promotions. Just... done."
"Christopher, no!" Angie grabbed his arm. "You can't throw away your career!"
"I'm not throwing it away," Christopher said gently. "I'm choosing something better. I'm choosing us. A life where I don't have to hide how I feel about you. Where I can take you to dinner without worrying who might see us. Where I can tell people that the brilliant, beautiful, infuriating woman I work with is also the love of my life."
Tears pricked Angie's eyes. "You're an idiot."
"I know."
"A complete and total idiot."
"I'm aware."
"I love you so much."
"I love you too."
They kissed, right there in Pemberton's office. For once, Angie didn't care who was watching.
When they finally pulled apart, Pemberton was smiling.
"Well," he said, "I suppose that settles that. Mr. Rodriguez, your resignation is accepted. Ms. Martinez, you'll stay in Chicago. And both of you—please, for the love of all that is holy, never volunteer for fieldwork again."
"Yes, sir," they said in unison.
As they left the office hand in hand—the first time in five years of secrecy—Angie felt lighter than she had in weeks. Maybe months. Maybe years.
"So," Christopher said as they walked to the elevator, "I guess I need to find a new job."
"I guess you do."
"Any suggestions?"
"Well," Angie said thoughtfully, "I hear the New York office is hiring. Something about a Senior Vice President position opening up."
Christopher stopped walking. "You're not taking the New York job?"
"Of course I'm taking it," Angie said. "Did you really think I'd let you sacrifice everything while I stayed here? We're a team, Christopher. We go together."
"But your family—"
"Is a three-hour train ride away. And you know what else is in New York? Opportunities. Adventures. A fresh start for both of us." She squeezed his hand. "Besides, I'm tired of Chicago winters."
"You love Chicago winters."
"I love you more."
They stood there in the hallway, grinning at each other like idiots, until Sandra from PR walked by and said, "Finally! I won fifty bucks because of you two."
Chapter Eight: Halloween
October 31st dawned crisp and clear, the kind of perfect fall day that made people believe in magic.
Angie stood in front of the mirror in her childhood bedroom, adjusting her veil for what felt like the hundredth time.
"Stop fidgeting," her mother said, swatting her hands away. "You look beautiful."
"I look like a marshmallow," Angie muttered, though she couldn't stop smiling.
The dress was perfect—simple, elegant, with just enough detail to be interesting without being overwhelming. Nothing like the elaborate gown she'd once imagined for her wedding day, back when she thought she'd be marrying someone from her parents' country club.
Life, she'd learned, rarely went according to plan. And sometimes that was the best thing that could happen.
"Your father wants to know if you're ready," her mother said, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. "He's been pacing downstairs for an hour."
"Tell him five more minutes."
Her mother left, and Angie took a moment to herself.
In the mirror, she saw the woman she'd become—not just the high-powered executive or the competitive overachiever, but someone who'd learned that winning wasn't everything. That sometimes the best victories came from knowing when to let go.
She thought about Gator Creek, about the people they'd met there. Mrs. Henderson and her washing machine. Marcus and his motorcycle. Sergeant Sam and Jack the crocodile.
How a disaster had somehow turned into something unexpectedly meaningful.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Christopher: Having second thoughts?
She typed back: About marrying you? Never. About the Halloween theme? Maybe.
Too late. I'm already in my costume.
You're wearing a costume to our wedding?
You said Halloween theme. I'm committed to the bit.
Angie laughed, shaking her head. This was the man she was marrying—ridiculous, spontaneous, and absolutely perfect.
Another text: Also, Jack sent a gift. Well, Sergeant Sam sent it on Jack's behalf. It's a stuffed crocodile. I think it's supposed to be ironic.
Is it wearing a tiny tuxedo?
How did you know?
Lucky guess.
A knock on the door, and her father poked his head in. "Ready, mija?"
Angie took one last look in the mirror, then turned to him with a smile. "Ready."
The venue was a small garden in Lincoln Park, decorated with orange and black streamers, carved pumpkins, and strings of lights shaped like ghosts. Ridiculous and perfect and exactly what they'd wanted—something fun, something memorable, something that didn't take itself too seriously.
Because if the last month had taught them anything, it was that life was too short to be serious all the time.