Laughter followed her out, along with a flicker of heat she didn’t want to name. Coffee steam drifted past her cheek as she stepped into the sunlight.
Across the street, she spotted Scout’s cruiser parked at the curb, his arm draped out the window, eyes steady on the café. Just a look—calm, unreadable—but the college kid’s laughter faltered when he noticed. He muttered something to his friends and ducked his head.
Sara told herself it was nothing. But as she slid behind the wheel of her cruiser, the truth settled low in her chest—Scout didn’t have to say a word to make his presence felt. That silent weight unsettled her, the way his gaze seemed to see more than she wanted to show. Yet beneath the unease was something far more dangerous—the quiet thrill of knowing he was watching out for her.
But why did he always have to look straight through her?
Sara eased her squad car into a shaded pull-off just off Highway 23/74. The spot, tucked behind a screen of trees, was her favorite for catching speeders and generating much-needed revenue. Settling in, the familiar crunch of Cheez-Its echoed in the quiet as she opened a Diet Dr Pepper. The lull between traffic stops was hers—just enough time for a snack and maybe a few pages of a book.
But just as she popped another Cheez-It, a Jeep came flying around the bend. Her radar blinked—forty-six in a thirty-five. Not reckless, but enough for a ticket.
With practiced ease, she locked in the reading, set her soda in the cup holder, flicked on the blue lights, and let the siren wail.
In the Jeep ahead, Darcy’s nerves jolted. Blue lights. Siren. Her mind lurched straight to Jason—to exposure—to every fragile thread of safety unraveling at once.
Closing distance, Sara pulled in behind the Jeep, whose driver signaled reluctantly and eased onto the shoulder.
From her vantage point, Sara saw a young woman behind the wheel. Colorado plates. She stepped out, adjusted her sheriff’s cap, and approached with measured authority. Her fingertips brushed the rear taillight—old patrol habit—before she leaned toward the window.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” she said evenly.
Startled, Darcy looked up, momentarily caught by the deputy’s striking green eyes and the freckles dusted across her nose.
“Hello, officer.”
She caught herself,Deputy,not officer. Her nerves were showing already.
“License and registration, please.”
Her hands fumbled as she searched. Sara waited, quietly noting the neat strawberry-blonde hair and salon-perfect nails—details that didn’t quite fit a camper traveler. Darcy handed over her documents.
“Stay in your vehicle,” Sara instructed, returning to her cruiser.
As she entered the information, a small crease formed between her brows. The name on the registration didn’t match the driver’s license—Francisco Rossi. Everything else looked fine, but that mismatch—it stuck.
Back at the Jeep, she spoke with calm authority. “Ms. Nolan, your vehicle isn’t registered in your name. Is there a reason for that?”
Darcy hesitated. “I—I just bought it. From a friend’s cousin in Colorado. I’ve got the bill of sale right here.”
Sara studied the paper, the signatures neat and recent. “You haven’t transferred the title yet?”
“Not yet. I needed something to tow my trailer for this trip,” Darcy said quickly. “I planned to handle registration once I’m back home.”
Sara nodded, tucking the bill of sale into the folder to verify later. Nothing illegal, but she made a mental note. “All right.” She printed the citation. “You can pay the fine by mail—seventy-five dollars—or contest it online. Signing isn’t an admission of guilt, just acknowledgment.”
Darcy hesitated, pen hovering over the ticket. She almost scrawled a C—her hand moving on instinct—before catching herself. Heart hammering, she forced her fingers to shape the letters, slow and careful: D-a-r-c-y Ann Nolan. She didn’t dare look up, afraid the deputy might have noticed how close she’d come to betraying herself.
Sara tore off the ticket. “Slow down, ma’am. Enjoy your stay in Sylva.”
That afternoon, after four more stops, Sara returned to the station. In the break room, she greeted the Sheriff and nodded to Deputy Scout Wilson.
“Caught a few speeders on twenty-three,” she said.
“Good,” the Sheriff replied. “That area’s dangerous—and the extra revenue helps.”
She felt a small swell of pride. “Last stop was one of the Johnson twins—thought he was impaired, but he passed sobriety. Cussed me out, but he complied.”
Scout grinned. “Bet he loved that.”
