Chapter 11
Sawyer
I’vebeendoingthisjob long enough to know when someone’s holding back. Hell, I’ve interrogated enough people to recognize that particular brand of panic that crosses someone’s face right before they decide to keep their mouth shut. But Alice isn’t some suspect I’m trying to crack.
What is she to me, exactly?I'd like to think we're friends. But are we? Three-dollar deposits and flirting over coffee don't mean she owes me her secrets.
I shake my head, forcing myself to focus on the road ahead. The thing that bothers me most isn’t that she gave me vague answers about the SUV. It’s that split second when her whole body went rigid, like she wanted to tell me something but couldn’t bring herself to do it. Like she was weighing whether or not she could trust me.
Apparently not.
Trust has to be earned, I remind myself. She doesn’t owe me her life story just because I helped her out with one difficult customer and I flirt with her every time I come in for coffee. It took everything in me not to push harder.
My radio crackles with dispatch calling for a welfare check across town, but Chris’s voice cuts through, letting them know he’s got it. The last thing I need right now is another call when my head isn’t in the game.
The modest two-bedroom house looks exactly the same as it did when I left this morning.
I bought this place with Lila right after we got married. She wanted to paint the kitchen yellow, plant flowers under the windows. "Next summer," we'd say.
Next summer never came.
The key turns easily in the lock, and I’m greeted by the familiar smell of home. There's still a faint trace of the vanilla candle Lila used to burn in the living room. I haven't lit one since she passed. But somehow the smell lingers.
My keys land on the small table by the front door, next to the clean casserole dish on my kitchen counter—the one Mom brought over last weekend.
After Lila died, Mom started bringing casseroles. She probably saved me from starving, but she won't admit that's why she still does it.
Heading to my bedroom, I strip out of my uniform, trading it for worn jeans and a gray t-shirt that’s seen better days. The clothes feel like freedom after twelve hours of wearing a badge and carrying the weight of other people’s problems.
Well, most other people’s problems. Alice’s situation is apparently following me home.
Back in the kitchen, the fridge reveals my options. Leftover pizza from two nights ago and some sandwich meat that might still be good. I settle on reheating the pizza.
The microwave beeps, and I take my dinner and a beer to the living room, settling into the worn leather recliner that Lila used to say was too big for the space. She was probably right, but it’s comfortable, and now that it’s just me, I can put whatever furniture I want wherever I want.
My sergeant exam materials are spread across the coffee table where I left them this morning—study guides, practice tests, and a pack of neon index cards Alice recommended. None of it helps when you’re studying alone.Would Alice really help me with that?The exam is in four months, and I can’t afford to waste time if I want this promotion.
Taking a swig of beer, I try to focus on the material, but my mind keeps wandering to that black SUV. Tinted windows, aggressive driving, no license plate Alice could see. In a town this size, you get to know the vehicles. Most people drive pickups or practical sedans, maybe the occasional minivan. Black SUVs with heavily tinted windows stand out.
Alice handles difficult bank customers with more composure than some cops I know. But today she looked genuinely scared.
That SUV wasn't road rage. That was targeted.
My phone buzzes with a text from Chris asking if I want to grab drinks, but I ignore it. The beer in my hand is cold, the pizza’s actually decent reheated, and I should be grateful for a quiet evening at home.
The framed photo on the side table catches my eye. Lila and me at the county fair the summer before she died. Her blonde hair catching the Ferris wheel lights, both of us laughing at something I can’t remember. She looks so alive in that picture, so full of plans.
“What would you do, Lil?” I ask the empty room.
She’d probably tell me to stop overthinking and just be direct. Lila never had patience for beating around the bush. I loved my wife, but she never wanted to talk about feelings or problems—I was always the one trying to get her to open up.
But Lila also never had to worry about crossing professional lines or respecting boundaries. She could offer help without anyone questioning her motives.
Because let's be honest—I do have ulterior motives where Alice is concerned. The woman makes me smile every time I see her. The way she blushes when I flirt. The way she tries to act professional while clearly flustered.
I'm not just worried about her safety. I'm falling for her.
But what if she needs help and I’m the only one who noticed? And I don't do anything about it?
