Sawyer
I'msittinginmytruck in my driveway, engine off, but I haven't gotten out yet. My mind keeps going back to the library. To Lance Carlston. To the way Alice went rigid when she saw him.
The whole thing felt off. You don’t drive thirty minutes to a random library event in a town you don’t live in. And you definitely don’t know details about your ex’s current living situation over a year after you break up. Not unless you’re keeping tabs on them.
Pulling out my phone, I scroll to Chris’s number.
“You better be calling because you’re buying the first round,” Chris answers.
“Hey, I need a favor. Can you run a name for me tomorrow? Off the books.”
“Yeah, you know I got you. Who is it?”
“Guy named Lance Carlston. Lives in Creeksprings, probably in his late twenties.”
“Want to tell me what this is about?”
“Just run the name first. I’ll fill you in tomorrow.”
“Alright. But you owe me.”
Hanging up, I finally get out of the truck. Inside, the house feels too quiet. I grab a beer from the fridge and sit at the kitchen table with my sergeant exam materials.
Can't focus. All I see is Alice's face when Lance mentioned her grandmother's house.
Study, Sawyer. The promotion won’t happen by itself.But even as I flip through the pages, my mind keeps wandering. That wasn’t just awkwardness about running into an ex. That was fear.
My phone buzzes with a text from Alice:
Alice: Thanks for tonight. Sorry it got awkward.
Sawyer: Nothing to apologize for. The deal with the coffee still stands?
Alice: Definitely. :)
That smiley face does something to my chest. She's trying to be normal. Trying to pretend she's fine.
But I know better now.
I set the phone down and open one of the study guides, but the words blur together. Instead, I keep thinking about Lance’s smile when he said he was sticking around Pine Hollows. Like he had plans.
Focus on what you can control—your career, your promotion. Stop trying to save everyone.But even as I tell myself this, I know I’m lying. This isn’t about everyone. This is about Alice.
Giving up on studying, I head to bed. But I lie there staring at the ceiling, running through the conversation at the library. The way Lance assumed I was Alice’s boyfriend. The casual mention of her house. The comment about “getting to know the community.”
None of it adds up to innocent coincidence.
Eventually I fall asleep because my alarm goes off at six-thirty, and I feel like I got maybe four hours. Coffee helps, but not much.
By the time I get to the station, I'm already thinking about what Chris might find.
“You look like hell,” Chris says when I walk into the break room.
“Thanks. Have you run that name yet?”
“Jesus, Sawyer, it’s seven in the morning. Give me a chance to get some coffee first.” He pours himself a cup and leans against the counter. “But yeah, I ran it. Lance Carlston, twenty-eight, lives in Creeksprings. Clean record, mostly.”
“Mostly?”
