Everyone is safe. No one I love is hurt.
I nod, feeling a wave of gratitude wash over me, and unlatch the chain lock on the door. The officer isn’t here to deliver bad news, just to ask some questions. I can handle that. But then my mind wanders to Louie and his wife, Mari.
“Are the neighbors okay?” I ask as I open the door wider. I’m met with a cool breeze that makes me even more acutely aware of how underdressed I am. The night air wraps around me, and I instinctively cross an arm over my chest, feeling exposed. I gesture toward the kitchen, inviting him inside.
“They’re fine. Just left their place.”
I sigh in relief, but am still confused. “Come in,” I say, my voice quieter now, as if the weight of the situation is starting to sink in.
As Officer Saint steps inside, I notice just how tall he is. He’s at least five inches taller than me, maybe more. He takes up more space than his body requires, his presence commanding but not overbearing. I close the door behind him, still feeling a little disoriented, but thankful the night’s chill is now shut out.
“What kind of incident?” I ask, my voice steadier now, though my mind is still buzzing with unanswered questions. I motion toward the kitchen table, but he declines my offer. “What happened?”
“This shouldn’t take long,” he says, remaining near the door.
This is not exactly how I pictured my night going, but then again, I guess that’s the nature of plot twists. And now that I know everyone is safe, I welcome this intrusion. It’s the most dopamine I’ve had in years.
I stand a few feet from him, keeping a cautious distance between us, unsure if it’s from instinct or the strange, almost surreal feeling of having a police officer standing in my cabin. He remains close to the doorway. He seems aware of the tension, the delicate balance of not wanting to overstep while still delivering whatever news he’s here to share.
I can’t help but wonder how old he is. I’m thirty-four, and I look every bit of it, give or take a couple of years. But with him, it’s hard to tell. My eyes are still trying to adjust to being awake, to the lights outside, making his face shift in and out of focus. He could be younger than me, late twenties, maybe, but then again, he could be older.
There’s something experienced in his expression that makes me think he’s older than me, though. A lack of gentleness in his eyes that suggests someone who has been exposed to too much of the world’s harshness. That could be years of experience at a job like this and not at all an indicator of his age.
But then again, it could be a hardened, trained expression, something he’s perfected in his line of work. A calm demeanor and reassuring looks aren’t requirements for a job like his. Police officers probably learn to mask their own emotions when delivering difficult news, which is why most of them seem so serious.
The officer’s eyes scan the room for a moment, briefly taking in the surroundings of my cabin, before they land back on me.
There’s a slight pause, as if he’s choosing his words carefully. “Do you know a man by the name of Don William Puttman?” he asks, his tone professional but cautious, like he’s testing to see if the name means anything to me.
I shake my head, frowning slightly. The name doesn’t ring a bell. “No,” I say, and he seems to relax a little when I give him my answer. There’s a visible shift in his posture, like a weight has been lifted. He leans against the doorframe, his hands resting at his sides in a more casual stance.
As I watch him, I can’t help but take a few mental notes. He’sperfectfor Cam. It’s like the universe knew I needed inspiration and dropped this officer on my front porch at the perfect moment.
His posture, his voice, even the way his uniform hugs his frame—all of it is exactly what I’ve been searching to find the words for. I haven’t felt like writing character descriptions with the creative fog hanging over me, but seeing him standing here, in the flesh, is sparking something. I feel a strange, urgent need to get this interaction over with so I can go straight to my laptop and start typing.
“There was a police pursuit that ended on this road,” he explains, motioning toward the road outside, where the lights are still flashing in the distance. “We’ve secured the scene, but we’re going to have officers nearby—possibly on your property—for the next hour or so. I just wanted to come by and let you know there’s nothing to be concerned about.”
I nod, trying to process what he’s saying.
A police pursuit? On this road?
The rural isolation of the cabin makes it seem impossible that something so dramatic could happen here, in the middle of nowhere.
Before I can ask more questions, he continues, “And of course, to see if there’s a reason the victim was heading in this direction. It is a dead-end road. But since you don’t know him—”
“Victim?” I interrupt, the word catching in my throat.
The officer nods, his face darkening a little as he glances away, clearly not thrilled about delivering this part of the news. “Yes, ma’am. He, uh ...” There’s a discomfort to him that’s unsettling. “It was self-inflicted.”
Oh.
I feel my stomach drop, and I instinctively wrap my arms around myself, a subconscious effort to ward off the sudden chill that seems to have swept through the room. I blow out a slow, shaky breath, trying towrap my mind around what he’s just said.Self-inflicted.Someone came this close to my cabin—this close tome—and ended their life.
“Someone just ... killed themselves? Near here?” I whisper, the words sounding hollow as they leave my lips. I don’t know why I repeat them out loud. Maybe saying them helps me believe it, or maybe I’m hoping there’s some mistake, that he’ll correct me and assure me it’s not as bad as it sounds.
But the look on his face tells me otherwise.
He nods again, his expression softening with sympathy. “He’d been to prison before and recently broke parole ... I’m sure he knew he had warrants and if he got caught, he’d have to go back, so he ...”
