I drag my hand over my mouth, smearing blood and sweat. My heartbeat’s a hammer, pounding harder with every breath.
“They want in,” Carter says. “They’ve been waiting for the opportunity to get their hands on him. For years.”
I study them through the glass. The way Mason leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes burning through the smoke. The way Grove’s still as a predator, coiled tight, waiting for the signal.
They don’t want justice. They want vengeance. And for the first time tonight, I don’t feel so goddamn alone in mine.
I push off the wall, my boots crunching over broken glass from the monitor I smashed. My voice is a rasp, torn raw.
“Then brief them.”
Carter hesitates. “Sheriff, we need to?—”
“I. Want. Them. In.”
He jerks his chin to one of the younger deputies, who bolts out the door to fetch them.
When Mason steps in, the room shifts. His presence is heavy, a storm carried on thick shoulders. He spits his toothpick into the trash and plants himself at the table, eyes never leaving mine. Grove follows, quieter, like glass hidden in sand. His face is gaunt, his hands white-knuckled around his cup. He doesn’t blink. Just stares through the smoke like he’s already seeing Jackson’s corpse.
Both men carry grief like it’s fused to their bones. Both men would burn this town to ash for one clean shot at Jackson Moore.
And right now, they’re mine.
The office door slams open so hard the glass rattles in its frame.
Haywood’s wife storms in, hair tangled, eyes swollen red like she’s been drowning in her own tears. She doesn’t even hesitate—she makes straight for me, her hand already arcing up.
I catch her wrist mid-swing. My grip is iron, my pulse a war drum in my ears.
“You son of a bitch!” she screams, voice cracked and raw. She thrashes against me, nails clawing at air, trying to land another hit.Her grief is a wild animal. A mother bear with her cub ripped from her.
Carter’s moving instantly, but I don’t let go.
Her heel slams into my shin, hard enough to make bone vibrate. She doesn’t want words—she wants blood. My blood.
Her breath is ragged, soaked in whiskey and salt. “You killed him! You fucking killed him!”
I grit my teeth so hard I feel enamel grind. “He was guarding Summer,” I snap back. “He died doing his job.”
“Job?” Her laugh is broken glass. Her eyes lock on mine—full of hate, full of agony. “You call it a job? He died because ofher.”
The room goes quiet. Mason shifts in his chair. Grove’s jaw ticks. Even Carter stiffens.
Her finger jabs the air, trembling, like she can stab me from across the room. “All this death. All this blood. For what? For a bit of young, pretty pussy you couldn’t resist? For some girl half your age instead of a decent woman who could’ve given you a real life?”
Her words detonate in me. Every syllable is napalm.
Summer’s face flashes in my head—terrified, brave, stubborn, hers—and then it’s drowned by the image of her in Jackson’s hands.
I see red.
My voice rips out of me, low, guttural, a threat cut straight from hell.
“You ever speak about her like that again,” I snarl, yanking her closer, “and I will remove your fucking voice box with my bare hands.”
Her mouth falls open, a ragged inhale like she’s choking on air. The whole room freezes. Even Carter looks at me like I’ve just drawn a line we can’t ever walk back from.
“Sheriff,” Carter snaps, stepping in between us, his hand on my chest, pushing me back. His tone isn’t a plea. It’s a warning. “Enough.”
