I glance at my watch.2:34 a.m.Four minutes. That’s all it took him to haul his ass out here. I’ll remember that. Loyalty like that means something in a world where I can’t trust a goddamn soul.
His cruiser crunches up the drive and idles in front of the house. Haywood steps out, uniform still crisp despite the hour, hand hovering near his belt like he’s already anticipating a fight. Good. I need that kind of edge right now.
“Sheriff,” he says, nodding once.
I step down off the porch, closing the distance until I’m right in front of him. My voice is low, jagged enough to cut. “She’s inside. Asleep.”
His gaze flicks to the windows, back to me. “You want me inside or posted out front?”
“Inside.” I don’t hesitate. “Lock the doors behind me. She knows you, trusts you. But listen to me, Haywood—” I lean in, my stare pinning him harder than any hand could. “No matter what happens, you keep her safe. That’s all that matters. You hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
I grab his shoulder, fingers digging hard enough to leave marks. “No matter what. Do not wake her up. If she wakes on her own, youtell her I’ll be back soon. But you donotmention Constance’s home. Not under any circumstances.”
His brows twitch, just slightly, but he doesn’t question me. Smart man.
“I don’t give a fuck if the world’s burning down,” I growl. “You don’t let her walk out that door.”
“Yes, Sheriff.”
I hold him there a moment longer, making damn sure he understands the weight of what I’m putting on him. Because this isn’t just a job. It’s a death sentence if he screws it up.
Finally, I let go, exhale deeply through my nose. “Thank you,” I mutter, the words foreign in my mouth, but true. “For coming.”
Haywood nods again, more firmly this time. “You can count on me, boss.”
I step back, scanning the house one last time. The hall light glows warm through the curtains, casting the illusion of home, of safety. She’ll think I’m still here if she stirs. She’ll roll over, see the glow, and believe. That’ll have to be enough.
Because I’m the sheriff, and I’m going hunting.
I head for my truck, keys already biting into my palm, my heart beating in time with the ticking of my watch.
2:36 a.m.
Every second from here could mean the difference between life and death. And if Moore’s touched her friends… if he’s waiting for me inside that house…. He’s already a dead man.
I drive like a fucking man possessed. Speedometer needle pinned, tires eating asphalt, siren lighting up the night. The truck bucks under me, engine growling like it knows the rage burning through my blood. By the time I barrel onto Constance’s street, my watch reads2:41 a.m.
Two patrol cars already sit crooked at the curb, lights spinning red and blue across the clapboard houses. I kill my siren and leap out before the cruiser’s fully stopped, boots hitting gravel hard enough to shake my teeth.
The officers straighten when they see me, but I don’t waste breath on pleasantries. “Debrief.”
One clears his throat. “Nothing to report, Sheriff. House is dark. Silent.”
Silent. The word slithers down my spine, wrong. Too neat. Too clean.
“Put the door in,” I order. My voice is a growl, final.
We move fast. Guns drawn. One officer rams the door with his shoulder until the frame splinters, and then we’re inside, shouting commands into shadows.
“Sheriff’s department! Hands where I can see ‘em!”
Nothing.
I stalk down the hall, past the sagging wallpaper and overturned shoe rack, every sense on edge. When I hit the kitchen, the world stills.
On the counter, beneath the dim light of a single bulb, lies a knife. Clean. Laid out deliberate. Waiting.
