The song fades. JJ’s voice cuts in. “Where’s that fucker at,” he mutters, spitting on the pavement.
I breathe deep. This job isn’t the kind SBI files in a neat report. There’s no backup. There’s just me. SBI chose me because I blend. Because I speak this town’s language: small talk, silent suspicion, loyalty without receipts.
But not even my supervisor knows I plan to stay until the very end.
Until I bury whoever buried my father.
Until I burn the rot down to the bones.
COLE
The morning sun is warm enough to fool you into thinking the world’s fine. Noah skips beside me, still smug about finishing his cereal before I got back with his T-Rex.
My mind keeps replaying the words I spat at Xaden: “Stay away from me.”
He looked hurt, and it isn’t fair. He obviously doesn’t care anymore. Not if he wants to pretend we were nothing. He had no right to look so vulnerable. Okay, maybe I wasn’t on my best behavior. Then again, I wasn’t the one who disappeared for four years.
I’m still chewing on the burn in my chest, the guilt and the fury, when I hear heavy footsteps behind me.
“Morning!” an all-too-familiar voice calls. Sheriff Willard, coffee in one hand, paper bag in the other.
“Morning,” I say, instinctively pulling Noah a little closer. Something in me always bristles around him. Like he’s too smooth, too loud, like a smile that shows too many teeth.
I notice Delilah watching from the café window, frowning slightly. When she sees me looking, she smiles and waves before going back to wiping tables.
“You’ve probably heard Bailey’s been spotted around town.” His tone is almost too casual.
“Small towns. Hard to stay gone forever,” I reply in kind.
“Right.” His voice stays light. “He’s not keeping the best company these days. Thought I’d mention it. Just in case he tries to reconcile.”
“Thanks, Sheriff, but I think I can handle him,” I say, stiff. I’m still annoyed after all that gossiping yesterday. Definitely not in the mood for a ‘Beware of Xaden Bailey’ PSA.
Willard’s smile widens. Too much. “Of course. Just looking out for folks. Especially the ones with kids.” His gaze drops briefly to Noah. “This town can be unpredictable. Sometimes it’s not the strangers you need to watch out for.”
My gut twists. But I almost laugh anyway. This is Baywood, not Gotham City. The only thing that strikes without warning here is Steve Pell on karaoke night.
Noah tugs my sleeve. “Daddy, can we go?” I smile at him, then give Willard a curt nod. “Have a good day.”
“You too,” he says, tipping his cup.
I feel his calculating eyes on my back all the way to the library.
The library’s one of my favorite places, all thanks to Juniper Thorne. When the old librarian, Mrs. Connor, finally retired, Juniper transformed the place from ‘Principal Trunchbull nightmare’ to a cozy and welcoming reading retreat. There’s even a section of LGBTQAI+ books with rainbow flags the children have drawn.
Noah bolts to the children’s corner and plops down beside Sammy, his best friend. Sammy’s a shy kid who mostly whispers. Noah’s toldme that they’re going to live together as adults and turn their house into a zoo. One animal per room so they won’t quarrel. Sounds like a good plan to me.
I join Jørgen, Sammy’s dad and a talented carpenter. He’s one of the few parents I’m actually friends with. He looks a lot like a Viking. Well, the fictional kind, because obviously I have never seen a real one. He’s robust even in his music preferences: he listens to that certain kind of death metal that has the aggression of chainsaws and the ferocity of hellhounds.
“Great gig Sunday,” he comments, probably out of politeness. (I’m neither aggressive nor ferocious on stage. Or anywhere, for that matter.)“The Gazettewrote about you.”
“Was it bad?” I ask. Every once in a whileThe Baywood Gazetteremembers my one-hit-wonder status. Usually around festivals, or ifOne Last Kisshas been mentioned in national media. Otherwise, they only bring me up if something actually interesting doesn’t jump the queue, like Harold’s pen being snatched by a bird or the time Earl triggered an avalanche of stockpiled toilet paper and was buried under dozens of 36-roll packs.
Jørgen grins. “Depends. What are your thoughts on being described as intriguing and devastatingly handsome?”
I laugh. “You’re kidding me.”
“See for yourself,” he says and, after tapping his phone a few times, shows me the article.
