The blanket underneath is so thick it absorbs the aches in my body and cushions me in cozy comfort. I snuggle into the pillow and pull the second blanket over me. I'm used to luxurious bedlinen, but this is so soft, so buttery, so heavenly. And it smells exactly like... him. His cologne. His scent.
A contented sigh escapes my lips, but I don't take my eyes off him. He, however, seems wholly unaware of me.
I shouldn't sleep. The thought of him leaving me here alone for the rest of the night unsettles me. Still, my eyes droop, and I drift off, but as soon as I do, I jerk awake to ensure he's still there. He is.
Sleep takes complete hold of me. Once or twice more, my eyes flutter open, searching for him. The instant I feel his big, strong presence still seated in the chair with his long, muscular legs propped on the desk, sleep pulls me right under again.
Until I wake up to a flurry of commotion.
Chapter Five
Marlowe
What is going on? I open one eye, keeping the other shut since I plan to go right back to sleep. I don't see anything but a shiny concrete wall with some graffiti on it. Three male voices outside my vision creep into my drowsiness. Not my problem, and I'm probably dreaming. I turn onto my other side and go back to sleep.
"Ms. Evans, I'm Deputy Sharon Slinger. Please get up from the bed."
What now? I'm not sure, but there appears to be a female deputy standing right over me, the thumbs of both her hands hooked into the loops of her pants.
"Ms. Evans, get up. The law doesn't wait for pretty little princesses to get their beauty sleep around here in Candy Creek. We run a tight ship under our fearless leader, Sheriff Zephyr Smith."
"What?" I say, barely able to focus. Just let me sleep. And why is she talking like that? When she says "ship," she sounds as if the sheriff is the captain of some intergalactic enterprise sailing about the galaxy on a humanity-saving mission from green aliens.
"Ms. Evans, please get up, or I will bodily raise you to your feet. Tardiness is unacceptable here in Candy Creek under Sheriff Zephyr Smith's law."
Oh my word. If I have to hear "Candy Creek" this and "Sheriff Zephyr Smith" that, I'm going to scream...as soon as I'm properly awake, that is.
"Please, just let me sleep," I moan.
I am many things, but a morning person I am not. Although a nagging thought slips into my mind. Where is the good sheriff? Is he done with me now? Arrested, thrown into jail, and discarded? Nope, the real crime is that it's still too early to think.
"Up," the deputy says to me.
Ugh, she's not going away. I sit up in the cot, and then, blurry-eyed, I try to make out her name on the nameplate stuck to her uniform. I'm sure she identified herself moments ago, but I'm still asleep, dammit.
"Up. Up. Up," she persists, pestering me without mercy, pulling the blanket from me. Immediately it feels as if she's taken away my security blanket.
"Where did you get this?" she asks, her tone accusatory, a heavy frown on her face. "You're not supposed to have these. They belong to Sheriff Smith. These are his personal possessions. And that's his pillow."
"What?" But the overzealous deputy doesn't hear me. She's wrapped her hand around my arm and yanks me up, then bundles the two blankets and pillow, muttering something about having them laundered.
He let me use his personal stuff to sleep on?
But again, I don't have the time to ponder. The deputy has already marched the bedding to the desk, where she puts it into a huge black plastic bag. She then comes back into the cell and proceeds to dump an old, dirt-stained pillow and a blanket made of steel wool—really, steel wool—she retrieved from the steel utility cabinet onto the bed.
She then hands me a very familiar-looking toiletry bag and a fresh set of clothes, including underwear that is also mine.
"Here you go. Our good Sheriff is a very busy man, but he took a moment out of his busy schedule to ask me to stop at the Richard's cottage to get you a change of clothes. Appreciate the trouble we both went through getting you these, all while you were sawing logs," she adds with a condescending glare.
I wish they wouldn't have gone through the trouble at all. And how busy is this sheriff? From where I stand, it seemed like a slow crime day if he arrested me for a miscommunication with a damn otter.
"Step on it. You have fifteen minutes to get ready. The judge will see you at six sharp."
Oh my god. Is it only five forty-five? Who in their right mind wakes up at this ungodly hour? And how does one see a judge at six in the morning? Are they all just insane? But the drill sergeant is relentless and pulls me along.
"This is such a huge mistake," I mumble.
"Trying to murder our national treasure, our mascot, is not a mistake, ma'am; that's premeditated murder."
