Chapter One
~ Knox ~
I hated driving into town. The act itself wasn’t complicated—twenty miles of cracked pavement, two blind curves, and one bridge with questionable integrity—but the psychological terrain was less predictable.
That was the part I despised.
The familiar landscape of McKenzie River always made my jaw seize up, like the muscles had memory and didn’t trust what was waiting. I rolled into Main Street at nine in the morning, a few minutes earlier than intended.
Chalk it up to leftover Marine punctuality, or maybe a desire to get the job over with before the regulars started loitering outside the diner and the VFW.
I parked the truck in front of McKenzie Hardware, dead center between a farm-scarred Silverado and an ancient Ford that looked like it was only held together by the bumper stickers.
I left the engine idling, catalogued my list for the fourth time—drill bits, masonry anchors, industrial-grade wood glue, pack of thirty-gauge wire, three pounds of roofing nails, blue Gatorade—before killing the ignition.
I counted to five, let the silence seep in.
Always felt like there should be more noise in a town this size, but McKenzie River had the kind of hush that made you suspicious. Like everyone was standing behind the windows, watching, waiting to judge your gait, your posture, the way your boots thudded against the concrete.
I preferred that to the chatter, honestly.
As I stepped out, the wind came up, sharp with the tang of cedar. The air in town was always cleaner than at the shop, where the dust from pine and pressure-treated lumber stuck to your skin.
Main Street was a standoff of faded colors—painted brick facades, sun-bleached signage, the grungy flag flying in front of the town hall. The buildings had more history than most of the people walking past them.
Half the storefronts were empty, the windows blind with for-rent signs that would never come down. That was the way here, everything lingering, even the failures.
I kept my head down, practiced ignoring the good-old-boys on the hardware store porch, even when one of them spat a brown rope of chew at my boots. They liked to remind me I’d “gone fancy” with that stint in the service and the expensive education that came after.
What they meant was, I didn’t play by the rules. I didn’t smile when I didn’t want to. I didn’t answer questions about family, or girls, or plans for the Fourth. I kept to myself, and that was enough to make me an asshole, apparently.
Today I barely made it ten paces before my attention snagged on movement across the street.
Newton Bridger was pacing the steps of the sheriff’s office, nervous as a cat. He was thinner than I remembered, his slacks hanging loose on his narrow hips, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled halfway up his forearms even though the morning was cold enough to make my breath ghost.
He had a black backpack clutched to his chest and he kept fidgeting with the strap, twisting it in his hands like he wanted to strangle it. I scanned him up and down, cataloging everything in a glance.
His hair was still that weird shade of not-quite-ginger, not-quite-blond, but it was the face that got me. There was a bruise on his cheekbone, old but ugly, purple shading out to piss-yellow at the edges. His lower lip was split and scabbed. He kept licking it, wincing every time.
I counted three times in thirty seconds that he walked up to the door of the sheriff’s department, reached for the handle, then turned away and made a lap of the steps instead.
My training said this was a threat indicator. A civilian who can’t commit to entering a government building is either up to something or running from something.
Judging by the state of his face, I had a good idea which. I watched him a little longer than I should have, then cursed under my breath and headed into the hardware store, pretending not to notice him again.
That was a lie. I noticed everything.
The bell over the door was shrill enough to make my ears ring. The inside of McKenzie Hardware was a wall-to-wall shrine to chaos—unfiled paperwork, racks of seed packets next to drill batteries, a display of fishing tackle that had been there since before I was born.
Old man Heimerdinger was at the counter, hunched over a stack of invoices. He didn’t look up.
I preferred it that way.
I took my time. Inventory always settled me, especially in a place like this. I loaded up a basket with supplies, resisted the urge to correct the order of the drill bits—someone had shuffled the 3/8” with the 1/4”—an affront to God and man—then circled back for the Gatorade.
I didn’t need it, but habits die hard and I liked the taste of chemicals when I was working. It kept the edge sharp.
The whole time, my mind ran background checks on Newton Bridger. I hadn’t spoken to him since his brother’s high school graduation, and even then it was more a nod across the gymnasium floor than a real conversation.
