I remembered he was smart, real smart, the kind of smart that didn’t last long around here unless you hid it behind a stammer or a joke.
The Bridger family had money—old money, banking money—but they pissed it away on cars and gambling and the kind of vacations you brag about for years after.
The entire family was a disaster. The older brother was a shithead and a bully. The mother was gone. The father had a reputation for being a prick, and that was among the people who liked him. I didn’t even know what to think about the stepmother, who had been the mistress before Newton’s mother left.
I’d heard through the rumor mill that there was already another mistress in the works. Apparently, once Newton’s father married someone, he lost interest in them.
I paid for my order and left the change on the counter, ignoring Heimerdinger’s mutter about “city boys and their big bills.”
As I stepped back outside, the sun was climbing higher, bleaching out the town and making everything seem flatter.
The steps of the sheriff’s office were empty.
I spotted Newt again, this time hovering at the corner of the building, half-hidden behind the flagpole. He was still working up the nerve to go inside.
I should have minded my own business. I had a shop to run, work to finish, but there was something about the way he kept pulling at his sleeve, like he wanted to crawl inside it anddisappear. I found myself crossing the street before I knew what I was doing.
“Sheriff’s not in yet,” I said, just loud enough to make him jump.
He spun, the panic plain on his face before he masked it with a weak smile. “Yeah, I… uh… I know. I was just—just waiting.”
“Looks like you’ve been waiting a while.” I nodded to the bruise, the scabbed lip. “You need something? I can tell Hardesty you stopped by.”
“No, it’s fine. I’m—” He bit off whatever lie he’d been planning and dropped his eyes. “I just needed a minute. Sorry.”
I didn’t say anything. I stood there and let the silence stretch. Most people can’t take that for more than five seconds. Newt lasted ten.
“It’s nothing. Just—bad timing. I should go.” He glanced at me, then away, then back again. “You’re Knox, right?”
“Last time I checked.”
He made a sound in his throat. Not quite a laugh, but something close. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
“I remember you.” More than he’d ever know.
“Oh.” He shifted from foot to foot. “Well. Good to see you.”
I nodded. “You, too.”
He looked at the ground. I looked at him. The wind picked up and for a second I thought he might just blow away, so light he barely dented the sidewalk.
I caught myself wanting to reach out and steady him, which was stupid and pointless, so I shoved my hands in my jacket pockets instead.
He started to turn, then stopped. “Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“Did you—” He hesitated. “Did you ever want to just leave? This place, I mean.”
“Every day,” I said.
He nodded, like that made perfect sense. “Yeah, me too.” He walked off then, quick and hunched, head down against the wind.
I watched him until he rounded the corner, then let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. I stood there a while longer, staring at the empty steps of the sheriff’s office, the sun glaring off the badge painted on the door.
There was nothing for me here. There was nothing for anyone here.
I turned, grabbed the hardware bag tighter than necessary, and walked back to my truck. I had work to do. But my mind kept running the numbers, kept cataloging the odds and outcomes, kept watching the way Newton Bridger moved through the world, like he was already halfway gone.
