"I should get going," he said abruptly, taking a half-step back. "Miller's real worried about that mare."
I nodded, handing him his copy of the report. Our fingers brushed in the exchange, and he pulled back like he'd touched a hot stove. The reaction was so genuine, so unguarded, that it stirred something protective in me. This wasn't the practiced retreat of someone playing hard to get. This was a man who'd been told his feelings were wrong—or worse, that he wasn't entitled to have them at all.
"I'll meet you at Miller's in twenty," I said, making it clear it wasn't a suggestion.
He nodded once, jammed his hat back on his head, and turned to leave. I watched him walk away, noting how he kept to the edges of the room, how his massive frame seemed to curl inward as if trying to occupy less space. The contradiction fascinated me—a man with his size and strength moving through the world as if apologizing for his existence.
Collins muttered something under his breath as Harlow passed, too low for me to catch, but I saw the way Harlow's shoulders tensed.
I grabbed my jacket, sliding it on with more force than necessary. This town and its judgments, its gossip, its neatly constructed boxes for who belonged where and with whom—it all grated against my skin like sandpaper.
I'd left St. Louis to escape constraints, not to find new ones. And something about Harlow McKenzie made me want to tear down every fence this town had built around him.
The door closed behind him, and I fastened my gun belt with practiced efficiency. Let them talk. I'd never much cared what people thought of me, and I wasn't about to start now. Besides, I was interested in seeing if I could create that flush again.
* * * *
I squinted through the windshield as another sheet of rain hammered against the glass. The wipers fought a losing battle, barely clearing my line of sight before the next deluge obscured it again.
Highway 126 curved through the darkened Douglas firs like a black river, my headlights catching the reflective paint of the center line then bouncing off the curtain of water coming down. Three hours into a double shift, and the storm had turned a routine patrol into a white-knuckle driving test.
The patrol car's heater blasted against the foggy windows, creating a cocoon of artificial warmth that contrasted with the chaos outside.
I'd spent the afternoon tracking a missing mare with Harlow McKenzie, watching his large hands pointing out barely visible signs on the forest floor, his voice gaining confidence as he explained what each broken twig or disturbed patch of earth meant. We'd found the horse safe in exactly the meadow he'd predicted, already nursing a newborn foal.
The radio crackled to life, cutting through my thoughts. "Unit four, we've got reports of an abandoned vehicle on Highway 126, mile marker 47, eastbound shoulder. Silver Honda Civic, Oregon plates. No reported injuries, but caller says it's been there at least an hour with hazards on."
I reached for the radio. "Dispatch, this is unit four. I'm about three miles west of that location. I'll check it out."
"Copy that, unit four."
I eased off the gas, scanning the roadside for the mile markers that were barely visible through the downpour. The clock on my dashboard read 10:37 PM. Not many travelers would be out on a night like this, which made an abandoned vehicle all the more concerning.
The wind picked up, sending a barrage of pine needles and small branches skittering across the asphalt. My headlights caught the reflection of something metallic ahead—mile marker 47. Just beyond it, the faint pulsing of hazard lights cut through the rain.
I slowed the patrol car and pulled in behind the Civic, positioning my vehicle to shield it from any oncoming traffic. The abandoned car sat at an odd angle, its right front tire dipped into the shallow drainage ditch that ran alongside the highway.
I radioed my location to dispatch, then grabbed my flashlight and rain slicker from the passenger seat. Before opening the door, I took a deep breath, mentally preparing for the drenching I was about to receive.
The moment I stepped out, the storm assaulted me from all sides. Rain driven sideways by the wind stung my face like tiny needles. My uniform pants were soaked through within seconds, the slicker doing little to keep the water from finding every possible entry point. The wind howled through the treetops overhead, an eerie counterpoint to the steady drumming of rain on metal and pavement.
I approached the Civic cautiously, flashlight beam cutting through the darkness. The hazard lights blinked a steady rhythm, reflecting off the wet asphalt in distorted orange puddles. All four doors were closed. No signs of forced entry or damage beyond the awkward position in the ditch.
I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered through the driver's side window, then tried the door. Unlocked. The interior light flicked on as I opened it, revealing an empty seat and a dashboard still slick with rain. The keys dangled from the ignition.
"Hello?" I called out, my voice immediately swallowed by the storm. No response.
I swept my flashlight across the interior—no blood, no signs of struggle. The passenger seat held nothing but a fast food bag and an empty coffee cup. The back seat was clear except for a child's booster seat, securely fastened but unoccupied.
A chill that had nothing to do with the rain crawled up my spine. A family vehicle, abandoned in a storm, with no explanation and no indication of where its occupants had gone.
I checked the glove compartment for registration, finding it neatly tucked inside a plastic sleeve along with proof of insurance. Sarah Jennings, an address in Eugene. I pocketed the information and quickly examined the trunk, which contained nothing but a spare tire and roadside emergency kit, apparently untouched.
Back in my patrol car, I radioed dispatch with the vehicle details and requested they try to contact the owner. The rain hadn't let up; if anything, it was coming down harder. Visibility was down to just a few yards beyond my headlights.
I turned on my light bar to alert any approaching traffic while I completed my report. The blue and red flashes bounced off the raindrops, creating an almost strobe-like effect through the trees. Once my report was filed, I'd need to call for a tow truck, though it would likely be hours before one could make it out in these conditions.
I put the patrol car in drive, planning to pull forward slightly to better position my lights around the abandoned vehicle. Thewheels rolled forward, then suddenly lost their grip on the road. My stomach lurched as the back end of the car began to slide.
