“Bullshit,” I said, quietly. “You’re fishing.”
He looked away, out the window, then back at me. “Can you blame me?”
“Depends. You want to arrest me, or just keep me on a leash?”
His breath caught. I could hear it, the little hitch, before he shut it down and forced his voice into neutral. “If you hear anything, you let me know. No more vigilante heroics, no more trying to out-sheriff the sheriff. Understand?”
I grinned, sharp and white. “Crystal.”
He lingered, gaze dropping to my hands. Not the ink this time, but the way I’d unconsciously gripped the counter. He noticed everything, and I knew it. My knuckles were white, betraying more than I liked.
“You got something to say, Sheriff?” I asked.
For a moment, the whole town outside blurred to static. There was only the space between us, and whatever was crammed into it. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Instead, he pulled a card from his shirt pocket and placed it on the counter. “My number. In case you remember something.”
“I have your number,” I said.
He didn’t answer, just stepped back toward the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “Stay out of trouble, McKenzie.”
“Can’t make any promises,” I said. “But I’ll try real hard.”
He nodded once, then left. I let the bell’s echo ring in the silence after him, and only when I was sure he was back across the street did I pick up the card. It was blank except for his cell number and the words:“Next time, talk to me first.”
I stared at it for a long time, then flipped it over and traced the ridge of the paper with my thumb. Some people called it obsession, the way Floyd and I orbited each other. I called it gravity. The town could call it whatever the hell it wanted.
I tucked the card in my pocket, already rehearsing the next round. Floyd Hardesty could glare all he wanted from across the street; eventually, one of us would have to cross over for good.
I was already planning how to make him do it.
Chapter Two
~ Floyd ~
There’s a precise moment each day, before the town stirs itself awake, when the world feels not exactly clean but at least contained. That’s the moment I live for.
Sometimes I catch it driving the county roads at first light, sometimes it’s the deliberate click of my own front door as I lock it behind me, but always it’s there: the sense that, for a few heartbeats, things make sense.
Today it’s the latter. I double-check the deadbolt, let my palm linger against the cool brass, then walk the perimeter. Habit, not paranoia. Perimeter check is as natural to me as breathing.
My neighbor’s tabby stares from the porch rail next door, eyes slitted and mean, and I think about how Ransom McKenzie would paint the scene—something about predators and prey, if his wit in person is anything like the mural work he puts up in his shop.
I shake off the thought, boots crunching over the last thin scab of frost on the walk, and swing up into my truck. Engine kicks over first try, because I maintain it the way a man should.
I sit for a second, watching my own breath fog the glass, then reach for the sun visor and snap it down. My whole uniform is perfect—never a thread out of place—but I still run a hand over my collar, check the pin, make sure the hair is precisely in line.
You don’t get to be the face of law in McKenzie River by looking like you rolled out of a deer blind. My old sergeant used to say:If you don’t respect the badge, no one else will.I can still hear the gravel in his voice, and sometimes I echo it back just to prove I’m still listening.
Main Street at sunrise is nothing but silhouettes and gold-pink light. I roll slow, no sirens. I want to see who’s up, who’s out, who’s already plotting to get my day off on the wrong foot.
Jenkins is on his usual circuit—old bastard moves at exactly one mile per week, but he sees more than people think. I clock him in my rearview, cane tapping out an arrhythmic warning to the rest of the street.
Ahead, the bakery’s already got the lights on, and I can almost taste the cinnamon in the air. I skip the temptation and park where I always do, nose in against the curb right across from Inked Rebellion.
I don’t need to watch the tattoo shop to know its rituals. I have a running list: 0800, Ransom is in there rearranging his set-up, maybe prepping stencils or just staring down the world through his big front window.
Sometimes he wipes the glass like he’s erasing evidence. Sometimes he lingers with his back turned, daring me to come over. I’ve learned it’s better not to rise to the bait.
My phone buzzes in the console. I glance, see it’s from the office, and let it ride. I have fifteen minutes before the morning meeting, and I use it to walk the block, check the alley, get the lay of things. The town runs on routines, but routines are just the soft underbelly for people with bad intentions.
