Nothing.
Latham watched me, silent. When I glanced over, he went back to texting, but the smirk never left his face.
“You need something?” I asked.
He shrugged. “No, sir. Just doing my job.”
“Good. Do it quieter,” I said.
He grinned. “Yes, sir.”
I put my attention on the morning’s case logs, but it was like reading through water. My eyes kept sliding off the page, dragging me back to the window and the empty tattoo shop.
By 8:10, the caffeine made my stomach churn. I set the cup down and tapped my fingers on the desk, index-middle-ring, over and over. I forced myself to stop, but the moment I looked up, my knee started bouncing instead.
Time crawled. At 8:45, Latham coughed and cleared his throat. “Want me to do a run past the elementary? Principal’s been jumpy lately.”
I nodded, grateful for the excuse to be alone. “Take Miller with you. If he’s not here in five, call his cell.”
Latham gave a lazy salute and grabbed his radio. As he left, he said, “If you need anything, you know where I’ll be.”
I watched him go, then checked my phone. Nothing. I opened the old thread with Ransom, thumb hovering over the“Goodbye, Floyd”like it was a detonator. I thought about texting,“You okay?”or “Can we talk?” but the last time I didthat, I got nothing. It was like shouting down a well and waiting for the echo.
I set the phone face down and stared at the shop again.
It stayed dark.
By noon, I’d accomplished nothing. Latham came back with Miller, who reeked of McDonald’s hash browns and wore the same uniform shirt he’d worn all week. They did the morning report in Latham’s office, which meant I could hear every word through the paper-thin walls.
“You see him today?” Miller said, voice a little too loud.
“Nah,” Latham answered. “But I heard he got into it with the boss. Real ugly.”
“You think they’re gonna be okay?” Miller asked.
Latham paused. “Don’t know, man. That’s not for us to fix.”
I wanted to kick the wall, but instead I checked the clock. 12:31. I stared at the window. Nothing.
I made another cup of coffee, this time adding a sugar packet just to taste something, anything. I scrolled through the town’s incident logs, the state database, even the highway patrol’s Twitter, looking for something—an accident, a disturbance, a name in the arrest log. I found nothing, which only made it worse.
At 1:17, the door chimed and a delivery guy dropped off a package for “Sheriff Hardesty.” I signed for it, thanked him, then left it unopened on the end of the desk. My hands shook a little, so I clenched them into fists and forced myself to do paperwork. It didn’t stick; the words blurred.
The shop stayed dark.
At 2:58, a woman came in to file a complaint about “suspicious persons” on the hiking trails. I walked her through the forms, kept my voice even, nodded at all the right places. I caught myself doodling Ransom’s last name on the intake sheet, and had to ball it up and toss it. I blamed the pen.
At 4:10, I called the shop. The line rang six times, then went to voicemail. His voice sounded the same as always:“You’ve reached Inked Rebellion, and if you’re a cop, leave your badge number.”I almost laughed, but instead I just hung up.
Latham knocked on my office door at 5:06, poking his head in. “You good, Chief? You want me to lock up?”
I nodded. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
He lingered, reading my face. “You sure you’re all right?”
“Yeah,” I said, “I’m fine.”
He left, but I could feel him hovering, waiting for the sound of the outer door locking. I sat there, watching the shadows creep across Main Street, feeling the ache behind my ribs get heavier and heavier.
