At 5:37, I gave up. I closed out of the day’s log, shut off the lights, and walked to the window for one last look. The shop was still dark. The only light on Main was the streetlamp by the alley, flickering against the dusk.
My phone was still dark, too.
I went to the locker room, changed into jeans and a flannel, and left the uniform folded on the bench. On the way out, I paused at the threshold, staring across the empty street. I thought about going to his place, but the last time I tried that, he wasn’t there.
The night pressed in, thick and absolute. I felt the snap of something inside me—the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d reach out first.
He hadn’t.
I got in the truck, sat there for a long time with my hands on the wheel, and tried to decide whether to go home or start searching. My chest ached. My head felt like it was full of bees. I put the truck in gear and headed out, the dashboard clock ticking off the seconds I couldn’t get back.
The world outside the station looked different at dusk—colors sharper, shadows longer, everything on the verge of vanishing. I drove straight to Ransom’s place, mind already working through the list of possible places he could be. My hands were so tight on the wheel that I couldn’t feel my fingers.
His apartment was on the second floor of a half-renovated Craftsman, the kind of place where you could hear your neighbors fucking and nobody called the cops. The steps creaked under my boots. His mailbox was stuffed so full the lid wouldn’t close. I stood there for a second, staring at the sad bulge of junk mail and overdue bills, then climbed up.
I knocked, loud. Nothing. I tried again, harder. The silence on the other side of the door was absolute. I almost used my badge to bluff my way in, but there was no point. I put my ear to the wood. No music, no voice, no sign of life.
Back in the truck, my heart started thumping so hard it made my head ring. I drove to the Blacktail Bar, the only place in town with a pool table that didn’t have more duct tape than felt. The parking lot was full—Thursday was trivia night—but his bike wasn’t there. I went in anyway, searching the faces for any trace. The air inside was thick with stale beer and the perfume of sweat and cheap tequila.
The bartender, a guy with a mustache so perfect it could have been a sticker, spotted me and gave a nod. “You looking for someone, Sheriff?”
“Seen McKenzie tonight?” My voice sounded shredded.
Mustache shrugged. “Not since Tuesday.”
I checked the back room, the patio, even the men’s room. Nothing.
Back in the cab, the panic started to build. I tried the skate park next, then the gas station on the edge of town where he used to hang out with the burnout kids. I drove to the river, parked, and walked the trail where he sometimes went to clearhis head. The only thing I found was a raccoon, dead and frozen on the shoulder of the path, and the way my breath fogged out in front of me.
Each failure made it harder to think. I went through every place I could remember him ever mentioning—a sandwich shop, a pawn shop, the shitty laundromat with the broken vending machine. No sign of him. Each time I left a spot, my chest got tighter, my thoughts more scattered.
Last stop: the McKenzie farm.
The gravel on the driveway sounded like bone chips under my tires. There were lights on in the main house, and a few figures visible through the front window—shapes hunched over dinner or a board game. I parked, turned off the engine, and sat for a minute, breathing like I was about to go into a fight. My hands would not stop shaking.
I walked up the path, boots crunching on the frost. The porch light was on. Before I could knock, the front door swung open. Knox McKenzie filled the frame, arms folded across his chest. He looked at me, and whatever I was hiding, he saw right through it.
“Evening, Sheriff,” he said. His voice was rougher than I remembered.
I tried to sound casual. “Evening, Knox. Is Ransom home?”
The way he looked at me—half contempt, half pity—told me everything. “Naw, man. He’s gone.”
For a second, the words didn’t land. “Gone?”
Knox let out a long, slow breath, like he’d been waiting to say it all night. “Packed up this morning. Said he needed to get away for awhile. Left before lunch. Didn’t say when he’d be back.”
I must have staggered, because the porch railing was suddenly under my hand. My vision narrowed to a pinpoint.
Knox looked past me, out into the empty night. “You okay, Sheriff?”
I tried to answer, but my throat was locked up. The world seemed to have gone silent except for the dull, rhythmic pulse of my own heart. I could hear the McKenzie family inside—clinking of forks, a sudden burst of laughter—but out here it was just me and the cold.
I squeezed the rail, forced myself to speak. “If he calls, can you tell him to call me?”
Knox’s eyes narrowed. “He in trouble?”
“No,” I said, and it was almost a laugh, the kind of laugh you choke on. “He’s not in trouble.”
