There have been three break-ins in the last two weeks. Nothing high dollar—tools, some irrigation equipment, couple of propane tanks—but the pattern is the thing. Always the south end, always between midnight and two, always a window or latch jimmied with careful, practiced hands. My gut says kids, but my gut’s been wrong before, and I know better than to ignore the other angles.
You never ignore the McKenzies.
I do a lap, then circle back to my truck. I let myself look, just once, through the wide window of Inked Rebellion. Ransom is there, arms crossed over his chest, watching. He’s wearing a long-sleeved black shirt today, which means he either has aclient who’s skittish about seeing ink, or he’s trying to be less of a spectacle.
It doesn’t work.
The man could wear a burlap sack and still look like trouble. He’s taller than most men have a right to be, and the way he fills a room even when he’s standing still—well. There’s a reason every rumor in town eventually loops back to him.
He sees me, but pretends not to. Good. If I ever gave him the satisfaction of being rattled, he’d never let it go. I let my expression go flat, then turn away, pretending the interest is in the bakery next door. But I clock every detail—who goes in, who comes out, who lingers at the display cases, who never makes it inside at all.
At 0800 on the dot, my phone buzzes again. I pick up. “Hardesty.”
It’s the dispatcher. “Hey, Chief. Rosalie’s got a noise complaint already. It’s—” I can hear her flipping a page. “—the bakery again. Says the mixer’s waking up the neighborhood.”
I sigh. “That’s not a code violation unless it’s before six.”
“Should I tell her you said that?”
“Tell her I’ll check it out on my rounds,” I say, and hang up.
I have a list of priorities. Number one: keep the peace. Number two: don’t let the peace keep you. Which means I get my own coffee, from the gas station, because Rosie’s is a powder keg this early, and the last thing I need is to be drawn into a three-way brawl over gluten-free cinnamon rolls before I’ve had my caffeine.
I drive the county roads for a while, just to get the smell of ink and disinfectant out of my head. When I come back through town, it’s time for the morning stand-up with the deputies. There’s just three of us now that Deputy Collins was arrested, which means we don’t have the luxury of screwups.
My guys are good, but young. Most of them are hoping to transfer out to Eugene or Salem within a couple years. No one comes to McKenzie River for a lifetime appointment unless they’re me, or old as dirt. I’m the first category, which means I have to be better.
Deputy Latham is already in the squad room, polishing his boots, because he still believes in upward mobility. “Morning, Chief,” he says, not looking up.
“Latham.” I nod, then tap the desk with the files I brought from the car. “Got a new one for you. High school’s reporting some vandalism on the north side. Paint. Nothing too offensive, but it’s on the gym doors.”
“Is it—” He pauses, thinking how to phrase it. “—gang related?”
“It’s a penis, Dan. Just a penis.” I allow a half-smile, because the joke’s too easy.
He grins, shakes his head. “Copy that.”
I go over the other cases—coyote sightings, a fender bender, a lost dog—then set them loose. I want Latham on the break-in, but I want his eyes on the high school first. The timeline on the thefts is too tight for a kid who’s pulling all-nighters for finals.
I retreat to my office. It smells like old paper and floor polish, and the window is just smudged enough to make me itch. I clean it. There’s a satisfaction in that, the same satisfaction I get from putting my badge exactly where the sun hits it on the coat rack every night. Little things, in line.
It doesn’t last. My phone vibrates with a text from an unknown number:My number. In case you remember something.
I stare at the message for a long time, then check the sender. It’s local, but not in my phone. Which means Ransom didn’t use his personal, or he got a new one. Or maybe he wants me to know he’s got a burner, like I wouldn’t be able to track it ifI wanted to. I don’t reply. I just let the phone sit on the desk, vibrating every couple minutes as Ransom sends nothing, and then nothing, and then finally a picture of the sun rising over Main Street.
The son of a bitch. He’s baiting me, but he’s good at it. I delete the photo, but not before saving it to my hidden folder. Sometimes the enemy knows exactly how to get under your skin.
By noon the day is already slipping sideways. There’s a report of livestock theft on one of the outlying farms, and a rumor that the McKenzie clan is running an illegal distillery out in the woods.
I know for a fact that’s true—the old man never let Prohibition go out of style—but I also know that busting the operation would be more trouble than it’s worth. The whole valley runs on a quiet arrangement: as long as no one gets hurt, I let the traditions slide. Besides, the shine is better than what they sell at the grocery store, and everyone knows it.
Still, it puts me on edge. There’s a pattern to the break-ins, and the more I map it, the more I suspect it’s not just kids. It’s surgical. Almost professional. I start a new file, handwrite the details, connect the dots. By two p.m. I have a lead, but I don’t like it.
I get in the truck, drive out past the river to the old bridge, and sit with the engine off. The only sounds are the crows and the slow trickle of water. I watch the surface, flat and shining, and think about the stories my father told me about this place—how the McKenzie clan used to dump bodies here during the feud years, how sometimes the ghosts still walked the banks at dusk.
There’s a darkness in this valley, old as the dirt, and it’s my job to keep it contained. I take pride in that. But lately, I feel it pressing closer, like the river’s running a little higher every day.
After an hour I go home, strip out of the uniform, and put on a flannel shirt that still smells faintly of the cedar closet. I make myself a sandwich, eat it standing up, and then walk the perimeter of the house again. Just in case.
