The doorbell rings at 1800, which means it’s either a Jehovah’s Witness or my ex-wife. I open the door. It’s my ex-wife.
“Vivian,” I say. “You’re early.”
She holds out a Tupperware. “Brought you casserole. Saw you at the bakery this morning, figured you’d appreciate a home-cooked meal.”
I take the dish, careful not to touch her hand. “I’m good, thanks. But appreciated.”
She doesn’t leave. Instead, she plants herself in the doorway, arms folded, eyes scanning the living room behind me like she’s looking for evidence of a crime. “You still keeping your own house?” she says, voice sweet as glass.
“Not much changes,” I say. “You need something?”
She sighs. “You could call more. Levi’s having a rough time, and it’s not helping him that you’re—” She gestures at me. “—emotionally unavailable.”
“Levi’s fine,” I say, almost rolling my eyes. Levi did not need me to be ‘emotionally available’. He wasn’t my kid no matter how much Viv wished otherwise. “Levi’s a seventeen-year-old boy, and he’ll get over it. What he needs is less supervision, not more.”
She makes a face. “He’s my stepson, Floyd. You could take more of an interest.”
I take a breath. “Noted.”
She stands there a beat longer, then sniffs and heads back to her car. The casserole is heavy, dense, and probably loaded with enough sodium to kill a horse. I set it on the counter and make a mental note to take it into the station for the deputies.
At night, I sit on the back porch with a glass of the McKenzie’s best, watch the river shine under the moon, and let myself think, just for a minute, about Ransom.
He’s like a splinter, that man—sharp and impossible to ignore. I could rationalize my attention any way I liked: he’s a person of interest, he’s disruptive, he’s dangerous. All true. But it’s not the whole truth.
When I see him through that glass, arms folded, eyes burning a challenge, I want to cross the street. I want to call his bluff. I want to touch that stubborn jaw, see if the stubble bites as much as his words do. I want—hell, I don’t even know what I want.
It’s easier to stay on my side of the street. Cleaner, simpler. I finish my drink, then take the bottle and smash it in the trash, sharp end up.
Order. Containment. Routine.
I tell myself that’s all I need. I tell myself that hard enough, I almost believe it. But tomorrow’s another day, and I already know who’ll be waiting in the window.
Maybe next time I’ll cross over.
Maybe next time I won’t come back.
Chapter Three
~ Ransom ~
Delivering lunch to my future brother-in-law, the deputy, wasn’t my idea of a productive Tuesday. But Harlow asked, and Harlow was the only human in McKenzie River I let boss me around. Which is how I found myself at the front steps of the sheriff’s station with a brown bag of vegan banh mi under my arm, standing in front of an American flag faded to that special shade of toothpaste white.
Inside, the sheriff’s department was doing its best impression of a malfunctioning beehive. Phones rang off-tempo, voices shouted over each other, and the hum of ancient fluorescent lights bathed everything in a colorless haze. The air was so thick with stale coffee and cheap cologne I thought I’d walked through a curtain.
I let the door close behind me, and for half a second every head turned my way, like a pack of hungry dogs noticing the vegan at the barbecue.
“Can I help you?” asked the desk deputy, his voice more nasal than nature intended. He didn’t look up from his paperwork, which was exactly the kind of contempt I respected in a public servant.
I hoisted the lunch bag. “Here to feed one of your own. Deputy Latham. Harlow called ahead.”
The deputy flicked a look over his glasses, weighing my worth as a person, or maybe just wondering what the hell kind of man wears a black tee in April. “Sit tight.” He jabbed a button on the ancient intercom, which squealed, then barked: “Latham—front desk, you got a delivery.”
I took a seat on the only free bench. The vinyl cushion stuck to my arms, the friction fighting every movement. Someone hadleft a copy of Guns & Ammo with the cover torn off; I leafed through it anyway, mostly out of spite. I was halfway through an article on “Defensible Backyard Perimeter”—tip one: don’t skimp on the motion sensors—when Latham walked in, already looking apologetic.
“Hey, Ransom,” he said, keeping his voice down. “Thanks for bringing it.”
I stood and handed off the bag. “It’s the least I could do. Next time, order something normal and you won’t get this kind of abuse.”
