I raised an eyebrow. “You’re supposed to be off duty. Doctor’s orders.”
He leaned his head against the seat and let out a breath, the tough-guy act crumpling for a second. “I just want to check in. That’s all.”
It wasn’t “all,” but I wasn’t going to fight him on it. Not today.
The ride into town was mostly quiet. Floyd watched the landscape go by like he was seeing it for the first time, eyes flicking from the frost-crusted fields to the patchwork of winter woods.
There were stories in every half-burnt barn, every porch swing, every hand-painted mailbox. He pointed out a few, sometimes just with a grunt or a chin-tilt. For a man who hated words, he could say a lot without talking.
After a while, he started to fidget. “You think people know?”
I shrugged. “Depends what you mean. The hospital staff definitely do. Latham figured it out before either of us did, so that’s a given. Your ex-wife is already writing her tell-all memoir, so—yeah, probably the whole damn valley.”
He let out a snort. “Bet there’s a betting pool.”
“Knox is running it,” I said. “I’m favored to leave you at the altar for a traveling circus.”
“That checks out.”
He went quiet again. By the time we hit Main Street, the sun was climbing, burning off the mist that clung to the river. The town looked smaller than I remembered. Maybe because, after the last few days, it was.
I pulled in behind a patrol car, which was parked crooked in front of the station. Latham was on the curb looking like he hadn’t slept since the incident. When he saw us, he jogged over, arms open like he was going to help, then realized what that meant and pretended he was just stretching.
“Morning, boss,” he said, voice a little too loud. “You look… good.”
Floyd grunted, then reached for the door handle with his good hand. I got there first, opened it for him, and watched his face to see if he’d make a scene. He didn’t.
Latham caught my eye and mouthed, “Thank you,” as if I’d just delivered the world’s most volatile package.
We made our way up the steps, Floyd refusing to lean on me even as he limped and swore under his breath. At the top, he paused, turned back to me. “You coming in?”
I shrugged. “Figured you’d want to keep this low-key.”
For a second, I thought he’d let me go. Then he said, “Fuck that. You’re with me.”
The lobby was chaos. Not the busy kind, but the aftermath kind, when everyone pretends to work but actually just gossips about what went down. There were three deputies, a dispatcher, and what looked like half the town’s retirees crammed in with coffee and cinnamon rolls from Rosie’s Bakery. And every eye in the room went straight to us.
Not just to Floyd. To us.
I felt the old itch of shame, the instinct to shrink or make a joke, but Floyd just squared his shoulders, reached back, and took my hand. Not subtle. Not apologetic.
You could have heard a fly fart.
He walked us straight through, past the wide-open mouths and the coffee halfway to lips. Past Latham, who gave me a thumbs up so exaggerated I wanted to punch him. Past the old-timers who’d spent their whole lives betting on whether Floyd Hardesty was a real person or just a well-dressed cyborg.
At the door to his office, he stopped, let go of my hand, and looked at me. Not angry, not ashamed. Just tired, and grateful.
“You good here?” he asked.
“I’m good,” I said, and meant it.
He nodded, then walked in, shutting the door behind him.
I stood in the middle of the lobby, the silence now thick enough to wade through. For the first time in my life, I didn’t want to disappear. I wanted to stay, to see what happened next.
Latham sidled up, his smile so wide it nearly wrapped around his head. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “About time.”
“What?” I said, feigning innocence.
