He just shook his head, grinning. “You know, the pool was two to one you’d both chicken out. Guess I owe Miller five bucks.”
Behind me, the retirees were still watching. I raised a hand in a lazy salute, like, Yes, it’s true, the world still spins and now it’s just a little gayer.
Outside, the sky was clear and blue. Inside, nobody cared if I existed or not, which was fine by me. Because for once, I wasn’t hiding. And Floyd was waiting for me. It wasn’t happily ever after, not yet. But it was the closest I’d ever come.
And that was enough.
Inside the sheriff’s office, I did my best to blend into the scenery, which was tough given I was six-three, tattooed to the gills, and still wearing a flannel that smelled like hospital air and Floyd’s shampoo.
The place was just as I remembered: an open bullpen, tan paint job chosen to offend nobody, and desks that had been there since at least Reagan.
In the center, Floyd sat at his desk, the chair creaking under him, while his deputies rotated in and out, dropping folders, questions, and gossip like it was all part of one seamless job description.
He answered everything. He was good at it—efficient, sharp, never raising his voice. Even now, stitched up and running on nothing but adrenaline and painkillers, he had the room eating out of his hand. I watched him field a call from the DA, negotiate the return of a meth-lab dog to its owner, and coordinate a charity car wash for the local little league, all without missing a beat.
I hated how easy he made it look. I also hated how much I loved him for it.
While Floyd wrangled the chaos, Knox materialized at my side. He did that—showed up without warning, all muscle and beard, like the world’s most intimidating AA sponsor. He wore a jacket that hadn’t been cool since the 1970s and had a mug of gas-station coffee that could strip paint off a battleship. He nodded at the deputies, who scattered like startled quail, and jerked his chin toward the lobby.
We stepped outside, onto the concrete steps. Main Street was all hard sunlight, the sky cloudless and blue as a gas flame. Across the street, Inked Rebellion waited—my shop, my world, my home. The windows were dark, the signboard above freshly scrubbed but still showing the ghost of old graffiti.
Knox handed me a ring of keys. “Figured you’d want to be the first in.”
“Police finish up?” I asked, twirling the keys so I wouldn’t have to meet his eyes.
He nodded. “CSI wrapped up yesterday. Family and I did what we could, but…” He trailed off, and for once, the silence felt like mercy.
He put a heavy hand on my shoulder. “You want company?”
I shook my head. “Not unless you want to see a grown man ugly-cry on a Tuesday.”
He snorted. “I seen worse. You should’ve watched Latham try to do the Heimlich on a dog last week.”
I almost smiled, but the tension in my neck wouldn’t let it land.
Knox walked me across the street. The whole time, I expected him to say something big-brotherly—chin up, or some bullshit about fate, or how “it builds character.” Instead, he just paced alongside me, a silent, solid wall. When we got to the front door, he stepped aside, hands in his pockets.
I fumbled the key, but the lock turned smooth. It was the only thing that had survived untouched.
Inside, I found the aftermath.
They’d repainted the walls, just like he’d said. The color was close, but not perfect, and the flash art I’d hung over the years was gone—every frame, every ink print, every blown-up photo of a satisfied customer. In their place, there were faint lines of spackle, damp and uneven, like scars that would never quite heal.
The floor was swept, but you could still see the damage: gouges from metal-toed boots, a big burn mark under the old tattoo chair, and a constellation of cigarette ash near the back where the arson attempt had fizzled out. The main counter was intact, but every glass display case was gone, replaced by plywood sheets that turned the place into a funeral parlor.
In the center of the floor sat a small pile of what used to be my life: sketchbooks torn in half, a handful of awards snapped and twisted, my favorite coffee mug smashed but swept intoa neat little heap, like whoever broke it couldn’t quite bring themselves to sweep it all the way out.
At the far end, the vintage motorcycle parts I’d spent years collecting were crumpled in a tangle—handlebars bent, chrome scraped off, one of the old gas tanks split open like a rotten melon. The only thing left on the walls was the outline of where the wolf tattoo had hung, now just four nail holes and a rectangle of slightly cleaner paint.
I stared at it for a long time. My feet felt nailed to the floor, my hands useless. Knox didn’t say a word. He just hovered by the door, letting me take it in.
I made it about five steps before the weight in my stomach dragged me to the ground. I knelt by the pile, picked up the biggest piece of sketchbook I could find. It was a fragment of the dragon sleeve I’d worked on for a month—the one with the rainbow scales, the one Floyd said looked like it was alive. The page was shredded at the edges, a smear of ink still wet enough to stain my fingers.
My hands shook. I pressed the page to my face and tried not to breathe, but the smell of burnt paper and cheap cleaning solvent brought everything back in a rush.
I don’t remember making the noise, but suddenly Knox was kneeling next to me, one heavy hand braced on my shoulder.
“It’s just stuff,” he said.
