“I’ll tell you if it becomes relevant,” I say.
He studies me a beat longer, reading between lines I’m not speaking out loud. Dawson may not know details, but he’s not stupid.
“I trust you,” he sighs. “Sometimes I trust you more than my own deputies. Just—be sharp. Whoever tripped this? They knew what they were doing.”
“I know.”
He eyes me for a moment, then smirks—one of those slow, knowing ones that says he’s been sitting on a comment for a while.
“You, uh… got someone waitin’ on you?” he asks casually. “That pretty neighbor of yours, maybe? ”
My jaw stills. “Neighbor?”
He snorts. “Ethan, I’m the sheriff. Not blind. I couldn’t help but notice you both had a table together last night at Firenze. Your parents liked her too—your mum said she had ‘a lovely energy.’”
Of course she did.
My voice stays dry, flat. “We’ve talked.”
Dawson raises both brows. “Is that what kids call it these days?”
I give him a stare that would shut up most men. Dawson laughs, belly-deep.
“Relax,” he says. “I’m not looking to poke around in your business. Hell, you deserve something good after the years you’ve had.”
I nod once, slow.
He lowers his voice, friendly but firm. “I know exactly who that troublemaker was. I looked him up. Some music-industry big shot who thinks he’s untouchable,” he leans in, “And don’t worry—I know exactly who she is. Small-town doesn’t mean small-brained. Celebrity or not, she’s a guest in my town. I’ll keep it quiet.”
That lands in my chest—harder than I expect. “I appreciate it,” I say.
He gives me that look again. The one that sees straight through me.
“And judging by the way you said that,” he drawls, “I’m guessing you’ve got a bit more goin’ on with her than ‘talking.’”
I tighten my grip on my keys. “…I’m heading home.”
Dawson barks out a laugh. “That’s what I thought.”
He tips his hat. “Go on then. Don’t keep the rockstar waiting.”
I don’t bother correcting him.
Because he’s right.
And I need to get back to her.
The road back toward the lake cuts through the trees in long, dappled streaks of sun and shadow. Normally, this drive settles me. Forest steady. Air clean. Predictable.
Today, it gnaws at me.
That bank alarm wasn’t a kid fumbling with a keypad. It wasn’t a blown sensor. It was deliberate. Precise. Someone threaded the needle between frames on the camera feed and tripped the motion zone without leaving a shape.
A ghost.
Or someone trained.
My grip tightens on the wheel. “Bloody ‘ell…”
