It’s a relentless, gnawing need to balance scales that got tipped a long time ago, when I was too young and too powerless to do anything but watch.
I’ve spent every year since trying to even out those scales.
I’m not sure I’ll ever succeed.
The road takes a bend.
Rooke’s place appears, all sharp angles and floor-to-ceiling windows, most blocked by snowdrifts. It’s lit up like a fucking beacon, but I don’t see movement. Must be a generator on the property running the lights, because to my knowledge, power hasn’t been restored to this area yet.
Who can afford to build a house like this on a professor’s salary?
Unless he’s from money, which wouldn’t surprise me at all.
I pull into the driveway and kill the engine. Snow is already accumulating on the windshield, turning the world soft and white.
Two vehicles in the parking area beside the garage. The Tesla I expected. The Land Rover I didn’t…because he doesn’t have any other cars registered under his name.
Does he have company?
I sit for a moment, running through scenarios. Could be a colleague, a friend, a hookup. Could be the two people I’ve been trying to connect to Rooke since I arrived in Agony Hollow.
Only one way to find out.
I take down the Land Rover’s plates in my notebook and shove it back in my pocket. Then I hesitate and take it out, putting it in the glove box instead. I take off my hat, my badge—hesitate again—and take off my gun.
This is supposed to be a social call. There was no time for me to change out of my uniform, but the last thing I need is for Rooke to get his guard up when he sees a uniformed officer knocking on his door.
The cold bites through my jacket the second I step out. I hunch my shoulders and trudge toward the door, my boots punching through fresh powder. My breath fogs in front of my face, and that familiar prickle starts up at the base of my skull—the one that tells me to be on high alert.
Problem is, I always feel this way around lots of snow. I know it’s just some PTSD bullshit. Therapy would have sorted it out…if I’d ever gone. But the thought of revisiting my past feels like the equivalent of pulling out stitches with my teeth.
I know I’m not a hundred percent. But eighty’s always been fine with me.
Thud-thud—thud-thud
I stand in the cold as wind blusters the snow around me, briefly examining the door and the keypad beside it as I wait, but I can’t hear anything from inside.
Maybe I should go around the back. The front of the house is built for privacy, but I’m sure the back opens up to the woods.
Thud-thud—thud-thud
I don’t hear footsteps. Nothing to prepare me when Bastian opens the door.
He doesn’t seem surprised to see me, and that’s when I realize the keypad I’d half-heartedly glanced at has a small camera embedded above it.
He probably checked his app before answering the door.
Cautious…or paranoid?
He’s wearing a black Henley and dark jeans. His hair’s mussed, his jaw shadowed with stubble, and there’s a wariness in his eyes that wasn’t there last night.
He might not be surprised to see me, but he definitely wasn’t expecting me to show up at his door.
Excellent.
“Evening, Bastian.”
“Deputy.” His voice is smooth, controlled.
