Turns out something like having your best friends die in a car accident and leave you their barely one-year-old and not quite four-year-old can be traumatic, even for men who’ve served in high-intensity environments for years and never suffered from PTSD. Apparently, not everyone lives with this cloud-gathering sensation, like there’s a storm on the horizon, but it’s not just rain coming. It’s the very heavens about to crash down.
So, I remind myself of this. Could be the old spidey senses tingling based on years of training and a solid mentor here, or it could be… that.
Either way, I need more info on the Patriot Ridge situation. After making a call to Chief Whitacker in Silverton, I find we’re both similarly in the dark. They’re back to keeping law enforcement off their compound’s property, and though there’s a court order requiring “regular checks,” the frequency of those has been challenged.
“What’s got your goat, Sheriff?” Angie leans on the doorframe of my office.
I lean back, scrubbing a hand over my face. “I can’t stop thinking about Patriot Ridge. I don’t see them stopping what they were up to, and I’m worried some of our people are going to end up wrapped in their nonsense. That missing person case in Silverton… It’s all connected.”
She tsks. “Not liking it either. But if I’m understanding correctly, we’ve got no probable cause to search now, and our next check isn’t for another few weeks.”
I nod, leaning back in my chair and wishing for a break there. “Maybe I’m seeing shadows at the stroke of twelve on a moonless night.”
Humor flickers across her face and she stepsinside, hooking her thumbs into her duty belt. “How about I drive over and take a look? What with me being a feeble-brained woman and all, even if I did see something suspicious, I wouldn’t be very likely to understand it, right?”
Diego snorts a laugh from where he hovers just outside. “Yeah, ma’am, you’re a real dolt.”
We exchange a smile acknowledging just how bogus the idea is. Angie Smalls is one of the most intuitive, intelligent people I’ve ever met. I’ve learned as much from her as I did from the former sheriff, if not more, and her presence on the force is a gift.
She has a point, though—the leadership at Patriot Ridge won’t see her as a threat purely because she’s a woman. So she may indeed be able to stop in without as many hackles raising as if I were to do the same, and all the more so Brian or Diego.
“I’ll check back this afternoon.”
Angie steps out, Diego heads out for his patrol, and I’m reminded I forgot my lunch at home in the flurry of getting the girls to school and having half my brain distracted by work while the other half was circling around why I can’t get Sam Ellis out of my head. I don’t want to step away from the desk right now, but I need to. There’s still a deputy on duty inside at reception, and I’ll only be a few minutes.
I push out into the late February chill and don’t turn back when I realize I’ve forgotten my jacket. It’s a kind of punishment for being distracted and grumpy. I don’t love the thought, but I also can’t find fault in it right now.
As I walk, hunching against a brutal gust of wind, I feel my gut churn and realize I’m past hungry. It’s one thirty and I haven’t eaten since I had eggs with the girls at seven. No wonder I can’t get my head on straight.
I shift into a light jog when I’m half a block from thedeli and quickly order a sandwich while acting like I’m taking care of very important business on my phone in order to avoid small talk with the handful of people enjoying their own late lunches.
There are many positives about small-town living and I usually enjoy most of them, but the one drawback is that people don’t only think they know me, theydoknow me. In many cases, they’ve known me all my life, and therefore it's rare to escape chatting and small talk at times like these.
“Sheriff, did you hear about the vandalism on 8thStreet?” Glenda Armstrong is dabbing her mouth with a napkin as she waits for my reply.
“I know there’s a new mural going in that’s done by the JV Artist Collective. Is that what you’re referring to?”
She knows as well as I do it’s not vandalism. It’s a miracle I don’t snap at her, but at least I have enough self-control to keep it together. This is one of several drawbacks to being “the face” of the department that both Angie and Brian have cited as reasons they didn’t want the job. Angie would’ve stepped in as interim if her husband hadn’t been in the middle of chemotherapy, and I’m hoping once my term as sheriff is up, she’ll agree to run for sheriff now that things have settled down on the home front for her.
Unless she really means it when she says she doesn’t want to deal with the politics, and then I’m going to have to come to terms with that.
For now, I’m stuck with being the front man.
I feel that down to the chilled toes inside my boots.
Mrs. Armstrong only purses her lips in response, clearly unhappy with my refusal to feed the gossip mill. While most of Juniper View is open to new things, excited to support small businesses and artistic endeavors, some of our residents can dig in their heels. Apparently, a brightlycolored mural depicting the mountains and trees on the side of a brick building is a stretch for some.
“Hey, Sheriff,” Clementine McClain says as she runs my card. “It’s just eight even.”
“Thanks, Clem. Say hey to your mom and dad.”
She promises she will and I hightail it out of there, instantly ducking my face low and power-walking back to the station. Outside Dec’s office, I come upon a familiar run-down white sedan still sporting a donut for a back left tire, and the too-pretty-for-her-own-good trouble with a capitalTwoman who owns it is emerging from the office door.
“Ms. Ellis.” It feels too personal to call her Sam for reasons I can’t quite identify. At least I know her last name now.
“Sheriff.” She presses a hand to her chest. “You startled me.”
Guilt swims around in my already messed-up gut. “Sorry.” I hate that I sound like a petulant child, but I’m so far off today, and seeing her here has knocked me sideways.
