"File it," I say immediately. "Today if you can. I'm done running."
"Are you sure? Because once we file, there's no going back."
"I'm sure." And I am.
His voice goes gentle. "You're going to need support. Character witnesses, people willing to testify that you're stable and capable."
Gabriel's face flashes in my mind. The way he looked at me this morning like I was something precious he was afraid to break. Then Colt, fierce and possessive, growling promises against my lips. And Beau, quiet and steady, asking if I'd be here when he got back like he couldn't bear the thought of losing me.
"I might have people," I whisper.
"Good. Because your uncle won't go down without a fight. You'll need all the allies you canget."
We spend the next twenty minutes coordinating legal strategies and secure communication plans. By the time I hang up, my head is spinning with logistics and possibilities and the terrifying reality that this is actually happening.
I'm fighting back. Today. Finally.
The drive back to Briarhaven gives me time to think, and the thoughts come fast and chaotic.
Gabriel investigated me but chose protection over duty. That has to mean something.
Maybe they'll understand. Maybe they'll fight for me the way I'm finally ready to fight for myself.
I'm done running.
36
Gabriel
The Briarhaven Sheriff's Department runs on coffee, routine, and the kind of peaceful monotony most folks take for granted.
Radio chatter about lost cattle, maybe a domestic dispute over at the Miller place, occasionally Mrs. Henderson calling about her damn cat stuck in that old cottonwood again.
The kind of problems you can solve with common sense and a firm handshake.
It's the life I chose when I left the chaos of active duty behind. Predictable. Manageable. Safe.
But when I push through the glass doors expecting nothing more challenging than updating incident reports and reviewing patrol schedules, I find three strangers sitting in my waiting area like vultures on a fence post.
Every instinct I've honed over years of military service and law enforcement starts screaming. Wrong. Everything about this scene feels fundamentally wrong.
Two men in suits that probably cost more than most ranchers in Briarhaven see in a good season. One woman in medical scrubs so pristine they could've come straight from a catalog.
They look like they belong in some Manhattan boardroom or high-end medical facility, not in my small-town station with its scuffed linoleum floors, faded wanted posters, and the perpetual smell of burnt coffee.
The older man rises as I approach, extending a manicured hand that's never seen a day of honest work. Everything about him screams money and power. The kind that doesn't ask for favors, it expects compliance.
"Sheriff Maddox?" His voice carries the smooth authority of someone used to being obeyed. "I'm Richard Kensington. This is Dr. Harrison from Rosewood Behavioral Institute, and Nurse Patricia Wells."
Rosewood.
The name hits me like a physical blow, cold recognition flooding my system. I know that name.
It was in Mathew Carter's file, connected to Lucy's van registration, buried in the research I did weeks ago when I was trying to understand who she really was.
"What can I do for you folks?" I keep my voice professional, measured, despite every alarm bell in my head screaming at DEFCON 1 levels.
"We're here about Lucinda," Richard says, and something in my chest loosens fractionally.
