I scan the court order with the critical eye of someone who's seen plenty of legal documents in my career. The official language, the judge's signature, the notarized seal, everything appears legitimate down to the embossed letterhead and case numbers.
My hands shake slightly as I set the document down. "She told me her mother died when she was seventeen," I say, grasping for some anchor in the storm of revelation. "At least that part was true."
"Lucinda weaves truth into her fabrications," Dr. Harrison explains. "It makes her stories more believable, more sympathetic. She becomes whatever she thinks people want her to be. The perfect girlfriend, the ideal employee, the wounded bird who needs saving."
The wounded bird who needs saving.
The description hits too close to home, making me think of how protective I felt the first time I saw her, how every instinct screamed to shield her from whatever had put that haunted look in her eyes.
Had I been played from the very beginning?
"She needs help, Sheriff," Dr. Harrison continues, his voice carrying the weight of professional authority. "Professional help that we can provide at Rosewood. She's been off her medications for over two years. The longer she goes without treatment, the more dangerous she becomes. To herself and to others."
Dangerous.The word echoes in my head like a ricocheting bullet.
"Where is she now?" Richard asks, his tone carefully modulated but with an undercurrent of urgency that makes my law enforcement instincts twitch. "We'd very much like to speak with her, help her understand that we're here because we care for her."
Every fiber of my being screams not to answer that question. But these people have legal documents, medical authority, what appears to be legitimate concern for someone who might be genuinely ill and in need of help.
And I'm a sheriff. I took an oath to uphold the law, even when it feels like it's ripping my heart out through my throat.
"She's at my house," I say, and the words taste like betrayal.
"Perhaps we could all go there together?" Dr. Harrison suggests with the smooth efficiency of someone who's done this before. "It might be easier for her if you're there to help facilitate the conversation. Familiar faces can be comforting during a crisis."
The word 'crisis' hangs in the air like gunpowder smoke.
"I need to make a call first," I tell them, stepping into the break room and closing the door behind me.
My hands shake as I dial Colt's number. He picks up on the second ring, his voice rough with whatever he's been dealing with at the Morrison ranch.
"Miss me already?...."
"I need you to meet me at my house," I say without preamble. "Now."
There's a pause, then his voice sharpens with concern. "What's wrong?"
"Can't explain over the phone. Just... trust me. Drop whatever you're doing and get there."
"On my way."
Beau's phone rings four times before he picks up, and I can hear ranch equipment in the background.
"Gabriel? Everything alright?"
"I need you at my house. Emergency."
The equipment noise cuts off immediately. "Lucy?"
The concern in his voice, the immediate assumption that this is about her, makes something twist in my chest. "Just get there, Beau. I'll explain when you arrive."
"Ten minutes," he says, and the line goes dead.
Whatever's happening, whatever these people want, we'll face it together.
The drive to my house stretches like the longest twenty minutes of my life. Richard, Dr. Harrison, and Nurse Wells follow in their black SUV with tinted windows that reflect nothing but Montana sky.
Every few seconds, I catch glimpses of them in my rearview mirror, and each time my hands tighten on the steering wheel until my knuckles go white.
