~ Jean-Paul Sartre
“Heading out to the boondocks?” Dustin shouts across the parking lot.
He’s still got a smile on his face, even after a twenty-four hour shift.
“Home,” I say.
“To your Lincoln Log man cave!” Dustin shouts, laughing.
“Home,” I say again. “See you in two days.”
“You’ll miss me, Grey. Admit it!” he hollers, opening his car door and sliding into the driver’s seat.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Like a toothache.”
He’s already rolling out of the parking lot, probably on his way to see Emberleigh.
I glance the other direction. Hallie’s climbing into her minivan.
Why would a single woman drive a family vehicle? She seems like more of a Miata type—something trendy and fun, but still practical.
Not my business.
I climb into my Jeep and turn the key, waiting for Hallie to drive out behind me before I back up.
Most mornings after I’ve worked a full shift, I come home and grab a few hours of sleep. But days like today, when our shift was quiet and I slept at the station, I come home and slip right into my routine.
My thoughts race faster than usual as I navigate the streets leading me through downtown and finally onto the rural roads leading to my neighborhood. My muscles feel twitchy. I can’t comfortably sit still. It’s not like me to be so keyed up. I breathe in four counts, using the tactical breathing I learned in the army. Hold for four. Breathe out slowly through my mouth for four. In firefighting, we call it box breathing. It’s one tool used to help us face unsettling circumstances with a wall of calm.
I run through another box breath. My exhale comes out shakier than I’d like.
Working so close to Hallie has gotten under my skin.
I haven’t decided if I should bring up Germany. If I do, I don’t know how I’d broach the subject.
Hey, Hallie, remember the soldier you met nine years ago? That’s me. I’m Ace.
Nope. Absolutely not. I’m not Ace—not anymore. And besides, she’s got too much on her plate trying to adjust to her new role at the station. I don’t need to add a trip down memory lane to her pile of concerns. What would be the point? The past is in the past. All of it.
I stop by my house for a shower and a cup of coffee. I live outside town, the opposite direction of Cody’s family’s ranch.Out here the land’s more hilly and properties are tucked away and private.
I turn down the road lined by five private, wooded lots—each one on three to ten acres. My two-story lodge home is definitely more house than I need, but I couldn’t find anything smaller that allowed me to live out here, secluded and undisturbed the way I like it.
Dustin’s not wrong. My house comes into view as soon as I turn onto the driveway. The reddish-brown exterior with dark-green shutters does give it the appearance of a rustic cabin built from those iconic childhood construction materials.
I shower, make coffee, and step out onto my wraparound porch, mug in hand. My eyes lazily rove across the copse of trees in the front yard. A deer and her older fawn stop and stare back. Normally, I’d sit here for a while, decompressing from a shift at work, but the antsy feeling hasn’t left me, even after a hot shower followed by an intentional minute-long shock of ice-cold tap water.
I chug the rest of my coffee, set my mug inside and head back out. I haven’t been by the Kinkaids’ this week. I’m due for a visit.
The drive from my house to Zach’s family’s home takes less than ten minutes. I park out front and walk the same walkway I’ve come up since I was a boy. Zach was my best friend growing up. His family’s house was my second home.
I knock on the door and Mrs. Kinkaid, Zach’s mom, answers.
“Greyson!” Her tone is warm and welcoming as always, but the ghosts of the past live behind her smile—in the wrinkles around her eyes and the way her grin falters for the briefest moment before it widens again.
“How are you?” I ask the same question every time I come here.
“Good. Good. Come in. I just pulled a cinnamon loaf out of the oven. If the boys haven’t devoured it, I’ll serve you a slice. Have you eaten?”
