“I’ll miss you,” she says.
“I’ll miss you more.”
“Text me when you get there?”
“Already planning on it.”
She smiles, then slips out of the truck, boots thudding against the pavement. I watch her disappear through the door, the hem of her skirt swaying, her purple hair catching the light.
My chest aches as I start the engine again. I’ve seen things most people can’t imagine—crime scenes that haunt the inside of your eyelids, faces you never forget—but nothing in this world hits harder than watching your kid grow up and realizing you can’t protect them from everything.
The drive is quiet. My duffel’s already packed, badge and sidearm cleaned and ready. The road ahead stretches all the way to Driftwood, to a second chance I’m not sure I deserve but damn sure need.
The drive takes longer than I expected. Six hours of cracked highways, thinning trees, and long stretches of coastline where the world feels like it’s holding its breath. The city disappears behind me one billboard at a time, glass and noise replaced by quiet and fields browned by salt wind.
When I pull off the interstate toward Driftwood, my phone loses signal and the radio fades into static. I roll down the window, let the cold ocean air push through the cab. The truck smells like the burgers and the faint trace of her shampoo on the hoodie she left behind last week.
My throat tightens. She’s still my kid. Always.
The map app insists I’m five minutes out when the first signs of what happened come into view. Blackened tree trunks line the ridges, sharp and skeletal. Houses along the main road are nothing but concrete foundations and twisted metal fences. Even from the truck, the smell of burnt wood lingers, sour beneath the salt air.
When I’d researched Driftwood, the reports said “a major wildfire almost two months ago.” But words on a screen don’t show what it looks like when a town loses its shape.
The mayor’s office sits on the edge of Main Street, one of the few buildings with new paint and a functioning roof. A handmade sign still leans against the front steps:Thank You Firefighters. I kill the engine, stretch my legs, and walk inside.
The reception area smells like lemon cleaner and fresh paper. The woman at the desk looks new—mid-twenties, neat ponytail, typing like she’s afraid of making a mistake.
She glances up. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Knox Hill. Sheriff.” The word still sounds foreign in my mouth.
“Oh! Right, Mr. Hill. Mayor Marshall’s expecting you.”
The office door opens before she finishes, and out steps a man who looks younger than I expected for a mayor—sandy-blond hair, rolled-up sleeves, that easy kind of confidence small-town politicians are born with.
“Sheriff Hill,” he says, offering a hand. “Jake Marshall. Welcome to Driftwood.”
His grip is firm, but his smile carries the weight of too many long nights.
“I wasn’t sure the GPS was working,” I tell him. “Place feels like it’s off the map.”
Jake huffs out a breath, motioning me inside. “You’re not wrong. Half the town’s still trying to get power back. We’ve been running on backup generators in the civic center since the fire.”
He gestures toward a pair of mismatched chairs across his desk. The room smells faintly of smoke beneath the new paint.
“I appreciate you coming,” he says. “We’ve never had a proper sheriff’s department here. Just a small local force and a few volunteers. The county’s been handling bigger cases, but since the fire… we need more structure.”
I lower into the chair. “I’ve read the reports. You lost thirty percent of residential housing and most of your commercial district.”
Jake nods slowly. “And three good men in the volunteer brigade.”
Silence lingers. I glance at the framed photo on his desk—him with a gorgeous woman and two other men, all grinning in front of the old Driftwood Pier before it burned down.
“So why me?” I ask finally. “There had to be other names on the list.”
“You came recommended,” Jake says. “I called one of your old captains at the NYPD. He said you’re tough but fair. And that you could use a change of scenery.”
“Guess he’s not wrong.” I rub my jaw. “I’m not gonna lie to you, Marshall. I’ve been running on fumes for a while. Divorce hit hard. City work hit harder. But I don’t half-ass what I start.”
