“That’s all I needed to hear.”
We go over logistics—the temporary badge authority, housing, and the timeline for setting up an official office. When he asks when my things will arrive, I tell him tomorrow afternoon.
“I’ll drive you to the place,” Jake says, grabbing his keys. “It’s right by the water. You’ll like it.”
Outside, the wind has picked up. The mayor’s truck is a battered blue Ford that probably predates my divorce. We follow a road that winds along the coastline, black ash still clinging to the cliffs in streaks. It’s quiet except for the tires crunching over gravel.
When the ocean comes into full view, I understand why people rebuild. The horizon stretches wide, the water dark and restless, the sky fading to amber. Jake slows as we approach a row of newly built cottages.
At least these look just like they did in the pictures he shared.
“That one’s yours,” he says, pointing to a two-story place with pale siding and a porch that faces the beach. “We fixed it up last month.”
I climb out, boots sinking into the soft sand. From here, I can see the lighthouse in the distance, its tower still intact though scorched near the base.
“Rowan Thorne owns that,” Jake says, following my gaze. “He’s one of my pack mates. Keeps the light running even when the power’s out. You’ll meet him soon enough.”
The house smells of fresh paint and sea air. Two bedrooms just like I had requested, open kitchen, wide windows that face the surf. It’s simple, but clean. Home in the making.
Jake leans against the doorframe. “You should rest up. Tomorrow morning, at nine sharp, we’ll go by the station, introduce you to the crew, and swing past the firehouse. They’re good people.”
“Sounds great.”
He claps me on the shoulder. “Welcome to Driftwood Cove, Sheriff. We’re damn glad to have you.”
When he leaves, the silence settles. I set my duffel on the bed, peel off my jacket, and step into the bathroom. The shower sputters before giving in, hot water steaming against my skin. For the first time in weeks, I let myself breathe. The tile still smells new, the mirror fogged over. When I finally shut the water off, it’s past nine.
Outside, the sky has gone dark, and I can hear the surf hitting the shore beyond the dunes. I towel off, throw on jeans and a clean shirt, and glance at my watch. 9:17 p.m.
Too early to sleep, too late to unpack. My mind’s wired, the kind of restless that no shower can fix. I grab my keys again.
The drive into town is short. Most streets are deserted except for a few trucks outside what looks like a new bar tucked near the cliffs. A neon sign above the door readsBar 2.0in bright red letters. The building itself looks recently built, wood panels still raw, windows glowing warm against the cold night.
Inside, the air is thick with fried food and laughter. A pool table sits in the corner, a dartboard on the far wall. The music’s low enough to talk over, and the place smells like beer and fresh paint.
The bartender—broad shoulders, beard, tattoos curling up his arms—nods when I sit down. “What’ll it be?”
“Burger and a beer.”
“Coming right up.”
I scan the crowd while I wait. A group of men in construction vests trade jokes at the end of the bar. Two women play darts near the jukebox. A few younger faces—locals who probably haven’t seen a new person in months.
When my beer arrives, I take it and wander toward the dartboard, the burger order slip still tucked behind the counter. Playing gives me something to do besides think.
The first dart hits off-center. The second finds its mark. I adjust my stance, focus on the board, the quiet satisfaction of hitting close.
“You’re new,” a voice says behind me.
I turn. The waitress stands there—dark hair in a braid, freckles scattered across her nose. She holds my burger plate in one hand and another beer in the other.
“Just got in today,” I tell her.
She sets the plate down on the high-top table beside me. “Then welcome to Driftwood, stranger.”
I smile. “Nice place. This new?”
“Bar 2.0?” She grins. “Main one used to be off Harbor Drive. We lost it in the fire. This is the reboot.”
