I shake my head, trying to dislodge the images, the sounds, the smell of it all. I’m back in my quiet office, the only sound the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. But the memory clings to me like smoke.
This is a small town, not a concrete jungle of eight million people. Everyone knows everyone. They look out for each other. They brought casseroles to the firehouse. They volunteered for cleanup crews. They’re a community.
They wouldn’t do that. They wouldn’t tear their own town apart over a shortage of medication. They wouldn’t riot in the streets.
Right?
I stare at the map, at the neat, ordered grid of streets and houses. But now, all I can see is the potential for everything to go wrong. The veneer of civilization is thinner than people think. It’s a fragile, delicate thing, held together by the belief that the lights will stay on, that the shelves will be stocked, that help will come when you call for it. Take away one of those pillars, and the whole structure can come crashing down.
I know what fear can do to people. I’ve seen it up close. I’ve seen the rage and the panic. And I know, with a certainty that chills me to the bone, that Driftwood Cove is not immune. They’re just people. And when people get scared enough, they’re capable of anything.
My job isn’t just to find a shipment of suppressants. It’s to stop this town from becoming another ghost in my memory. It’s to stop the rampage before it even begins.
Liam
The key turns in the lock with a sound that’s both familiar and foreign. It’s my key, the one I’ve used a hundred times, but as I push the door open to Millie’s apartment, it feels like I’m trespassing.
The air inside is warm, scented with Millie’s vanilla lotion, and mixed with the low, electric hum of a television. And then I hear it. Her laugh, followed by Maddox’s low chuckle. A tight knot forms in my stomach. I’m not ready for this. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready for this.
I step inside, and the first thing to greet me is a flash of gray fur. Nimbus winds around my ankle. He purrs loudly.
I bend down to scratch his head, his warmth a small, welcome comfort.
“Hey, buddy,” I murmur.
Millie looks up from the couch, her eyes widening slightly. She’s sitting cross-legged, a controller in her hands, her hair a messy halo around her face. Maddox is beside her, leaning forward, his own controller in hand, his attention fixed on the screen where some kind of cartoonish battle is taking place. He glances at me.
“Liam,” Millie says, her voice soft. “Hey. We didn’t think you’d be back until later.”
“The Cocoa Nook was slow,” I say, holding up the cardboard tray in my hands. It feels like a flimsy peace offering. “Brought you guys hot chocolates. And some of the day-old pastries Mom was going to toss.”
Maddox sets his controller down. “You’re a lifesaver, man.” He stands up, stretching, and the movement is a little too casual, a little too practiced. He’s giving me an out. He’s givingusspace.
“Yeah, well, someone’s got to keep you two fueled,” I say, trying for a light tone that doesn’t quite land. I set the tray on the coffee table, the clink of the cups loud in the quiet room.
“I should get going,” Maddox says, grabbing his jacket from the back of a chair. “I’m picking up the evening shift at the station.”
Millie’s face falls, just a fraction. “Oh. Okay.”
He walks over to her, and I watch as he leans down and presses a soft kiss to her cheek. It’s a simple gesture, one I’ve seen a hundred times, but now it feels loaded. It feels like something more.
“Be careful,” she tells him, her voice quiet.
“Mills,” he says, a world of unspoken meaning in that one word.
“I just worry,” she whispers back.
I stand there, feeling like a third wheel in my own life. I watch them, this easy intimacy they’ve fallen into, and a bitter taste fills my mouth.
Maddox turns to me, his expression neutral. “See you later, Liam.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Later.”
The door clicks shut behind him, and the silence that descends is heavy, thick with everything that’s been left unsaid. Millie is still on the couch. She doesn’t look at me.
I walk over and sit on the armchair opposite her, the distance feeling like a chasm. “What was that?” I ask, and it comes out rougher than I intended.
“Nothing,” she says. “He’s just… been taking care of me. I worry.”
