By the time Maddox calls my name, I realize I’ve been standing there staring at nothing.
“I’m heading out,” he says. “Got to check on a crew near the ridge.”
I follow him to the door. “Can I walk you out?”
He glances at me. “Sure.”
Outside, the wind has picked up. The sky’s a pale wash of gray. He looks worn down, shoulders tight, dark smudges under his eyes.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He rubs a hand over his jaw. “Still clearing debris. We’re close to done. Just… long days.”
“You should rest,” I tell him.
He huffs a small laugh. “You sound like my mother.”
“You’re my best friend,” I remind him.
“I know.” His voice softens. “And I’m fine. Promise.” He reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll come by tonight around seven. We’ll do dinner, all of us.”
I nod. “I’ll make sure Liam doesn’t burn anything.”
He smiles, that real one that’s all teeth and warmth, and then he’s gone.
When I go back inside, the café smells like cinnamon and fresh coffee again. Liam glances up from the counter, eyes flicking toward the door.
“I’m making sure he’s okay,” he says quietly, like he already knows what I’m thinking.
“Okay,” I reply.
The clock ticks toward noon. The light slants across the tables, golden and soft. Somewhere in the corner, the speaker hums with the next song.
The town outside moves on, rebuilding itself one small piece at a time, and somehow, we’re part of it now—this café, this strange new rhythm, this life that keeps changing even when you’re not ready for it.
Knox
The parking lot outside the high school is half-empty, a few cars idling along the curb. The bell hasn’t rung yet, but I can already hear the faint echo of voices and laughter carried by the wind. I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes, watching the seconds crawl by on the dashboard clock and pretending I don’t feel like an intruder.
The message thread on my phone is open on my knee.Ten minutes, promise, she’d written, followed by a skull emoji and a black heart. Clara has a thing for those lately.
She’s fifteen going on thirty, all eyeliner and oversized boots and opinions. There’s a chipped black nail polish photo somewhere in my camera roll because she’d made me take it when she first started “her new aesthetic.” I remember teasing her about looking like a vampire, and she’d called me an old man and then rolled her eyes so hard I thought they’d stay that way.
Now I glance at the reflection in my rearview mirror—my own tired face, lines deeper than they were a year ago—and try not to think about how old I suddenly feel.
When the call came from the Driftwood County office about the sheriff position, I hadn’t believed it. After fifteen years with NYPD, most of it in homicide, I figured burnout would eatme alive before I got any kind of promotion. But the second they said “coastal town,” something in me gave in. I needed to breathe again. Needed to be somewhere that didn’t smell like concrete and exhaust.
Amy had said it was “a good move” for me. That was her polite way of saying she’d rather not have me around right now. I couldn’t blame her. We married young, in that fever dream after she split from her college boyfriend. We were twenty-three, but she had a five-year-old on her hip and more determination than sense. I fell for both of them in the same heartbeat.
Just because the marriage crumbled doesn’t mean my role as a dad disappeared with it. Clara isn’t my blood, but she’s mine. I was the one running behind her bicycle the day she learned to ride, the one who built her a cardboard castle when she was six and convinced dragons were real.
My chest tightens as I spot her emerging from the building.
Black hoodie, pleated skirt, fishnet tights, boots laced to her knees. Dark lipstick that probably makes the teachers nervous. Her hair—once sun-gold—is now purple at the tips. She walks like she owns the place, head high, expression cool.
My girl.
She notices my truck and freezes for a half-second before walking toward it. She opens the passenger door and drops her bag with a dramatic sigh. “Does Mom know you’re here?”
