Prologue
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
BROOKE
I can’t believeI hit Macy Summers in the face tonight.
Well, technically, it was the volleyball I spiked over the net to give Lovers High School the win we needed against Wind Valley High, but still, it counts.
Up until her family moved to another town last semester, she was so mean to me during English that I was seriously contemplating skipping class for the first time in my life.
The ball hit hard enough that blood ran down her face.
I even heard people cheering.
Ugh. I’m not like her though, and the guilt is beginning to settle in.
I’ll probably apologize to her in the morning through an Instagram message or something, and she’ll leave my message on “delivered” and never reply.
Oh well—I’ll feel better, and that's what counts.
I blow out a sigh as I turn the corner. The high school is on one end of Main Street, and the police station is at the other.
My destination.
One I'm headed to with a fury I’ve felt too many times before. My blood is pumping, my strides are fast, and I don’t need a mirror to know there is a scowl on my face.
He missed my game. Again.
I get that having a father as the sheriff of a small town comes with cons, but this is just ridiculous. He’s missed more games this year than ever before. Sure, I don’t plan to go pro or do sports of any kind after high school, but I'm really good this year, and it would be nice if he would see it.
See me.
I jog past the last few stores of our small town and swing open the main entrance door so fast that every officer in view looks up.
“Hi, Brooke, how are you? Is everything okay?” Kimmy, who has worked at the reception desk for as long as I can remember, greets me with a smile, clearly ignoring the anger on my face.
I’m a teenage girl, for crying out loud. All of my thoughts can be read on my face.
Yet, when you’re in a room full of people who deal with other people's bullshit all day long, it seems they can look past it.
“I’m okay. Is my dad here?” I stand on my tiptoes to look around her. The entrance I came in and the rest of the department are separated by plexiglass, and if I want to get past her, she’ll have to buzz me in through the door. She’ll do that only if my dad is actually here, though.
“He’s not?—”
“I said to close your goddamn mouth, Richford. Your dad isn’t going to get you out of this one.”
My father’s voice booms behind me, and I’d flinch if it weren’t for the fact that I’ve been on the receiving end of that tone a time or two.
My dad walks through the door in his full getup of sheriff attire, and his bushy brows dip down to his nose as soon as he spots me.
“Brooke, go home.”
“You missed my game again, Dad.” I cross my arms and glare at him.
He shakes his head and looks at the boy in front of him. “Blame this kid. Game night seems to be the night he loves to get in trouble.”
My gaze falls to the shaggy head of hair in front of him, blood running down the kid’s face and what is clearly evidence of a bruise forming under his eye. It doesn't take away from the way they shine bright green, though. His shirt is ripped, revealing a set of solid abs I can only describe as those belonging to a boy who used to be the high school's star athlete.
