Page 27

As much as I love my job, I would sell my soul for five God damn minutes without chaos. But no—this town runs on batshit energy. One minute it’s grandpas gone wild at the retirement home, the next I’m chasing a God damn goat down Main Street in full uniform. Then just yesterday, my sweet baby brother—my favorite liability—called in to report an active “break in” at his shop.

Turns out it was just Maddox. Chasing him. Through his own damn garage.

Because, and I quote, “he asked my fucking wife if her breast milk would be as sweet as her and if he could drink it straight from the source.”

I walked in to find Mercy dangling mid-air from an empty car lift like a pissed-off raccoon, flailing and cussing. Maddox was below, pacing like a bull that just spotted red, murder in his eyes.

They were going at it—louder than a bar fight on payday, and just as messy. After about three minutes of listening to them scream over each other, I pulled out my phone and called Mama to come deal with her children.

I swear, I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried.

Mercy loves giving us all hell—but Maddox catches the worst of it, always has. He’s been that way since we were kids. The loud one. The shiny one. Quick with a grin, quicker with a jab. Could charm the teeth off a snake if he wants to. And after damn near getting his head blown off on his last tour, watching him back to his usual pain-in-the-ass self? Feels good. Familiar. Like something in the world has clicked back into place.

“If it’s Merc, tell him to call Mama,” I mutter without looking up, scratching my signature on the last of the paperwork.

Cece doesn’t answer right away—just plops her ass down on the corner of my desk, right on top of the papers I am still working on, like she owns the place. Like she hasn’t just crumpled a warrant request with her denim-clad thigh.

“Not your goofy little brother this time,” she says, flipping her hair like this is just another Tuesday. “Got a call from a surveyor out near Bunky’s. Says he found a makeshift campsite out by the old paper mill on the south side.”

I glance up, brows pinching. “A surveyor?”

Cece glances down at her hot pink nails, that easy smile tugging at the corner of her mouth like this is just another gossip drop. “Guess after everything that happened, the family finally decided to sell off that ratty-ass campsite. Truth be told, they should’ve done it years ago. Never was worth a damn to begin with.”

The silence stretches between us, thick as humidity in July.

We both know.

Nobody’s been out to Bunky’s since Evie and Allison were taken. That place went cold after—too quiet, like even the trees held their breath. Johnson and I started patrolling out there twice a week just to be sure. And the junkies that used to hole up in those busted-out trailers? Scattered like roaches when the lights came on.

We haven’t seen a soul.

Doesn’t mean there isn’t one.

I flash Cece a grin, wide and full of teeth, trying to shake the weight off. “Oh, come on now. You know damn well you were out there doing the same wild shit as the rest of us.”

She barks a laugh and shoots me a look, all spark and attitude. “Please. I started that wild shit. Don’t get it twisted.”

“I don’t doubt it for a damn second,” I say, shaking my head, chuckling low.

Cece winks, then slides off my desk and heads for the door like she’s done stirring the pot for the evening. “You want Johnson to ride with you?”

“Nah.” I wave her off, standing to grab my keys. “It’s probably nothing.”

She pauses at the doorway, that familiar glint back in her eye. “You want me to call up to Bangers? Let Lou know you won’t be there to sit and stare at her like she’s a prized pig at the county fair?”

I shoot her a look. “You know not everything that happens in Thunder Ridge is your business, right?”

Cece’s laugh echoes through the station as she walks off, heels clacking down the hallway.

Leaving me alone with the silence, and the creeping thought—what if it isn’t nothing?

The drive out to Bunky’s is short, but it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I glance at the old paper mill and then at the streetlamp where Evie had damn near bled out after her ex-husband sunk his blade in her.

It’s not a night we speak about, but as I roll down the gravel road toward the campsite, it all comes rushing back. Finding Allison. Searching every inch of that paper mill, leaving no stone unturned as I hunted for Evie. Then Maddox stepping out of the dark, carrying Evie in his arms—her body limp, soaked in blood. His shirt red, his face white. The kind of look that never leaves you.

But what gutted me the most was that fucking drive to the hospital. Seeing my brother, who had already lost everything he’d ever loved, begging Evie not to die—pleading with death to leave her be as if death ever gave a damn.

“Because I need someone to call me on my shit. Right, Henny?”