Page 7
Chapter Two
BANANA HAMMOCK ANYBODY?
HENRY
“Got damn!” I hiss as hot coffee splashes down my arm and sears through the fabric of my shirt onto my stomach. My keys hit the pavement with a metallic clatter, and right on cue, the door to the sheriff’s office swings open like the universe timed it perfectly just to humble me.
Cece stands there, framed in the doorway like a damn sitcom entrance. She’s been a permanent fixture in this place for as long as I can remember—sharp as a tack, quicker than a whip, and absolutely nobody’s fool. If something came through this station, you could bet your ass Cece had already heard about it, filtered it through a cigarette break and a phone call, and filed it under “Handled.”
She’s the one who tracked Trent’s car through a string of traffic cams the night he ran off with Evie and Allison. Without her? I don’t even like to imagine where that would’ve ended.
She’s got that whole Peggy Bundy vibe going strong today—big red hair teased to heaven, enough perfume to make your eyes water, tight jeans, hot pink claws clicking against her phone case, and a leopard print blouse that practically announces her arrival before she does. Cece doesn’t walk—she struts, chews gum like it owes her money, and has more ex-husbands than most people have houseplants.
“Door was open, Sheriff,” she says, smacking her gum as she steps inside.
“Could’ve fooled me. Lights were off,” I grumble, wiping at my shirt and checking the skin under it, already starting to go red. “Do I have any clean shirts?”
“Yep,” she says without missing a beat. “Hangin’ on the back of your bathroom door. Pressed and smellin’ like that expensive detergent I like. You’re welcome.”
I mutter a thanks and shake out my hand, eyeing her over my shoulder as she drops into her chair like she owns the building.
She probably does.
I head into the small bathroom attached to my office—though calling it a “bathroom” might be generous. The whole station is stuck somewhere between retro charm and a fire hazard. Built in the late fifties, patched up in the eighties, and barely touched since, it’s got all the ambiance of a low-budget sitcom set: cracked linoleum floors, avocado-green tiles, and flickering fluorescent lights that hum like they’re trying to whisper gossip from decades past.
I tug the door shut behind me and spot the shirt exactly where Cece said it’d be—hanging neatly on the back of the door, smelling faintly of lavender and sass. I strip off the coffee-soaked one with a grimace, hissing as the fabric brushes over the burn on my stomach.
Then I catch my reflection.
I pause, eyes locking on the man staring back at me. Hair a little too long at the edges, jaw clenched a little too tight, and a faint crease between my brows that never really goes away anymore. The mustache—thicker than it probably needs to be and absolutely hated by my mama—sits smug on my upper lip. I run a hand over my face and let out a slow breath, thinking about yesterday.
The baby shower.
I can still see Maddox standing there, frozen in the middle of that fairy light-lit backyard, pink confetti drifting around him like snow. That look on his face when he realized he was having a daughter—again. That mix of fear, hope, and grief that cracked something open in him for all of us to see. It damn near undid me. Mama biting her fist, Mercy wiping at his eyes like it wasn’t happening, and Evie…Lord, Evie holding him like he was the only thing that mattered.
It wasn’t just a party. It was a resurrection.
I shake my head and pull on a clean shirt, buttoning it up slowly. No matter how many cases I close or fires I put out in this town, it’s the quiet, gut-punch moments that linger—the ones that remind me just how hard and beautiful it is to keep moving forward, even with ghosts clinging to your shoulders. But something in me has shifted. I am done carrying the weight of what-ifs, done standing by and hoping the universe will hand me the life I want. I’ve spent ten years waiting for a miracle, for some hail mary to make it all fall into place. But lately, I’ve come to understand the universe doesn’t give you a damn thing—you’ve got to go out and take it.
And I’m going to fucking do just that.
Wildflower better get ready because I am coming for her, and this time I’m not walking away.
I quickly button my shirt, the fabric pulling a little too tight across my chest as I hurry to get myself together. There’s no time to second-guess my appearance, no time to smooth over the chaos in my mind. But Cece’s desk? That’s my last stop before the real mess begins.
I already know what she’s done—hell, she’s probably read through every damn message, every piece of mail I’ve received, from the local complaints to the bullshit updates I’ve ignored. But that doesn’t stop me from propping myself up on her desk, trying to give the impression of someone in control when, in reality, I’m barely holding it together.
She doesn’t look up immediately, her fingers still dancing across her keyboard, clicking away as if I’m just another distraction, but I know she’s aware. She’s always aware. Cece’s sharp like that. She knows what I need before I do, and right now? I need her to tell me what the hell is going on, even though I already have a damn good idea.
“Cece,” I say, my voice rougher than I mean it to be, but she doesn’t flinch.
Finally, she looks up, her expression neutral, like she’s been waiting for me to get it together long enough to make my move.
“You’ve read everything, haven’t you?” I ask, though it’s more of a statement than a question. She doesn’t need to answer. I can already see it in her eyes.
She nods, leaning back in her chair, arms crossed, her gaze never leaving mine.
"Give me the rundown," I mutter, though I already know. I know that I’m behind on a hundred different things, paperwork has been rough fucking me like a cucumber passed around a women’s prison, and that the only thing keeping this ship afloat is Cece’s relentless ability to keep the chaos at bay.
