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Chapter 1

Forty-Seven Introductions

Maple Lane Cafe was on the corner of Maple Lane and Moss Street, and it was, by Keith’s count, the forty-seventh place he’d been introduced to today.

He’d lost track of names somewhere around the grain store on Birchwood. There had been a Doug and a Dennis in quick succession, and then a woman named Pat or Pam who’d squeezed his hand in both of hers and told him he had a trustworthy face. He’d thanked her. He’d been thanking people all day, the same practiced warmth each time—an elected sheriff needed to be well-liked, and his chief deputy was a reasonable place to start building that goodwill. He understood this. He was committed to it.

Les had called it low-key, a warm-up, no uniforms, no pressure—just a friendly pass through town before the official first day tomorrow. Still, Keith was exhausted in a way that went down to the bone.

“You’re going to love this place,” Les said, holding the door. Sheriff Les Burton was a man in his fifties, genuinely friendly and—Keith had no doubt—steel-willed when it counted.

Keith stepped inside and immediately catalogued: exposed brick, low lighting, booths lined in orange vinyl, a small stage along the far wall where a woman in her thirties was setting up a guitar. The decorations hit him next—strings of orange lights looped across the ceiling, miniature pumpkins crowding the windowsills, and cobwebs. Cobwebs everywhere. Draped across the booths, stretched between the salt and pepper shakers, festooned along the bar in thick artificial loops. Maple Lane Falls took its fall aesthetic seriously.

He slid into the nearest booth.

The cobweb caught his sleeve immediately.

He looked down at it—a fat synthetic strand looped around his cuff button—and the composure he’d maintained all afternoon snapped. He pulled it free with more force than strictly necessary.

“Easy,” Tate said, lowering himself into the seat across from him, careful the way tall men get careful in small spaces. Tate Mercer was Keith’s deputy, somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties, sharp-eyed and built like a tree—with another foot on Keith’s five-eleven and, so far, a reassuring economy with words. “Those are decorations.”

“I’m aware.”

“Just checking.”

Les flagged down the waitress, a young woman with a high ponytail and a smile that seemed to be her natural resting expression. She moved through the crowded room without bumping into a single person, setting down drinks at the next table without looking, her eyes already on theirs.

“Evening, Sheriff. You’re bringing a new face?” Her smile widened fractionally. “I’m Lina. What can I get you?”

Les ordered beer for the table. Keith caught Lina’s eye. “Ginger ale for me, if you don’t mind.”

“It’s Friday night,” Les said, after she’d gone. “We’re not even officially on duty.”

“Ginger ale works better for me.”

Lina came back with two beers and a ginger ale, no tray, all three glasses steady in her hands. Keith watched her work her way back to the bar, navigating the Friday night crowd—couples, a few groups of older men, a family celebrating at the big round table in the back—and thought about the boxes still stacked in his apartment. Unpacked. Waiting.

“Relax,” Les said. He studied Keith, unhurried—thirty years of watching people did that to a man. “Nobody’s going to quiz you.”

“I’m relaxed.”

Tate snorted.

Les tilted his beer toward the window. “Speaking of people worth knowing.” His voice had shifted—still quiet, still conversational, but with a different quality underneath it. Professional. “Far booth. Bobby Marsh and Ralph Cutler.”

Keith found them without making it obvious. Two men in their forties, Bobby big and loose-limbed, Ralph smaller and tightly wound, both of them way beyond their first beer by the look of it. Bobby was telling some kind of story with his whole body. Ralph was laughing too loud.

“Regular guests at the office?” Keith said.

“When the mood takes them. Ralph’s on parole—theft, twice. Bobby just gets loud. They compensate for a limited social skill set with enthusiasm.” Les picked up his beer. “Good to know their faces.”

Keith nodded. He’d already noted the exits, the sightlines, the three people seated alone, and the couple near the stage who’d been fighting quietly for the last ten minutes. Habit did it before thought could.

The woman on stage drew his attention. She’d started a sound check, a few quiet fingerpicked notes, adjusting the mic. Mid-thirties, her hair pulled back, completely unbothered by the crowd noise. She played a bar of a song he didn’t recognize and stopped to tune again.

Tate tilted his chin toward the window. “Harry Watson.”

Keith looked. A man in his fifties, alone at a two-top by the window, nursing a beer and watching the street. Nothing about him stood out. Regular clothes, regular build, the kind of face you’d look at and then stop looking at.