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She scoffed and jumped out. “Gentleman, my ass,” she mumbled under her breath, and I chose to let the comment go. There was no need to get into a fight before our meeting. Plus, I couldn’t exactly disagree with her. Before River, "gentleman" was the opposite of who I was. There was no denying I got around, and I wouldn’t try and pretend like I hadn’t. I also wasn’t ashamed of the majority of my actions. I was, however, a bit ashamed that I couldn’t name every person I had slept with, let alone remember everyone I had ever kissed. But River made me turn over a new leaf.

We walked into the police station together and were met with a wary-looking receptionist, her mood matching the dreary weather outside. Her white hair was pinned back expertly, and a set of glasses perched precariously on her nose. I was worried the slightest breeze would send them falling.

“Can I help you?” Her voice matched the box of cigarettes that sat on the cherry colored desk.

Goldie didn’t let the woman’s clipped tone stop her from diving right in. “We’re hoping we could speak with your sheriff. We’re local journalists and we have some questions regarding the town’s fall festival.”

I looked at Goldie in confusion but didn’t correct her. I wasn’t sure of her angle, but I trusted she didn’t bring up the notes for a reason.

The receptionist eyed us for a moment more. She looked us both up and down, and I couldn’t help but wonder why she was so suspicious—why the whole town seemed to be suspicious of us. After a moment, she stood with a nod. “Follow me.”

We listened and followed her lead through the bullpen. There were only three desks in the small room, all empty at the moment. The LED lights flickered slightly, casting an eerie atmosphere around us. The scent of burnt coffee and popcorn wafted around us as we walked, and the linoleum floors squeaked with each step.

The receptionist led us to the back of the room, where a makeshift conference room waited. Goldie and I snuck past her as she slightly blocked the doorframe, making it difficult to squeeze through, and once we were both in, she shut the door quickly behind us.

“That was weird,” I muttered and turned to Goldie, who was already wandering around the room. “Why didn’t you mention the notes?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “From what I can tell, the notes have been happening for years, decades even, and there is one single public mention of them. I have a feeling this town likes to keep them private.”

“Smart,” I mused and perused the room with Goldie. It was small, with a round table in the center surrounded by only five chairs. The wall facing the bullpen had three windows evenly spaced, allowing us to see the receptionist make her way back to her desk. The opposite wall had two small windows facing the trees behind the building, providing a small sneak peek of a few houses as well. Goldie was transfixed on what looked to be personnel photos. There were headshots hanging on the wall with small plaques underneath. I couldn’t make out the words, but they seemed to be names.

I stepped closer, standing next to her side. The scent of cherries and vanilla filled my nose, and I had a concerning need to know if it was her perfume or shampoo. I forced myself to focus on the photos. I was right; they were personnel photos. Most were simple: a headshot and their name. All were dressed in uniform with serious expressions. But there was one with an intricate plaque, and it was the only one where the man was smiling.

Deputy Sheriff Dakota Taylor

His plaque listed a series of accomplishments and ended with a simple phrase: Lost protecting those most important to him.

I glanced at the other wall and found a rolling chalkboard that was slightly off-center, giving me a peek at another board—this one hung on the wall. I turned, my curiosity piqued, and tried to ignore the way the soles of my shoes stuck to the floor. I pushed the rolling chalkboard aside and revealed what seemed to be an active investigation. “Shit.”

“What?” Goldie asked and turned, coming to my side. “Oh…” Her voice trailed off.

It was definitely information we weren’t supposed to be seeing. It was covered in pictures, scribbled notes, and printed police reports. I stepped closer to get a better understanding of what we were seeing when the door to the conference room opened, a tired-looking man stepping in. His salt-and-pepper hair was gelled back to perfection, but his entire demeanor held a weary touch. His broad shoulders slumped forward, wrinkles evident in his nice suit, and his dark eyes stormy with apprehension. He looked to be in his late forties or early fifties, but was well built based on the way his shoulders pulled at his jacket.

“Good after—” His voice stopped when he saw us and what we were looking at. “I see you’ve found our wall.”

Goldie jumped and turned to the new voice. “Is this an active investigation?”

The man nodded before gesturing to the seats around the conference table. Goldie and I listened, taking seats next to each other while the man rolled the chalkboard back to once again obscure our view.

“It’s somehow both a cold and active investigation,” he sighed wearily and turned to us and took an empty seat on the opposite side of the table. “Amy, our receptionist, let me know you were here to see the sheriff. He’s currently busy with the fall festival, so you’re stuck with me.”

The man stretched out his hand to me first. “Detective Ransom.”

I glanced at Goldie but took his hand, shaking it briefly. “Lexington Bosede. This is my boss.”

Goldie smirked slightly at the title and outstretched her hand.

“Goldie,” she said clearly, and Detective Ransom turned his attention to her, taking her hand in his own.

“So, you’re the boss?” he asked with a raised brow and a curious glance as he quickly looked her up and down.

She shrugged slyly and shook his hand before dropping contact. She wasn’t calling him out on his immediate assumption that I was in charge. It wasn’t hard to deduce it was because I was a man, which was ridiculous.

“So, you’re here to talk about the festival,” Detective Ransom began. “Who are you two, anyway?”

Goldie clasped her hands in front of her on the table. “We’re investigative journalists with Fibonacci Files,” she began, and the detective clammed up immediately, his lips thinning to a line as he pursed them. I wasn’t shocked. I found it rare that police officers liked us journalists. “I have to admit, I lied to… was it Amy?” The detective nodded. “Thank you. Amy. While I do want to check out this festival, we’re actually here about a different matter entirely.”

The detective raised a brow. “Color me intrigued. What’s the matter? I’m assuming it’s not the case you stumbled upon. We’ve managed to keep that one under lock and key.”