Copyright © 2025
All Rights Reserved
Chapter One
I liked his hands. The way he gripped his glass in one, then reached for me across the table with the other. Warm hands. Strong. I traced the lines of the corded veins over his wrist and where they webbed around his knuckles.
“Mara?” he asked. “Did you hear me?”
My focus snapped back to his dark eyes. “What? Oh. Right. Hojo. Yes. I think he’ll be okay for the time being.”
Sheriff Sam Cruz raised a brow and brought his glass of lemonade to his lips.
“The time being,” he repeated. “You think he’s gonna run for the open seat outright in January?”
“I doubt it.” My colleague, Howard Jordan, had been thrust into the position of acting prosecutor after our last duly elected one ended up recalled for misconduct. “Hojo was starting to set up an exit strategy, not run for higher office. He’s doing a serviceable job though. He’s better in front of a camera than anyone gave him credit for.”
“You know, oddly, Gus and I were saying the same thing just this morning. I don’t know why it should surprise anyone. Howard’s got that ‘aw shucks’ charm thing. It serves him well against defense attorneys and in front of juries. You think he’s just some local yocal, then he zings you with something.”
“That’s always been his strong point,” I agreed. “Hojo benefits from underestimation. The problem is, I don’t think he’s handling the stress of it very well. He pops antacids like candy. He’s gained weight. I think his girlfriend isn’t fully on board with his new role. So, something’s going to have to give.”
“Are you two ready to order?” Sam and I sat on the outdoor patio of the newest downtown Waynetown eatery, The LadyBird. Right across from the Public Safety Building and the City-County Building, we were each a two-minute walk from our offices. With as busy as things had been for both of us, it was the first time we’d been able to steal an hour for just the two of us in almost two weeks.
“I’ll try the chicken salad sandwich,” I said.
“Kettle chips or French fries?” the server asked.
“Chips are fine.”
“I’ll do the Reuben,” Sam said. “Chips here too.”
The girl took our menus and headed to her next table.
“What about you?” Sam asked. “I know I’ve asked you before. And I know you know everybody’s wondering what you’ll do.”
“You already know the answer to that,” I said. “I like my current job. Running for political office was never an ambition of mine. I like trying cases. I’m good at trying cases.”
“You’re great at trying cases,” Sam said. “I’ll admit, for my position, I like you right where you are. I like knowing I’ve got a superstar sitting at the prosecutor’s table in that courtroom. But if Hojo doesn’t want to run, you leave yourself vulnerable to whoever comes in to take his place.”
“I haven’t given up hope that Kenya will come back.”
A year and a half ago, my former boss, Kenya Spaulding, was ousted in a political upset. She’d spent the intervening time as a woman of leisure but I knew it couldn’t last much longer. She did have the political ambitions I lacked. And she was damn good at her job.
“Well, that would be fantastic,” Sam said. “If there’s anything I can do to help persuade her, you let me know. Still, if you change your mind, you know you’d have my backing. You’d have the entire department’s backing.”
“You sure that wouldn’t cause a conflict for you, Sheriff Cruz?”
“I do not,” he said. “And I wouldn’t care if it did. And there’s nothing that says you couldn’t still try as many cases as you want if you took the top job instead of assistant prosecutor. You could run that office any way you wanted.”
“I know,” I said. “For a while, anyway. But I mean it. I’m not interested in the politics of it.”
A shadow crossed his face. “Mara,” he said. “I get what you’re saying. I do. I just … I want to make sure you’re not saying it because of me. Because of us. Sure. Us being together. Me as sheriff. You if you were elected prosecutor. It could get complicated. But there’s no law against it.”
“I know that. But I also know people would use it against you in your next election. That’s not too far off.”
“Mara …”
“No,” I said. “I need you to trust me on this. I’m not turning my back on a potential promotion because of the boy I’m dating.”
“Boy?” he said, letting his voice drop low in almost a growl.
“Figure of speech,” I said. “Don’t change the subject. Sam, have you ever known me to not say what I mean? Or mean what I say?”
He squeezed my hand, sending that little thrill of heat through me. It was like that a lot. Even after months as a bona fide couple, the newness of it still caught my breath.
“I suppose not,” he admitted. “I just worry about having an open field. I’d like a known quantity. So if Hojo doesn’t want to run and Kenya won’t come back, that’s a pretty big hole.”
“Nah,” I said. “Let’s be real. The only serious trouble my office would be in is if Caro decided to make good on her threats to retire.”
Sam laughed. “Don’t say that. She’s not seriously considering that, is she? That woman is an institution.”
Carolyn Flowers’s official title was office manager. But she kept us all running like a well-oiled machine no matter who sat in the big office down the hall from mine.
“I hope not.”
“I think Caro’s been working for the county longer than anyone else I know.”
“She has,” I agreed. “Forty-two years. Longer than I’ve been alive. She turns sixty next month. Though she doesn’t want anyone to know. The good news is with Hojo in Kenya’s job, Caro knows he’s sunk without her. She loves him. She wants him to succeed. She’s the original work mom to all of us. For now, I plan to use her codependency as a weapon.”
Our server arrived with our sandwiches. I thanked her and spread my napkin over my lap. Sam managed to take a bite out of his Reuben with such gusto, it made me jealous of the sandwich. God. I was like a teenager around this guy sometimes.
We ate in companionable silence. The chicken salad was delicious. A relief for now. This building had become somewhat of a retail no man’s land over the years with every new store coming in cursed to fail within a year. But we could use a good restaurant in this part of town.
“So,” Sam said. “Is Will ready for school?”
I crunched a chip and wiped my hands on my napkin. “He may be. I don’t know if I am.”
“High school.” Sam smiled. “How’d we get here?”
We. Just that simple word. I liked it. But it scared me too.
“I’m just worried,” I said. “Like always. We got into a pretty good groove at his last school. It’s a lot of changes.”
“He’ll be great, Mara. He’s ready. There will be bumps. All kids have bumps. It’s part of the experience.”
He was right. But my fourteen-year-old son wasn’t like all kids. We’d had a long stretch of stable calm, but that hadn’t always been true. Even the slightest change in Will’s routine could cause a meltdown, or even worse, a shutdown. Sam had been a steadying influence in my son’s life. And in mine. But high school was the great unknown.
“He won’t let me drive him on his first day,” I said. “He wants to ride the bus.”
“He told me. I think it’s good, don’t you?”
“I do,” I admitted.
“How about we both take the day off on his first day? Plan something fun and distracting.”
“I’d like that,” I said. “I’ll have to check my schedule …”
“Sheriff Cruz? That’s you, right? You’re the sheriff? I’ve seen you on the news.”
I looked up. The girl standing at our table looked to be about eighteen or nineteen. She was tall and thin with wheat-blonde hair and a dusting of freckles across her cheeks. Pretty, but her face was deeply flushed and she trembled so badly I feared she might fall over.
“May I help you?” Sam asked, concern filling his face.
The girl looked at me. “You work … you’re the prosecutor, right? I saw you on the news once, too.”
“I am,” I said, deciding it wasn’t the time to point out the finer points of my job description.
“C-can we … I’m sorry. I need to talk to someone. I need to get this out.” She started to cry.
“Honey,” I said, rising, my maternal instincts kicking in. There was something seriously wrong with this girl. She wore a large, crossbody satchel. Whatever was in it looked like it weighed a ton. Sam pulled out another chair and the girl sank into it.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t want to interrupt. But you’re both here. I don’t know who else to talk to.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
She shot a frightened look at Sam, then back at me. “Hayden. Hayden Simmons.”
“Okay, Hayden,” Sam said. “Are you hurt? Are you … safe?”
Hayden looked like she was about to be sick. Sweat beaded her brow. The reddish tone to her skin turned positively purple.
“I didn’t know what to do,” she said. “I didn’t want … I can’t … there isn’t …”
“Honey,” I said. “What is it? Did somebody hurt you?”
She shook her head almost violently. “No. No. I’m okay. It’s not me. It’s … please. I don’t even … It’s … I have to … God. I have to report a crime.”
Sam and I shared a look. For an instant, I felt certain of what Hayden Simmons would say next. Someone had hurt her. Badly. But the girl finally settled. She went still. She took a breath and turned to Sam. Her voice was low enough that no one but Sam and I could hear it. But she spoke clearly.
“I need to report a crime. I need to tell you. I have to tell you. It’s my father. He … my father killed someone. He’s a murderer. I brought proof.”
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