Prologue
Kirsten
Past—Two Years Ago
Skylar slides another shot glass in front of me and Delilah, and I groan as I stare down at the clear liquid filled to the rim. A silent promise to make the night fun and the morning hell.
By no means am I a lightweight. I’ve done my fair share of partying before legally allowed. But I tend to stick with beer, the occasional fruity cocktail, and Long Island Iced Tea. Undiluted hard liquor, though… not really my thing. I learned that lesson the hard way at my first high school party and vowed to never do shots again.
Yet here I am, reaching for the saltshaker and contradicting the one drinking rule I carved in stone.
One time, Kirsten. For Skylar.
My best friend owes me after this. Big time. And I’ll be sure to remind her tomorrow, when our heads are clear and the world wobbles less.
Making a loose fist, I lift my hand to my mouth and lick the web near my thumb. Salt in my other hand, I shake it over the damp skin a couple times before passing it down the line. Skylar and Delilah mirror the action with a touch more enthusiasm. Their eagerness to liven the evening further is the ass kick I didn’t know I needed.
Tonight isn’t about me and what I want. Tonight is about Skylar and what she wants.
No way in hell will I ruin her night.
Skylar lays a lime wedge on a napkin and slides it in my direction, then does the same for Delilah. Lifting her shot glass high, she announces loud enough for half of Dalton’s to hear, “Happy twenty-first birthday to the hottest bitch in Stone Bay. Me.”
My eyes widen as the bar patrons hoot and holler. Skylar licks the salt from her hand, shoots back the tequila, then brings the lime to her lips and sucks. Meanwhile, Delilah and I sit shell-shocked on our stools. It’s not until Skylar elbows us that we take our shots.
Skylar isn’t the most outgoing person in public. Hell, the level of peer pressure it took to get her in my favorite little black dress tonight was excruciating. Behind closed doors and in the company of friends and family is where she tends to dominate the room. But her commanding the attention of a bar full of people… she would never do that sober.
And here I thought I was the only drunk one in our group.
Wrong.
“I’m tapping out,” I tell them, slashing a hand across the front of my throat for emphasis.
“No,” Skylar whines.
“Drinks, Sky. I’m tapping out on drinks.” I pat her thigh beneath the bar top. “Not with the night. It’s too early to go home.”
A lazy smile lifts the corners of her mouth as she leans into me and rests her head on my shoulder. “I love you, K. You’re the bestest.”
“Hey,” Delilah complains, her voice a touch playful.
Skylar bolts up and reaches for Delilah. “You’re the bestest, too. You know I love you, Dee Dee.” She constricts Delilah in a fierce hug. “I can love you and her.” A finger jabs in my direction. “You can both be my bestest friends, forever and ever.”
With a shake of my head, I laugh and take Skylar’s hand, lowering it. “Love you, Sky.” I squeeze her hand, then release it. “We should probably switch to something non-alcoholic for a bit.”
On a huff, she tips her head back and gives a stiff nod. “Yeah. Probably a good idea.
The bartender stops in front of us, takes our empty glasses, and wipes down the bar. “How’s it going, ladies?” Her eyes roam over Skylar, a smirk tipping up one corner of her mouth as she tries and fails to hide her amusement.
“A round of water, please.”
The bartender nods, grabs three large glasses, loads them with ice, and fills them with water.
“And one Coke,” I add as she sets each water glass on a coaster in front of us.
“You got it.” She repeats the process, pressing a different button on the drink gun, filling the glass with Coke. “Anything else?” she asks as she places a new coaster down, then my drink.
I glance at Skylar as she drinks water through way too many cocktail straws and shake my head. “Think we’re good for now.”
Tapping the bar top, she winks, then wanders down the line to refill beer glasses.
Over the next hour, we sip our drinks and move to a high-top near the dance floor. Several patrons stop by the table and wish Skylar happy birthday, offer to buy her a drink or ask her on a date. The more water she drinks, the more sober she becomes, the more I watch her lean away from the attention. Not all of it. A few guys have managed to weasel their way into sitting with us. They seem nice enough. Then again, my common sense meter switched off a couple hours ago.
“Let’s dance,” Skylar suggests as she pushes away from the table and stands.
Two of the guys hop off their stools and sandwich Skylar between them. “We’ll dance with you, birthday girl.”
I wince as I watch them touch her hips and shoulders. This just got ten times more uncomfortable.
Oblivious to their intentions, Skylar pushes out her lips and shakes her head. “No, I want to dance with my friends.” Skylar twists out of their holds and reaches out a hand for me and Delilah. “Please,” she says, dragging out the word like a greedy child.
I love dancing. Love shoving money in the jukebox, choosing enough songs to play for an hour or two, then getting lost in the music. Skylar, on the other hand, isn’t keen on dancing. At least not in huge public crowds.
But it’s her birthday, and she is still very intoxicated.
Who am I to deny her? Especially on her day.
I hop off my stool and take her outstretched hand. Delilah does the same, taking her other hand.
Skylar glances over her shoulder and gives the guys a finger wave. “Thanks for hanging out with us. It was fun.” Then she blows them a kiss.
I groan. “Don’t goad them any further.”
Delilah chuckles. “Makes no difference to me. Their chance remains the same. Nil.”
Weaving between the small crowd on the small dance floor, we find a small opening, throw our arms up, and start dancing to the sultry beat of a song I don’t know. For a moment, I get lost in the song. Forget about everything else except this night with my two closest friends.
The song transitions to a pop number. We continue to dance, but I shift closer to Delilah. “They may have no chance with you”—I glance back at the table, one of the guys no longer there—“but they don’t know that. They don’t know you prefer the glove over the bat.”
Thwack.
“Ow!” I rub my upper arm. “No need to hit.”
“Then don’t be crude.” Delilah imperceptibly shakes her head. “Say I only date women. Call me a lesbian.” Her brows tug together. “But don’t use baseball equipment euphemisms. Or any other weird alternatives. Just don’t.”
“Got it.” My lips curve into an apologetic smile. “Won’t happen again.”
“Thank you,” she says softly.
When the current song ends, I tap Skylar on the shoulder. She spins around, brows raised in question. I lift my hand and make a tipping motion toward my mouth, then throw a thumb over my shoulder. She nods, then follows me back to the table with Delilah in tow.
The three guys from earlier are nowhere to be seen. Probably found new prospects for the evening. Can’t say I blame them. I drain the last of my Coke, then switch to water. As Skylar drinks the last of her water, she sways in place.
“Doing okay, birthday girl?” I ask. This is the first time our trio has been publicly intoxicated. The initial excitement is long gone. The thrill of ordering drink after drink and being allowed to do so has faded. At least, tonight it has.
“Think I need to lie down. Or maybe curl into the corner of the couch and watch a documentary.”
Delilah and I chuckle. Skylar and her damn documentaries. Not sure how she stomachs watching those things. Serial killers and creepy as hell people doing fucked up shit to strangers. She watches them as if they soothe her like nature documentaries do most other people. Sometimes I question whether or not I should be concerned. So long as she doesn’t go psycho on us, it’s all good.
I step into her space, toy with her fiery curls, then wrap her in my arms. “Go home. Watch your shows. Drink more water.”
When I step out of the embrace, her eyes lazily trail up to mine. A ridge forms between her brows. “Are you staying?”
I glance past Skylar to Delilah, and she mouths, “I got her. You stay.”
With a subtle nod, I meet Skylar’s gaze again. “For a couple more songs. I’ll be right behind you.”
Delilah opens the rideshare app on her phone and requests a ride. Skylar rises from her stool, her hand quickly gripping the table to steady herself.
“Whoa!” Delilah wraps an arm around Skylar’s shoulders. “Easy now.” With measured steps, they head toward the door. “The car should be here in a few minutes.” Delilah glances over her shoulder, her eyes more sober than I feel. “You good?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Probably leave in twenty.”
“See you at home,” she says, then disappears in the thickening crowd.
Dalton’s is always the place to be in Stone Bay, especially on Friday and Saturday nights. Though it’s busy once the sun sets, the real crowd doesn’t show until after ten. Between ten and two, Dalton’s is packed with townies and tourists alike and definitely hits max capacity.
I down the last of my water and return to the dance floor. Closing my eyes, I move to the music and get lost in the sea of bodies. As the current song fades out and the next starts, I open my eyes and feel momentarily unsteady. Heat blankets me as someone presses against my backside. Sweat slicks my skin and trails down my neck to my cleavage and shirt. My breaths come in short, shaky bursts.
Winding through the crowd, goose bumps erupt on my skin when I hit cooler air. The momentary reprieve alleviates some of the dizziness, but not all. I scan the pub in search of a familiar face, someone I trust. Half the town is here, but no one I know well enough to ask for help.
Slow and steady, I walk to the nearest abandoned table. Dragging out the stool, I slide onto the seat, rest my hands on the cool wood, and take a deep breath. As I pull my phone from my pocket, a man sits on the stool next to me.
“Your friends abandon you already?” His gravelly voice isn’t familiar as his words fuse together in an underwater bubble.
My face tightens, my brows and eyes and lips squashing together. “No,” I say as I look up at him.
Why does my head feel so heavy?
I study his somewhat blurry face. Roam over his messy, dirty blond hair. Stare into his dark eyes for a beat. Squint and search for familiar features to tell me who this man is, but come up empty.
“Who are you?” The question comes out in a garble.
He lays a hand on mine and chuckles. “Just a guy trying to enjoy a night out.”
I yank my hand back, but it barely moves. Every muscle in my body slows, grows heavier with each new breath. “What the hell?” I mutter.
“Come on.” The man stands and reaches for my elbow. “Let me get you a ride home. Looks like you’re done for the night.” His voice is softer, gentler, a lullaby to my ears.
Gripping the edge of the table, I slowly rise to my feet. “Okay.” I stow my phone in my pocket. “Thank you.”
The closer we get to the front door, the heavier my eyes feel, the more the room starts to spin. And when the damp bay air sweeps across my face as we step outside, I close my eyes and inhale deeply. Everything muddles together as I become weightless.
I try, and fail, to open my eyes. My legs dangle in the air, nausea crawling up my throat as we move much quicker. Metal creaks a moment before I’m seated and strapped in. I beg my mouth to open. Implore my voice to form words and ask what is happening.
But I don’t get the chance.
***
The scent of bacon grease and pancakes stirs me from sleep. I roll over and groan as pain radiates from every inch of my body.
“Never again,” I croak out, my voice scratchy and almost inaudible.
Cracking one eye open, I squint at the faint rays of sunlight slipping through the blinds. Ugh, I forgot to close the curtains. I pat the nightstand in search of my phone, locating it after a moment. Bringing it close to my face, I note it’s just after eleven and my phone is minutes from dying.
“What the hell?” I never sleep in this late. Ever. Let alone forget to charge my phone.
Throwing back the covers, I hiss as I sit up. I stare down at my body and narrow my eyes in confusion. Scan the cotton covering almost every inch of my skin. I don’t sleep fully clothed. No matter how much I drink, I never go to bed in full pajamas. I only have those for company.
I strip off the pants and gasp when my eyes hit the inside of my thighs.
What. The. Actual. Fuck?
Spreading my legs wider, I wince as pain radiates from my thighs. The source? Massive purple bruises and a plethora of small, surface-level cuts crusted in dry blood.
“Oh my god,” I whisper as my vision blurs. I reach out a tentative finger and graze the bruised skin. Inch by slow inch, I trail my finger toward one of the cuts, flinching when I reach the edge.
Grabbing the blanket at the foot of the bed, I wrap it around myself and close my eyes. I think over last night and try to remember how the hell this happened. What exactly happened.
Drinks. Lots of drinks. Too many drinks. The guys we brushed off. Dancing. Skylar and Delilah calling it a night. More dancing.
But then things start to get fuzzy.
Images and sounds and people blurring together. And then… nothing. Not until minutes ago, when I woke up in this cloud of confusion.
Was it the alcohol? I may not be a shots kind of girl, but I’ve been sloshed before last night. I never felt like this the next day. Never forgot hours of time. Never woke up amnesiac and marred. No way all this happened from shots.
Maybe I was drugged. But when? How?
I replay what I remember, then mentally slap myself. “Dumb. Ass.”
When we left the table to dance, we abandoned our drinks. And like a total fucking idiot, I picked it up and downed the entire thing minutes later. We may live in a small town, and I may know most of the townies, but it doesn’t mean I know them.
Pissed at myself, I rise from the bed. I roll my shoulders and move my legs to stretch my limbs. Hesitantly, I reach down and slip my hand between my legs. Gently trace the junction of my thighs for other signs of abuse, and note nothing feels tender or painful or different. Thank God.
Another hiss slips from my lips as I amble toward the attached bathroom. I crank the hot water in the shower and spin around to face the mirror as it heats. Tears sting the backs of my eyes as I drop the blanket and pull off my tank top. As I stare at my reflection. As I take in the bruises on my breasts, thighs, and arms. As I survey the minor cuts. Slowly, I spin to look at my back and cringe. Dark purple colors both cheeks of my butt. Finger marks on my shoulders.
Nausea claws its way up my throat, but I swallow it down and step into the shower. Under the hot spray, I close my eyes and imagine the water washing away the demons I see but don’t really know. And when the water runs cold, I shut off the shower. I decide whatever happened ends here and now. Mentally, I bury the hurt and confusion clouding my thoughts.
Drying off in a daze, I slip on a pair of leggings and a long-sleeve hooded shirt. Pull my hair up in a messy top knot and plaster on a smile as I open my bedroom door. Mask the pain as my skin chafes the fabric. Inhale one more deep breath and extinguish any assumptions about what happened last night during my blackout.
You can’t live in a constant state of what-ifs and maybes. Let it go, Kirsten. Move on.
“There she is,” Skylar greets as I emerge from the hallway and into the open living area. “Bacon, eggs, pancakes, and fruit are ready.”
I step up to her at the kitchen counter, wrap her in my arms, bite the inside of my cheek as my body screams, then kiss her hair. “Thanks, birthday girl.” Grabbing a plate, I load it up. “You have a good night?”
“Best birthday yet.”
My brows twitch for the briefest of seconds before I turn to face her. “Good. Glad it was memorable.”
I sure as hell will never forget it.
One
Travis
Present
I will not stare. I will not stare.
Lifting a steaming mug of coffee to my lips, I blow on the hot morning elixir before taking a sip. I stare down at the black coffee and force myself to focus on it and not her. Focus on the important things—like the meeting with my father in a couple hours—and mentally preparing myself for every possible outcome.
What I shouldn’t be focused on is the curvy blonde with a green guest check pad in her hand and a spellbinding smile on her perfect, pouty lips. But fuck, I can’t seem to look away.
Do I instigate daily flirt sessions with Kirsten? Damn right I do. I live for her bright smile, for the moment she leans in closer. My day would be shit without her.
Occasionally flirting—or all the time, if I’m honest—is one thing, but unabashedly gawking is wholly different.
As gentlemanly as I want to be, it’s downright impossible to not ogle Kirsten during my thirty minutes on this stool. Every morning, with my eyes on my coffee, I chant the same line over and over in my head. I will not stare. And every morning, without fail, my unfettered gaze locks on her curves.
Hips swaying, Kirsten weaves between chairs before reaching a couple seated at a window table. She sets plates down, reiterating orders as she does, then asks if they need anything else. They politely decline, and she tells them to enjoy their breakfast before spinning on her heel and waltzing back toward the counter.
I drop my gaze back to the mug in my hand before taking another sip. As I go to set the mug on the counter, Kirsten is there with a fresh pot of coffee in her hand.
“Refill?”
My eyes lift to hers, and my pulse stutters. I swallow and tell myself to snap the hell out of it. “Please,” I say, pushing the mug closer to her. “Still not awake yet.”
Kirsten fills the mug, slides it back in my direction, sets the coffee pot down, then drops her elbows to the counter and leans forward. And it takes every ounce of strength I own to not look down the V of her shirt. Not that it matters, I can still see her cleavage in my periphery.
“Me either, to be honest.” That bright smile of hers I live for lights up her face. “With a little more caffeine and Max’s superb cooking, you’ll be ready for the day in no time.”
“Max makes the best breakfast in town. Hands down.” I lean forward and inwardly groan when her sweet scent hits my nose. “But you didn’t hear that from me,” I say, a breath above a whisper. “People may have me arrested for choosing a town favorite.”
Her smile tugs impossibly higher as she rolls her eyes. “And who will put you in handcuffs, Officer Emerson?” Kirsten reaches across the counter and taps the Stone Bay Police Department patch on the sleeve of my uniform shirt.
Damn, I love when she flirts back. Even if it’s just a little, I love the rush in my veins when she teases in return. “In this small town, you never know what the day will bring.”
Isn’t that the truth. Majority of the time, the department responds to non-emergency calls. Lonely elderly that need human interaction. Someone who burned food on the stove and wants to be sure they won’t burn down the house. Lost pets. Parents “teaching” rowdy children lessons.
Every once in a while, we get serious calls. But it’s been years since Stone Bay’s been on the map for a grievous crime such as murder, arson, trafficking, or kidnapping. Kirsten’s friend, Skylar, being held hostage months ago by a small group of embezzlers was the biggest news since my time on the force. But the news never left Stone Bay. And if that’s the worst I have to deal with during my service, I consider myself lucky.
Stone Bay isn’t a sleepy town. With wealth comes problems. None of us are ignorant of that fact, but we do our damnedest to keep the town as calm and pleasant as possible.
A bell chimes from the counter separating the kitchen from the server alley. Kirsten leans back and stands tall and I immediately miss her proximity. Her scent. Her.
“Looks like yours.” She grabs the ticket beneath the plate and stabs it on the check spindle. Swiping up the plate, she spins around and delivers my breakfast. “Egg white omelet with onions, peppers, and steak, no cheese, and a side of fruit.” She pops a hip and rests her hand on it. “Anything else?”
I unroll my silverware as my stomach rumbles. “Not at the moment.”
“Perfect.” She flashes me a smile. “Be back shortly. Need to check on my other tables.”
Kirsten wanders off as I dig into my breakfast. The first bite of omelet hits my tongue and I moan. As always, Max has outdone herself. She adds the perfect amount of her unique spice blend to my breakfast every day. Though I tend to eat simple meals, Max’s small touches make basic eggs taste magical.
Years ago, before Polk the Yolk was part of my daily routine, I’d gotten the worst upset stomach after dining out. At the time, I thought it was food poisoning. But when it happened again and again, I visited the doctor and learned all about lactose intolerance. The news had been upsetting. No one wants to stop eating cheese or ice cream.
Shortly after the news, I’d stopped in Polk the Yolk for breakfast and asked what did and didn’t have milk in it. Sweetheart that she is, Max showed me how to enjoy old favorites in a new way. She whipped me up the best dairy-free scrambled eggs and biscuits with sausage gravy. Since that day, Polk the Yolk has been my primary breakfast source.
The quaint breakfast and brunch restaurant has since made adjustments to the menu, offering a variety of options for dietary restrictions. I like to believe it was done for me, but Max would smack me upside the head if I voiced such an egotistical opinion.
Boisterous laughter fills the air and I glance across the dining room, spotting Kirsten as she nervously smiles at a man in the booth against the far wall. She lifts a hand to the base of her throat and toys with her necklace while the yuppie prick smiles back. Then he leans in closer and says something only for her ears. Her cheeks flush a beautiful shade of pink, her smile falters momentarily, and my stomach twists.
A loud clang draws the attention of everyone as my fork hits my plate. I make no move to apologize as I pick up my coffee and drain the mug.
She isn’t yours, Emerson. Get a fucking grip.
No matter how much I remind myself of this small fact, it still pisses me off to see someone flirting with her five minutes after she leaned across the counter and flashed me her smile—and cleavage. She does it for better tips, this much I know. Almost everyone in hospitality flirts to some degree. Comes with the territory. Smiley, happy people who seem interested in you earns a fatter paycheck. Period.
Most days, I’m willfully blind to her flirting with other patrons. And it isn’t odd for me to be so lost in thought or stressed about work that I ignore my surroundings when here.
But seeing her flirt with other men… did I really believe I was so fucking special she only gave me her attention?
Fucking idiot.
Sour mood firmly in place, I pick up my fork and tap the tines against my mug. Kirsten stops giving Mr. Pretentious her sparkly eyes and glances in my direction. I hold up my mug and purse my lips. Her cheeks flush a darker pink as she nods. Resting a hand on his shoulder, she apologizes, then heads my way.
“Sorry,” she says, grabbing the coffee pot and refilling my mug. “The guy would not let me leave.”
“From here, it seemed you were into the conversation.”
Her brows twitch as she reads my expression. Yep, I am officially the asshole acting possessive over someone I have no right to claim. And by the look on her face, she wants to tell me as much.
Fucking idiot.
She turns away, giving me her back as she sets up the coffee maker to brew a new pot. “You want coffee to go today?”
Taking a deep breath, I hold it and count to ten. On the exhale, I relax my shoulders and shove aside my ego. “Kirsten.” Her name is soft on my tongue. “I’m sorry.”
She shakes her head, her ponytail swishing across the nape of her neck. “Yes or no to the coffee?”
Why do I like her stubbornness? Why does it make me want to push her further?
“If you turn around, I’ll answer you.”
She huffs, annoyed with my brute behavior. Funny how she is the only person I act this way with—domineering and selfish and comfortable. As the coffee percolates, she spins around and plants her hands on her hips, lips in a flat line and brows raised, waiting.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat. “Truly.” I drag a hand through my hair and sigh. “I have a meeting with the Chief this morning and it’s made me more of an asshole than usual.”
“Isn’t your dad the Chief?” Her frame relaxes imperceptibly.
I stab an apple chunk and tap it on the plate. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean a thing on the clock. And he’s on the clock more often than not.”
She drops her hands from her hips and takes a step closer. “Look, I get it. Parents suck sometimes. But don’t take it out on other people. No one needs the ripple effect of someone else’s negativity. Choose not to let it bother you.”
Easier said than done. My father has a way of getting under my skin. He learned it from his father and grandfather, and they learned from the previous generations. All men raised in an era of severe repercussions for not falling in line. Men raised to believe their superiority was more important than expressing love or devotion or kindness to family, friends, or complete strangers. Men raised to be cold and callous to get results.
I don’t fault my father for his blunt and sometimes fierce nature. Those harsh qualities aided him in becoming who he is—who I am—today. But I want to break the cycle and be the bigger, better person. Soften myself before I decide one day whether or not to add to the family tree.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll do my best.” I smile and lift the fork to my lips, not missing the way her eyes stay fixed on my mouth. Interesting.“And I’d love coffee for the road.” Popping the apple in my mouth, the corners of my lips curve higher when she doesn’t look away.
Then, as if my words took a moment to catch up in her mind, she blinks and lifts her gaze to mine. A fresh layer of heat blooms on her neck and cheeks, and damn, I love her reaction.
“Be right back.” She blinks a few times. “Need to get more takeout cups from the back.” Then she darts off and disappears through the kitchen doors.
I eat the last of my breakfast with an infectious smile on my face. But it’s not until I spot a stack of to-go cups beneath the counter a few seats down that I chuckle under my breath.
The yuppie across the room may have made her blush, but it was me who made her overheat. I call that a win.
Minutes later, I slide a twenty under my mug, rise from my stool at the counter, and head for the door. “Thanks for breakfast, sunshine.” The nickname rolls off my tongue as if I’ve been calling her sunshine for years, and not like I manifested it seconds ago. “See you tomorrow.”
She lifts a hand and waves from behind the counter. “Stay safe, Officer.”
What is it about the way this woman calls me officer that gets me fired up? Hell if I know. But I live for the way she makes my pulse soar. “Always, sunshine.”
I step into the cool November air and jog to my department-assigned SUV. Cranking the engine, I sip the large, steaming cup of coffee until the engine warms enough to turn on the heat. My eyes scan the street as residents start their day. Not many commute near Opal and Chalcedony this early unless they’re one of the Seven or coming to the restaurant for breakfast.
Across from Poke the Yolk on Chalcedony Way, Tobias Graves pulls into the small lot for the Stone Bay Gazette. I kick on the heat and let the cabin warm as I watch him enter the town newspaper’s hub. The Emerson family has a love-hate relationship with the Graves family. Tobias and Phoebe, his youngest daughter, always seem to stick their noses where they don’t belong, all in the name of news.
Much as I don’t want to be another cutthroat Emerson, with the Graves family, there is no alternative. When it comes to Tobias and Phoebe Graves, you have to be assertive.
I set my coffee in the cup holder and buckle my belt before backing out. With a little time to spare, I turn left out of the lot and cruise north on Chalcedony. The woman outside the Savings and Loan waves as I drive past and I return the gesture.
Lampposts still glow in the early morning hour. A touch of frost coats the birch trees and potted plants along the street. Landscape crews move down the sidewalks on either side of the street and clear the fallen foliage from the walkway.
At the corner of Chalcedony and Garnet, I stop and wave to Dr. Belton as she flips the sign on the front door of the veterinarian’s office to open. Then, I steer the SUV onto Granite Parkway, the main thoroughfare in Stone Bay. A line of cars wraps around the small bagel shop as residents grab a quick bite before they head to work or school.
Far too soon, I park the SUV in the lot at the police station, fetch my jacket from the passenger seat, and slip it on before exiting the car with my coffee in hand. I tug open the front door, wave to Doug at the front desk, then weave through the small cluster of desks in the bullpen.
Though crime in Stone Bay is low, the police department never sleeps. Chief Emerson would never allow it. “If you have nothing to do, why do I need you here?” he’d propose to anyone slacking on their duties. “The citizens pay us to keep this town safe. Not to sit on our asses and play Wordle on our phones.” No matter how menial the situation is, if someone in town needs law enforcement assistance, we show up. Always.
I drop my keys and phone on my desk, pull out my chair and sit, then wake up my computer. As I enter my credentials to log in, I hear the telltale squeak of the chief’s door open.
“Emerson,” he calls out louder than necessary. “Two hours.”
I smash the enter key on my keyboard hard, plaster on a smile, and spin around to face my father. “Yes, sir.”
He retreats into his office, never giving his back, and closes the door. Story of my life.
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