Chapter 8 Gabriel #2
Lucy is quiet for a moment, watching Tyson sniff at a particularly interesting patch of grass. When she speaks, her voice is soft, almost reverent.
"Have you ever been somewhere that just felt... safe? Like you could breathe for the first time in forever? Like maybe, if you were very careful and very quiet, you might be allowed to stay?"
The honesty in her voice catches me off guard. There's real emotion there, real vulnerability, and it triggers every protective instinct I've spent years trying to suppress. She's not just talking about liking a place. She's talking about finding sanctuary.
"Yeah," I tell her, my voice rougher than I intended. "That's why I came here too."
She looks at me then, really looks at me, and I can see her trying to piece together the puzzle of who I am beneath the badge and the uniform. Those brown eyes are sharp, intelligent, cataloging details the same way I've been cataloging hers.
"You weren't always a small-town sheriff."
It's not a question.
"Marines. Two tours in Afghanistan." The words come out easier than they usually do, maybe because she's looking at me like she understands what it means to carry weight you can't put down. "After that, big city police work. Detroit, then Chicago."
"What made you leave?"
The question I've been avoiding for two years. The one that cuts too close to memories of partners I couldn't save, choices that still wake me up in cold sweats, the slow poison of watching good cops break under the weight of a system that doesn't give a damn about right and wrong.
"Sometimes you reach a point where you realize the thing you're fighting isn't worth the cost of fighting it," I say finally, surprised by how much truth I'm willing to give her. "Sometimes you just need to find somewhere quiet to remember who you used to be before the world tried to break you."
Lucy nods like she understands exactly what I mean. Like she's been fighting her own wars in her own quiet way, looking for her own safe harbor in a world that seems determined to hunt her down.
"I know the feeling," she says softly, and I believe her.
We walk in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the morning settling around us like a well-worn quilt.
Tyson has found a stick that apparently meets his exacting standards and is carrying it proudly as we make our way back toward the clinic, his tail wagging with the simple joy of a dog who's found treasure.
The moment feels too natural, too right. Like this is how it should be. Walking beside her in the morning light, sharing coffee and conversation without agenda or deception.
Which makes what I'm about to do feel like sacrilege.
"Lucy," I say as we round the corner onto Elm Street where the clinic sits like a yellow brick anchor. "I've been meaning to ask you about the morning you found Dusty. I know you've been through it already, but sometimes details surface after the initial shock wears off."
I watch her carefully as I speak, falling back into cop mode despite everything in me that rebels against it.
Looking for micro-expressions, tells, anything that might reveal more than she wants to share.
Lucy's face remains composed, but I catch the slight tightening around her eyes, the way her grip on Tyson's leash shifts almost imperceptibly.
The change in her is immediate and devastating. It's like watching shutters slam closed on a house that had just started to let in light.
"What kind of details?" she asks, and her voice has gone carefully neutral.
"Anything unusual. Sounds, maybe. Tire tracks. Signs that someone else might have been in the area recently."
"I told you everything I remember," she says, and there's something defensive creeping into her tone now, a wall going up brick by brick. "I found him bleeding, got him to Colt as fast as I could. That's it."
But it's not it, and we both know it. There are pieces missing from her story, gaps that don't quite add up under scrutiny.
Like how she happened to be camping on Blackwell's land in the first place. Like why she ran when she saw my patrol car that first day. Like why when we run her licence plate we hit a wall. Sealed information that needs federal clearance to access.
"I'm just trying to understand the timeline," I press gently, hating myself for the way her shoulders tense at my words. "You said you were camping by the creek?"
"Yes." The word comes out clipped, final as a door slamming.
"For how long?"
"Does it matter?" Lucy stops walking and turns to face me, and there's fire in her eyes now.
"I found an injured animal and got him help. Why are you making it sound like I did something wrong?"
"I'm not," I say, holding up a hand in what I hope is a peaceful gesture. "I'm just—"
"You're investigating me." Lucy takes a step back, and the accusation hangs between us like a blade drawn in anger. "That's what this is, isn't it? The coffee, the casual conversation, the walking together. You think I'm involved in what happened to Dusty."
The disappointment in her voice cuts deeper than any knife.
"Lucy—"
"What exactly do you think I did, Sheriff?" The title comes out like a curse, sharp enough to draw blood.
"You think I stabbed a dog and then what, had a crisis of conscience and decided to save him? You think I drove him to the clinic, covered in his blood, and sat there for hours making sure he'd be okay because I felt guilty about trying to kill him? Does that make sense to you?"
She's right, and that's what frustrates me most. Nothing about Lucy Reid suggests she's capable of harming anything, much less an innocent animal.
But she's hiding something. Something big enough to require federal protection on her vehicle registration. Something that makes her sleep in a van and work for cash under a name that doesn't quite fit and jump like a startled deer every time someone asks too many questions.
"No," I admit, my voice rougher than I intended. "It doesn't make sense. But something about your story doesn't add up either, and I have a job to do."
"Maybe some people have reasons for keeping their past private that have nothing to do with criminal activity," she says, and there's pain threading through her voice now.
Real pain, the kind that comes from old wounds that never properly healed. "Maybe some of us have learned that trusting people with the truth is a good way to get hurt. Maybe some of us have learned that men with badges and authority don't always use it to protect people."
The words hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest, knock the air from my lungs and leave me reeling.
She's talking about trauma. About being betrayed by people who should have protected her. People in positions of power, people with badges, people like me.
I've heard that tone before in interview rooms with abuse victims, in testimonies from people who've learned the hard way that authority figures can't always be trusted. The careful distance, the way she flinches from direct questions about her past, the hypervigilance I mistook for simple caution.
She's been hurt by someone who should have protected her. Someone in uniform, maybe. Someone who used their position to control her, to silence her, to make her afraid.
And here I am, using my badge and my training and her probable loneliness to back her into a corner, to force confessions she's not ready to give.
I'm being exactly the kind of authority figure she's clearly learned to fear.
The realization makes me feel sick.
"Lucy," I start, but she's already backing away, putting distance between us like I'm something dangerous.
Which, I suppose, I am.
"I should get Tyson back. Mrs. Cross will be here soon to pick him up."
She turns to leave, and I know I'm about to lose whatever fragile trust might have been building between us.
"Wait," I call out, and something raw in my voice must convince her to stop because she does. Her shoulders are rigid with tension, like she's bracing for another blow. "You're right. I'm sorry."
I can see uncertainty warring with hurt in those brown eyes I've been cataloging like evidence.
"I should get Tyson back," she says again, switching the coffee cup to her other hand and flexing her fingers. "Mrs. Cross will be here soon, and my hands are getting numb from the cold."
The morning air has a bite to it, the kind of late March cold that sneaks up on you when you're distracted by more important things. Like the woman in front of me who's trying very hard not to look at me directly.
I move toward her slowly, like she's a wild animal that might bolt at any sudden movement, which isn't far from the truth. "Let me see."
She hesitates, clearly torn between accepting help and maintaining her distance. Finally, she extends her hand with obvious reluctance.
I take it in both of mine, and the contact sends electricity shooting through every nerve ending I have.
Her skin is soft and cold, her fingers slender and strong. I can feel her pulse jumping under my thumb as I gently rub warmth back into her palm, my calloused fingers rough against her smooth skin.
"Better?" I ask, though I don't let go. Can't let go.
"Yes," she whispers, and her voice is breathless, barely audible over the wind that's picked up between us.
I look up and find her watching me, pupils dilated despite the bright morning sun.
We're standing close now, close enough that I can see the faint freckles scattered across her nose like stars, close enough to catch the scent of her shampoo, something clean and simple that somehow drives me half out of my mind.
My hands are shaking.
When was the last time my hands shook? Afghanistan, maybe. The first time I had to return fire.
"Gabriel," she says softly, and the sound of my name on her lips does something dangerous to whatever control I thought I had left.
This is a mistake. She's young, she's vulnerable, she's got secrets. She's everything I should stay away from, everything my training and experience tell me is off-limits.
But when she looks at me like that. Like I'm something worth wanting instead of something to fear, I forget every reason why this is impossible.
I lean closer, and she doesn't pull away. Doesn't run, doesn't flinch, doesn't do any of the smart things she should do.
I can feel her pulse jumping under my thumb where I'm still holding her hand, and I wonder if she can sense the way my heart is hammering against my ribs through the connection between us.
"This is a bad idea," I murmur, even as my face moves toward hers, drawn by gravity or madness.
"The worst," she agrees, but she's leaning in too.
We're sharing the same breath now, her lips just inches from mine. All I would have to do is close the distance, and I'd finally know what she tastes like.
Finally know if the chemistry between us is as explosive as it feels, if this thing that's been building between us is real or just my imagination.
But at the last second, sanity reasserts itself like a cold slap.
I pull back, dropping her hand, I take a step away. The loss of contact is immediate and devastating, like losing a limb. Like watching the sun go out.
"I can't," I say roughly, my voice barely recognizable. "This isn't... I shouldn't have..."
Lucy stares at me for a moment, hurt and confusion and something that might be anger warring in her expression. Then she nods once, sharp and final.
"You're right," she says, her voice carefully controlled in a way that tells me she's had practice swallowing disappointment. "Of course you're right."
She starts to walk away again, and I know I should let her go. Know that this is the smart choice, the professional choice, the choice that won't get us both in trouble.
Instead, I call out: "Lucy."
She stops but doesn't turn around.
"This thing between us," I say, my voice rough with everything I'm not saying, everything I can't afford to want. "It's not over."
She does turn then, and the look in her eyes is equal parts promise and warning, heat and hurt all tangled together.
"Then next time," she says quietly, and there's steel in her voice despite the softness, "don't make me want something you're not willing to give."
And with that, she's gone, leaving me standing alone on the sidewalk with the taste of almost on my lips and the certainty that I've just made the biggest mistake of my career.
Maybe my life.