Chapter 2
Knox
The parking lot outside the high school is half-empty, a few cars idling along the curb.
The bell hasn’t rung yet, but I can already hear the faint echo of voices and laughter carried by the wind.
I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes, watching the seconds crawl by on the dashboard clock and pretending I don’t feel like an intruder.
The message thread on my phone is open on my knee. Ten minutes, promise, she’d written, followed by a skull emoji and a black heart. Clara has a thing for those lately.
She’s fifteen going on thirty, all eyeliner and oversized boots and opinions.
There’s a chipped black nail polish photo somewhere in my camera roll because she’d made me take it when she first started “her new aesthetic.” I remember teasing her about looking like a vampire, and she’d called me an old man and then rolled her eyes so hard I thought they’d stay that way.
Now I glance at the reflection in my rearview mirror—my own tired face, lines deeper than they were a year ago—and try not to think about how old I suddenly feel.
When the call came from the Driftwood County office about the sheriff position, I hadn’t believed it.
After fifteen years with NYPD, most of it in homicide, I figured burnout would eat me alive before I got any kind of promotion.
But the second they said “coastal town,” something in me gave in.
I needed to breathe again. Needed to be somewhere that didn’t smell like concrete and exhaust.
Amy had said it was “a good move” for me.
That was her polite way of saying she’d rather not have me around right now.
I couldn’t blame her. We married young, in that fever dream after she split from her college boyfriend.
We were twenty-three, but she had a five-year-old on her hip and more determination than sense.
I fell for both of them in the same heartbeat.
Just because the marriage crumbled doesn’t mean my role as a dad disappeared with it. Clara isn’t my blood, but she’s mine. I was the one running behind her bicycle the day she learned to ride, the one who built her a cardboard castle when she was six and convinced dragons were real.
My chest tightens as I spot her emerging from the building.
Black hoodie, pleated skirt, fishnet tights, boots laced to her knees. Dark lipstick that probably makes the teachers nervous. Her hair—once sun-gold—is now purple at the tips. She walks like she owns the place, head high, expression cool.
My girl.
She notices my truck and freezes for a half-second before walking toward it. She opens the passenger door and drops her bag with a dramatic sigh. “Does Mom know you’re here?”
I smile. “Nice to see you too, Dracula.”
Her glare is pure teenage perfection. “It’s not a phase, Dad. This is who I am now.”
“Phase or not, do you have a pet bat I should be concerned about?”
She snorts but tries to hide the grin as she buckles her seat belt. “You’re not funny.”
“Pretty sure I am.” I start the engine. “Come on, I was thinking we could grab lunch. My treat.”
“Wendy’s?” she asks, suspicion lifting her brow.
“Is there another burger place in this town worth eating at?”
She shrugs, still playing unimpressed, but the corner of her mouth twitches. That’s a no.
The drive is short, quiet except for the hum of the tires and the soft music leaking from her earbuds.
I glance at her every few seconds, trying to memorize her face.
I keep thinking that by tomorrow, she’ll be a state away, and I’ll be the stranger sheriff in a coastal town that doesn’t know me yet.
When we pull into the Wendy’s lot, I park near the windows. Inside, the lunchtime crowd is light. She orders a bacon cheeseburger, fries, and a Frosty. I stick to black coffee and a chicken sandwich because, according to Amy, my cholesterol is “a crime scene waiting to happen.”
We sit at a booth near the window. Clara unwraps her burger and takes a huge bite, ketchup smearing the corner of her lip. I hand her a napkin.
“You’re such a lady.”
“Stop,” she mumbles around a mouthful, laughing.
I lean back, studying her. “You know, when you were three, you insisted on wearing your rain boots to bed. Said you wanted to be ready in case a puddle showed up in your dreams.”
She groans. “You’ve told that story a million times.”
“I’m just making sure it’s preserved in family history.”
“You’re embarrassing me.”
“That’s literally my job.”
She laughs again, soft but genuine, and for a second, she’s eight years old again, with a gap-toothed smile and glitter nail polish. But then her expression falters. Her hands twist the straw wrapper until it shreds in her fingers.
“Hey.” I reach across the table. “What’s going on?”
She shakes her head quickly. “Nothing.”
“Clara.” My voice gentles, the way it always does when she tries to hide behind that teenage armor. “Talk to me.”
Her eyes glisten, and then she’s sliding out of the booth, heading for the door. I follow, heart pounding. Outside, she stops near the side of the building, shoulders trembling.
I step closer, careful not to crowd her. “Hey. Tell me what’s wrong.”
She wipes her face angrily. “You’re leaving. You’re going to Driftwood, and Mom’s gonna stay here, and then she’s gonna meet someone else, and he’s gonna be my new dad, and I’m just—” Her voice cracks. “You’re leaving me behind.”
I let out a slow breath and run a hand through my hair. “Sweetheart.”
She doesn’t look up. I can see the silver ring in her ear, the one she begged Amy for last Christmas, glinting in the sunlight. She’s so grown up, and yet right now she looks small again.
I crouch beside her. “I know this is hard. Believe me, I didn’t plan it this way. But me taking this job doesn’t change who I am to you. You’re my kid, Clara. My daughter.”
She shakes her head, tears streaking down her face. “But you’re not even—”
“Don’t.” I touch her chin, tilting it up gently.
“Don’t say that. I know what you’re thinking, but it doesn’t matter what biology says.
You’re mine because I chose you. Every single day, I chose you.
I taught you how to ride your bike, remember?
Who held onto the back of the seat while you screamed that you were gonna fall? ”
“You did.”
“Who stayed up all night building your science fair volcano because you spilled glue in your hair and cried for an hour?”
She hiccups a laugh through the tears. “You.”
“And who’s gonna drive six hours just to come to your band concert?”
She blinks. “You’d do that?”
I give her a look. “Do you really think I’d miss it?”
Her voice softens. “You promise?”
“I swear on my badge.” I pause. “And on your favorite hoodie.”
That earns a half-smile. “You hate that hoodie.”
“Because it’s missing half its hem.”
“It’s distressed, Dad. It’s supposed to look that way.”
“Pretty sure it’s supposed to look like clothing, not something a raccoon chewed on.”
She laughs again, this time without tears.
I exhale, feeling some of the weight ease from my chest. “Look. I know me and your mom didn’t work out. We tried, and we failed, and that’s on both of us. But what came out of that, getting to be your dad—there’s no world where I regret that. Not one.”
She’s blinking so fast now, something she does when she’s trying not to cry. She leans in and hugs me anyway. Hard. “You’re such a sap,” she mumbles against my shoulder.
“Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation to keep up.”
We stay like that for a while, the sound of traffic and distant laughter filling the air. When she finally pulls back, she wipes her face and sniffs.
“So,” I say lightly, “you think you can forgive me for moving to the middle of nowhere?”
“Driftwood’s not nowhere,” she mutters, but there’s no bite in it.
“I hear it’s got great waves. You can come visit in the summer. I found a place near the coast that has this tiny porch that looks out over the ocean. And there’s an extra room. It’s yours.”
“Mine?”
“Completely. Paint it black if you want. Hang posters of screaming bands. I won’t even complain about the noise.”
Her mouth opens like she’s waiting for the catch. “Really?”
“Really. I even checked the Wi-Fi. Strong enough for all your vampire shows.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah, but you love me.”
“I guess.” She shrugs with mock reluctance, then grins. “Maybe a little.”
“Good. Because I love you a lot.”
We head back inside to finish our lunch. She steals some of my fries when she thinks I’m not looking. I pretend not to notice.
When I drive her home, she’s humming along to the radio. Before she gets out, she leans over and hugs me again.
“I’ll miss you,” she says.
“I’ll miss you more.”
“Text me when you get there?”
“Already planning on it.”
She smiles, then slips out of the truck, boots thudding against the pavement. I watch her disappear through the door, the hem of her skirt swaying, her purple hair catching the light.
My chest aches as I start the engine again. I’ve seen things most people can’t imagine—crime scenes that haunt the inside of your eyelids, faces you never forget—but nothing in this world hits harder than watching your kid grow up and realizing you can’t protect them from everything.
The drive is quiet. My duffel’s already packed, badge and sidearm cleaned and ready. The road ahead stretches all the way to Driftwood, to a second chance I’m not sure I deserve but damn sure need.
The drive takes longer than I expected. Six hours of cracked highways, thinning trees, and long stretches of coastline where the world feels like it’s holding its breath. The city disappears behind me one billboard at a time, glass and noise replaced by quiet and fields browned by salt wind.