Chapter 2 #2
When I pull off the interstate toward Driftwood, my phone loses signal and the radio fades into static. I roll down the window, let the cold ocean air push through the cab. The truck smells like the burgers and the faint trace of her shampoo on the hoodie she left behind last week.
My throat tightens. She’s still my kid. Always.
The map app insists I’m five minutes out when the first signs of what happened come into view.
Blackened tree trunks line the ridges, sharp and skeletal.
Houses along the main road are nothing but concrete foundations and twisted metal fences.
Even from the truck, the smell of burnt wood lingers, sour beneath the salt air.
When I’d researched Driftwood, the reports said “a major wildfire almost two months ago.” But words on a screen don’t show what it looks like when a town loses its shape.
The mayor’s office sits on the edge of Main Street, one of the few buildings with new paint and a functioning roof. A handmade sign still leans against the front steps: Thank You Firefighters. I kill the engine, stretch my legs, and walk inside.
The reception area smells like lemon cleaner and fresh paper. The woman at the desk looks new—mid-twenties, neat ponytail, typing like she’s afraid of making a mistake.
She glances up. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Knox Hill. Sheriff.” The word still sounds foreign in my mouth.
“Oh! Right, Mr. Hill. Mayor Marshall’s expecting you.”
The office door opens before she finishes, and out steps a man who looks younger than I expected for a mayor—sandy-blond hair, rolled-up sleeves, that easy kind of confidence small-town politicians are born with.
“Sheriff Hill,” he says, offering a hand. “Jake Marshall. Welcome to Driftwood.”
His grip is firm, but his smile carries the weight of too many long nights.
“I wasn’t sure the GPS was working,” I tell him. “Place feels like it’s off the map.”
Jake huffs out a breath, motioning me inside. “You’re not wrong. Half the town’s still trying to get power back. We’ve been running on backup generators in the civic center since the fire.”
He gestures toward a pair of mismatched chairs across his desk. The room smells faintly of smoke beneath the new paint.
“I appreciate you coming,” he says. “We’ve never had a proper sheriff’s department here. Just a small local force and a few volunteers. The county’s been handling bigger cases, but since the fire… we need more structure.”
I lower into the chair. “I’ve read the reports. You lost thirty percent of residential housing and most of your commercial district.”
Jake nods slowly. “And three good men in the volunteer brigade.”
Silence lingers. I glance at the framed photo on his desk—him with a gorgeous woman and two other men, all grinning in front of the old Driftwood Pier before it burned down.
“So why me?” I ask finally. “There had to be other names on the list.”
“You came recommended,” Jake says. “I called one of your old captains at the NYPD. He said you’re tough but fair. And that you could use a change of scenery.”
“Guess he’s not wrong.” I rub my jaw. “I’m not gonna lie to you, Marshall. I’ve been running on fumes for a while. Divorce hit hard. City work hit harder. But I don’t half-ass what I start.”
“That’s all I needed to hear.”
We go over logistics—the temporary badge authority, housing, and the timeline for setting up an official office. When he asks when my things will arrive, I tell him tomorrow afternoon.
“I’ll drive you to the place,” Jake says, grabbing his keys. “It’s right by the water. You’ll like it.”
Outside, the wind has picked up. The mayor’s truck is a battered blue Ford that probably predates my divorce. We follow a road that winds along the coastline, black ash still clinging to the cliffs in streaks. It’s quiet except for the tires crunching over gravel.
When the ocean comes into full view, I understand why people rebuild. The horizon stretches wide, the water dark and restless, the sky fading to amber. Jake slows as we approach a row of newly built cottages.
At least these look just like they did in the pictures he shared.
“That one’s yours,” he says, pointing to a two-story place with pale siding and a porch that faces the beach. “We fixed it up last month.”
I climb out, boots sinking into the soft sand. From here, I can see the lighthouse in the distance, its tower still intact though scorched near the base.
“Rowan Thorne owns that,” Jake says, following my gaze. “He’s one of my pack mates. Keeps the light running even when the power’s out. You’ll meet him soon enough.”
The house smells of fresh paint and sea air. Two bedrooms just like I had requested, open kitchen, wide windows that face the surf. It’s simple, but clean. Home in the making.
Jake leans against the doorframe. “You should rest up. Tomorrow morning, at nine sharp, we’ll go by the station, introduce you to the crew, and swing past the firehouse. They’re good people.”
“Sounds great.”
He claps me on the shoulder. “Welcome to Driftwood Cove, Sheriff. We’re damn glad to have you.”
When he leaves, the silence settles. I set my duffel on the bed, peel off my jacket, and step into the bathroom.
The shower sputters before giving in, hot water steaming against my skin.
For the first time in weeks, I let myself breathe.
The tile still smells new, the mirror fogged over.
When I finally shut the water off, it’s past nine.
Outside, the sky has gone dark, and I can hear the surf hitting the shore beyond the dunes. I towel off, throw on jeans and a clean shirt, and glance at my watch. 9:17 p.m.
Too early to sleep, too late to unpack. My mind’s wired, the kind of restless that no shower can fix. I grab my keys again.
The drive into town is short. Most streets are deserted except for a few trucks outside what looks like a new bar tucked near the cliffs.
A neon sign above the door reads Bar 2.0 in bright red letters.
The building itself looks recently built, wood panels still raw, windows glowing warm against the cold night.
Inside, the air is thick with fried food and laughter. A pool table sits in the corner, a dartboard on the far wall. The music’s low enough to talk over, and the place smells like beer and fresh paint.
The bartender—broad shoulders, beard, tattoos curling up his arms—nods when I sit down. “What’ll it be?”
“Burger and a beer.”
“Coming right up.”
I scan the crowd while I wait. A group of men in construction vests trade jokes at the end of the bar. Two women play darts near the jukebox. A few younger faces—locals who probably haven’t seen a new person in months.
When my beer arrives, I take it and wander toward the dartboard, the burger order slip still tucked behind the counter. Playing gives me something to do besides think.
The first dart hits off-center. The second finds its mark. I adjust my stance, focus on the board, the quiet satisfaction of hitting close.
“You’re new,” a voice says behind me.
I turn. The waitress stands there—dark hair in a braid, freckles scattered across her nose. She holds my burger plate in one hand and another beer in the other.
“Just got in today,” I tell her.
She sets the plate down on the high-top table beside me. “Then welcome to Driftwood, stranger.”
I smile. “Nice place. This new?”
“Bar 2.0?” She grins. “Main one used to be off Harbor Drive. We lost it in the fire. This is the reboot.”
“Looks like you’re doing alright.”
She shrugs. “People need somewhere to go. Feels normal, you know?”
I nod. “Normal’s underrated.”
We chat for a few more seconds, and then she moves off to another table. I take a bite of the burger—greasy, perfect—and sip my beer. Around me, the conversations weave into a soft hum.
There’s a comfort to it, the ordinary noise of people who’ve been through hell and are still showing up. I throw another dart, hit near the center, and feel something unclench inside me.