Chapter 7 Knox #2
I fear I have already fucked everything up.
I walk past the parked cruisers outside the town hall, hands in my jacket pockets, jaw tight.
Every step feels heavier than the last. I should go home, pour a drink, call it a night.
That’s what a normal person would do after their first public meeting in a new town.
But I’m not normal, and tonight I sure as hell don’t trust myself alone with my thoughts.
So instead, I turn left at the post office and head toward the station.
Driftwood’s police department sits wedged between a bait shop and a laundromat, one of those brick buildings that looks older than it probably is. The front windows glow with yellow light. Inside, I can already hear the low murmur of a police scanner and the rhythmic tapping of a keyboard.
When I push the door open, the bell above it jingles softly.
Jasmine’s behind the desk, headset on, half-listening to a call while scrolling through a spreadsheet.
She’s young—mid-twenties maybe—with dark braids pulled into a bun and a mug of something that smells like mint tea steaming beside her keyboard.
She glances up when she sees me, startled for half a second before she recovers and pulls off the headset.
“Sheriff Hill,” she says, sitting a little straighter. “Didn’t think you’d still be up.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” I tell her. “Figured I’d spend the evening here. Get a feel for how things run after hours.”
Her smile’s cautious but friendly. “You’re the first person who’s said that in years.”
I shrug, stepping farther inside. “Comes with the job. I want to see what I’m working with before I start changing anything.”
She nods toward the back. “Station’s quiet at night. You’ll probably regret saying that once the weekend crowd hits. We get the bar fights from the tavern, some noise complaints. Usually nothing serious.”
“Good to know.”
She swivels in her chair, gesturing around the room. “So… this is it. Dispatch here, holding cell in the back, offices down that hall. Two patrol cars—one’s got a broken taillight that Chief Patterson kept promising to fix before he retired. He didn’t.”
“Noted.”
I cross to the map pinned on the far wall—Driftwood, split into neat little grids with faded marker lines running through the streets. Handwritten notes clutter the edges: pier watch rotation, Vance house alarm, northern ridge patrol. It’s organized in a small-town way—functional, but messy.
Jasmine goes back to typing, but her eyes flick up occasionally, watching me move. I get it. I’m new. Outsider with a badge, coming in after a tragedy that left everyone raw. People here don’t give trust easily. You have to earn it.
“You can go if you want,” I say finally, still studying the map. “I’ll lock up after I’m done.”
She shakes her head. “Night shift.”
“Then I’ll keep out of your way.”
She smiles, returning to her work. “Suit yourself, Sheriff.”
I move through the station, checking doors, peeking into offices.
Two desks, one stacked with paperwork, the other spotless except for a framed picture of a dog.
The break room’s tiny—microwave, coffeemaker, and a corkboard littered with flyers for bake sales and missing cats.
The holding cell smells faintly of bleach and metal.
Everything here feels honest. Lived-in. Nothing like the sterile efficiency of NYPD precincts. Driftwood’s station has heart, in its own way—heart and about fifty years of deferred maintenance.
I sink into the worn leather chair in what’s supposed to be my office, switch on the desk lamp, and stare at the thin stack of personnel files. Deputies. I’ll need to talk to all of them tomorrow. Get a sense of what I’m dealing with.
That’s what I tell myself I’m doing tonight—planning, assessing, settling in. Sheriff things.
But I know better.
I’m here because if I go home, I’ll start replaying it again. The sound of her voice, the way she looked at me across the room tonight, eyes wide and full of recognition. The way my stomach dropped when I realized what that meant.
If anyone had seen us last night—if anyone had walked by that damn truck—I’d be done.
Career over. Sheriff of Driftwood arrested for indecency in a public place.
No way to talk myself out of that one. And the thing is, I knew better.
I’ve spent my entire adult life building a clean record, doing things by the book, keeping my head down.
NYPD internal affairs couldn’t find a speck of dirt on me. I was proud of that. I was careful.
Until her.
One night, one woman, and I threw away every line I swore I’d never cross.
I scrub a hand over my face, lean back in the chair, and let out a slow breath. The memory flashes again—her skin warm under my palms, her breath hitching, the sound she made that went straight to my head. I shake it off and open one of the folders.
Deputy profiles.
Henderson, Marcus. Five years with the department. Former Marine. Good record.
Cooper, Jamie. Two years, part-time. Lives near the pier.
Ortiz, Lucas. Fourteen years, longest tenure here. Apparently knows everyone.
I read every line twice, but none of it sticks. My brain’s too loud. Too full of her.
The scanner crackles softly. Jasmine answers a quick call about a broken streetlight, logs it, and glances over. “Everything alright in there?”
“Yeah,” I say without looking up. “Just reading files.”
She nods, unconvinced, then turns back to her screen.
The clock on the wall ticks past eleven.
I should go home. But I don’t move. I start making notes—small things.
Patrol schedules, shifts, possible updates to equipment.
Tomorrow, I’ll meet with each deputy, get a sense of morale, talk about safety measures.
Maybe I’ll ask Gabe to join for the coordination plan. Keep busy. Keep focused.
I’ve spent years compartmentalizing—learning how to turn off the personal when the badge goes on. It’s supposed to be second nature. But tonight, that line feels paper-thin.
I stand and cross to the window. From here, I can see the main street—dim, quiet, a few cars passing under flickering lamplight.
Somewhere out there, she’s walking home, maybe thinking about the same thing I am.
Or maybe she’s not thinking about me at all.
Maybe she’s smart enough to have already buried the whole damn night.
I wish I could.
The chair creaks as I sit again, forcing myself back to the files. Tomorrow: interviews. Assess patrol coverage. Request vehicle repairs. All the boring, necessary things that keep me from unraveling.
“Everything’s running smooth tonight,” Jasmine says after a while, taking off her headset. “You sure you don’t want to call it? We’re good here.”
I shake my head. “I’ll stay a bit longer. Just want to get a handle on the system.”
She shrugs. “Suit yourself. I’m making more coffee if you want some.”
“Thanks.”
When she leaves for the break room, I let my head fall into my hands. My pulse still hasn’t settled. It’s absurd—the sheriff of Driftwood sitting in his own office like a man hiding from his mistakes.
I can’t afford another one. Not here. Not now.
Driftwood’s small. Secrets don’t stay buried long. If anyone connects me and Millie, it won’t just be gossip—it’ll be my job, my reputation, everything I built from scratch.
I came here to start clean. To get out of the stress, the noise, the burnout that came with city policing. I thought a quiet town would mean fewer messes to fix. And then I walked straight into one I made myself.
In a place like Driftwood Cove, sheriff isn’t just a job title; it’s a standard. If word got out that I’d picked up a local girl and spent the night losing my mind with her before I’d even taken my oath, my professional reputation would be dead on arrival.
They’d see me as just another out-of-town Alpha who couldn’t keep his instincts in check, and I can’t give them that ammunition.
Beyond the gossip, there’s the legal reality. As the head of law enforcement here, getting caught in an act of public indecency is a quick way to end up in handcuffs myself. I’m not just protecting my pride; I’m protecting the integrity of this office.
The town is still healing from the fires, and the last thing they need is a scandal involving the man supposed to be keeping them safe. I have to stay distant. I have to stay the sheriff. For both our sakes, that night has to stay in the dark.
It’s the only way I don’t destroy the community’s trust when I’m already an outsider from the NYPD.
The scanner buzzes again—nothing urgent. Jasmine answers, her voice steady, efficient. I listen to the rhythm of her conversation, the calm way she handles it. That’s how it should be. Routine. Predictable. Safe.
The word feels foreign in my head now.
Safe.
I glance at the clock again. Eleven-thirty. If I leave now, I’ll just lie awake. If I stay, at least I can pretend I’m working.
I pick up another file, start reading, force myself to focus on words that don’t matter—training schedules, arrest records, maintenance logs.
Anything but her.
But the longer I sit there, the clearer she becomes in my mind. The sound of her laugh at the meeting when they clapped for her, the way she tried not to look at me, the faint pink on her cheeks from recognition, the same shock I felt.
I press my thumb against the bridge of my nose. “Get your head straight,” I mutter to myself.
Tomorrow I’ll do better. Tomorrow I’ll be the sheriff they expect. The one who doesn’t screw up his first week on the job because of one night of weakness.
When Jasmine comes back with coffee, she sets a mug beside me. “You look like you’re carrying the stress of the whole town already,” she says lightly.
I manage a small smile. “Maybe just the night shift.”
She laughs. “Good answer.”
She goes back to her desk, and I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into my fingers. I stare at the wall of pinned notices—missing pets, upcoming fundraisers, a faded flyer for the volunteer fire brigade—and let the caffeine sting my tongue.
The night stretches on, long and quiet. Outside, the street’s empty now, the town asleep. Inside, the station hums softly—computers, scanner, the steady tick of the clock.
For the first time in hours, my heartbeat starts to slow. Work helps. Focus helps.
Maybe if I bury myself deep enough in this job, I can forget her.
At least that’s the lie I tell myself as the clock hits midnight and I start another pot of coffee.