Knox (McKenzie River Boys #1)

Chapter One

Knox

AJA FOXX

~ Knox ~

I hated driving into town. The act itself wasn’t complicated—twenty miles of cracked pavement, two blind curves, and one bridge with questionable integrity—but the psychological terrain was less predictable.

That was the part I despised.

The familiar landscape of McKenzie River always made my jaw seize up, like the muscles had memory and didn’t trust what was waiting. I rolled into Main Street at nine in the morning, a few minutes earlier than intended.

Chalk it up to leftover Marine punctuality, or maybe a desire to get the job over with before the regulars started loitering outside the diner and the VFW.

I parked the truck in front of McKenzie Hardware, dead center between a farm-scarred Silverado and an ancient Ford that looked like it was only held together by the bumper stickers.

I left the engine idling, catalogued my list for the fourth time—drill bits, masonry anchors, industrial-grade wood glue, pack of thirty-gauge wire, three pounds of roofing nails, blue Gatorade—before killing the ignition.

I counted to five, let the silence seep in.

Always felt like there should be more noise in a town this size, but McKenzie River had the kind of hush that made you suspicious. Like everyone was standing behind the windows, watching, waiting to judge your gait, your posture, the way your boots thudded against the concrete.

I preferred that to the chatter, honestly.

As I stepped out, the wind came up, sharp with the tang of cedar. The air in town was always cleaner than at the shop, where the dust from pine and pressure-treated lumber stuck to your skin.

Main Street was a standoff of faded colors—painted brick facades, sun-bleached signage, the grungy flag flying in front of the town hall. The buildings had more history than most of the people walking past them.

Half the storefronts were empty, the windows blind with for-rent signs that would never come down. That was the way here, everything lingering, even the failures.

I kept my head down, practiced ignoring the good-old-boys on the hardware store porch, even when one of them spat a brown rope of chew at my boots. They liked to remind me I’d “gone fancy” with that stint in the service and the expensive education that came after.

What they meant was, I didn’t play by the rules. I didn’t smile when I didn’t want to. I didn’t answer questions about family, or girls, or plans for the Fourth. I kept to myself, and that was enough to make me an asshole, apparently.

Today I barely made it ten paces before my attention snagged on movement across the street.

Newton Bridger was pacing the steps of the sheriff’s office, nervous as a cat. He was thinner than I remembered, his slacks hanging loose on his narrow hips, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled halfway up his forearms even though the morning was cold enough to make my breath ghost.

He had a black backpack clutched to his chest and he kept fidgeting with the strap, twisting it in his hands like he wanted to strangle it. I scanned him up and down, cataloging everything in a glance.

His hair was still that weird shade of not-quite-ginger, not-quite-blond, but it was the face that got me. There was a bruise on his cheekbone, old but ugly, purple shading out to piss-yellow at the edges. His lower lip was split and scabbed. He kept licking it, wincing every time.

I counted three times in thirty seconds that he walked up to the door of the sheriff’s department, reached for the handle, then turned away and made a lap of the steps instead.

My training said this was a threat indicator. A civilian who can’t commit to entering a government building is either up to something or running from something.

Judging by the state of his face, I had a good idea which. I watched him a little longer than I should have, then cursed under my breath and headed into the hardware store, pretending not to notice him again.

That was a lie. I noticed everything.

The bell over the door was shrill enough to make my ears ring. The inside of McKenzie Hardware was a wall-to-wall shrine to chaos—unfiled paperwork, racks of seed packets next to drill batteries, a display of fishing tackle that had been there since before I was born.

Old man Heimerdinger was at the counter, hunched over a stack of invoices. He didn’t look up.

I preferred it that way.

I took my time. Inventory always settled me, especially in a place like this. I loaded up a basket with supplies, resisted the urge to correct the order of the drill bits—someone had shuffled the 3/8” with the 1/4”—an affront to God and man—then circled back for the Gatorade.

I didn’t need it, but habits die hard and I liked the taste of chemicals when I was working. It kept the edge sharp.

The whole time, my mind ran background checks on Newton Bridger. I hadn’t spoken to him since his brother’s high school graduation, and even then it was more a nod across the gymnasium floor than a real conversation.

I remembered he was smart, real smart, the kind of smart that didn’t last long around here unless you hid it behind a stammer or a joke.

The Bridger family had money—old money, banking money—but they pissed it away on cars and gambling and the kind of vacations you brag about for years after.

The entire family was a disaster. The older brother was a shithead and a bully.

The mother was gone. The father had a reputation for being a prick, and that was among the people who liked him.

I didn’t even know what to think about the stepmother, who had been the mistress before Newton’s mother left.

I’d heard through the rumor mill that there was already another mistress in the works. Apparently, once Newton’s father married someone, he lost interest in them.

I paid for my order and left the change on the counter, ignoring Heimerdinger’s mutter about “city boys and their big bills.”

As I stepped back outside, the sun was climbing higher, bleaching out the town and making everything seem flatter.

The steps of the sheriff’s office were empty.

I spotted Newt again, this time hovering at the corner of the building, half-hidden behind the flagpole. He was still working up the nerve to go inside.

I should have minded my own business. I had a shop to run, work to finish, but there was something about the way he kept pulling at his sleeve, like he wanted to crawl inside it and disappear. I found myself crossing the street before I knew what I was doing.

“Sheriff’s not in yet,” I said, just loud enough to make him jump.

He spun, the panic plain on his face before he masked it with a weak smile. “Yeah, I… uh… I know. I was just—just waiting.”

“Looks like you’ve been waiting a while.” I nodded to the bruise, the scabbed lip. “You need something? I can tell Hardesty you stopped by.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m—” He bit off whatever lie he’d been planning and dropped his eyes. “I just needed a minute. Sorry.”

I didn’t say anything. I stood there and let the silence stretch. Most people can’t take that for more than five seconds. Newt lasted ten.

“It’s nothing. Just—bad timing. I should go.” He glanced at me, then away, then back again. “You’re Knox, right?”

“Last time I checked.”

He made a sound in his throat. Not quite a laugh, but something close. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

“I remember you.” More than he’d ever know.

“Oh.” He shifted from foot to foot. “Well. Good to see you.”

I nodded. “You, too.”

He looked at the ground. I looked at him. The wind picked up and for a second I thought he might just blow away, so light he barely dented the sidewalk.

I caught myself wanting to reach out and steady him, which was stupid and pointless, so I shoved my hands in my jacket pockets instead.

He started to turn, then stopped. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Did you—” He hesitated. “Did you ever want to just leave? This place, I mean.”

“Every day,” I said.

He nodded, like that made perfect sense. “Yeah, me too.” He walked off then, quick and hunched, head down against the wind.

I watched him until he rounded the corner, then let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. I stood there a while longer, staring at the empty steps of the sheriff’s office, the sun glaring off the badge painted on the door.

There was nothing for me here. There was nothing for anyone here.

I turned, grabbed the hardware bag tighter than necessary, and walked back to my truck. I had work to do. But my mind kept running the numbers, kept cataloging the odds and outcomes, kept watching the way Newton Bridger moved through the world, like he was already halfway gone.

I made it three steps from the truck before I sensed the shift. There was a certain wavelength assholes operate on, like a static buzz in your skull.

I turned and there they were—Luther Bridger and his three shadows, coming down the sidewalk like they owned it. Luther had the same brittle smirk he’d perfected in high school, all teeth and no sincerity.

His friends—different faces, same template—loud in that practiced way, punching shoulders, drawing the eyes of every window they passed. Even at a hundred feet, I could tell they had already started on the day’s drinking.

Probably never really stopped.

I scanned for Newt, out of habit, and caught him at the mouth of the alley between the sheriff’s office and the old post office, motionless and small.

The minute he saw Luther, he shrank further, like he thought the brick might swallow him if he pressed hard enough. All his earlier bravado was gone. He ducked out of sight as Luther’s group came up, eyes locked to the pavement.

I didn’t have to think about it. I found myself angling my body, setting a line between Luther’s trajectory and the alley where Newt was hiding.

Marine muscle memory. Shield the asset. Deny the threat a clear line of approach.

It was a reflex so ingrained I didn’t even realize I’d done it until Luther altered course to intercept me.