Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
The sheriff’s office was a squat concrete building that looked like it had been designed by someone who thought aesthetic appeal was a waste of taxpayer money.
Sheriff Hawkins met us in the lobby, his weathered face carrying the kind of professional calm I remembered from childhood—the same steady presence who’d handled everything from lost cats to the occasional bar fight with equal measure.
“Leo. Mr. Steele.” He nodded to both of us. “Thank you for coming in. This shouldn’t take too much of your time.”
Dominic’s hand settled at the small of my back as we followed the sheriff through a maze of cubicles and file cabinets.
Hawkins led us to a conference room that was small and sterile, its fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows across a metal table where several labeled items of evidence were arranged in careful rows.
My breath caught when I saw them—the silver buckles gleaming under the artificial light, their intricate patterns instantly recognizable.
“These are definitely my grandfather’s work,” I said, leaning closer without touching the items. “The scroll pattern, the way the silver is integrated with the leather—it matches the photos I referenced to create the replicas. And see this maker’s mark here?
” I pointed to a tiny symbol etched into the metal. “That’s his personal stamp.”
Sheriff Hawkins made a note on his clipboard. “That’s exactly what we needed to confirm. Based on your identification and the forensic analysis, we’re officially treating the case as a homicide investigation.”
Homicide.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’d been hoping this was all a terrible mistake—that Thomas had died of natural causes, that there was some innocent explanation for why he’d been buried beneath Winslow’s pharmacy. But hearing it stated so bluntly made it real in a way that chilled me to the bone.
“Homicide,” I repeated quietly.
“I’m afraid so. Certain… forensic indicators all point to foul play.” Hawkins’ weathered face remained professionally composed, but I caught the slight hesitation before ‘forensic indicators.’ There was more he wasn’t telling us.
Beside me, Dominic’s scent sharpened with protective aggression. “Are you saying there’s a murderer who’s been walking free in this community for fifty years?”
“We’re investigating all possibilities.” Hawkins said as he picked up a thick folder and extracted several photographs—not of the crime scene, thank the heavens above, but of documents and what looked like family photos.
“We’ve located Thomas Wong’s family. Distant relatives in Vancouver who’ve been extremely cooperative.
They’re providing background information that’s helping us piece together Thomas’ final months. ”
He spread the photos across the table. Thomas Wong smiled up at us from various family gatherings—a young man with an intelligent face and gentle eyes, someone who looked like he belonged in architect’s offices and dinner parties.
“According to his family, Thomas had written to them about settling down in Millcrest,” Sheriff Hawkins continued.
“He was apparently involved with someone here, though he was secretive about the details. His letters stopped abruptly in March of 1973, just when he was supposed to visit them for Easter.”
My stomach clenched. March 1973. Right around the time the preservation project would have been reaching its critical phase, when decisions about the district’s future were being made. When my grandfather would have finished creating those beautiful, doomed shoes.
So Thomas could wear them to his grave.
A chill ran through me, and I found myself stepping backward until Dominic’s solid warmth pressed against my spine. His hand swept from my back to curve around my waist, while his other palm came to rest on my shoulder, anchoring me.
“Did his family say anything about who he might have been seeing?” I asked.
Hawkins’ jaw tightened, his weathered fingers drumming once against the table before falling still. His eyes flicked between Dominic and me, as if weighing whether he should answer my question.
“They mentioned he seemed happy but nervous in his last letters. Said he was hoping to start a family but was worried about… complications.” Sheriff Hawkins chose his words carefully.
“Small-town attitudes toward unmarried omegas weren’t always accepting in 1973.
And even though Millcrest had a growing Asian community by then, Thomas still faced questions about fitting in professionally as an outsider and an omega in an alpha-dominated field. ”
The euphemism hung in the air. Thomas had been worried about being an unmarried omega expecting a child.
My hand moved unconsciously to my stomach—Thomas was pregnant when he died.
“We’ll be interviewing long-time residents who might remember Thomas,” Hawkins continued.
“Anyone who might have information about his social connections or the preservation project he was working on. Given your grandfathers’ connection, I was hoping you might have records in storage that could help us—maybe an order receipt for the shoes? ”
“Of course,” I said. “My grandfather kept detailed records. You can have access to whatever you need.”
“That would be extremely helpful.” Sheriff Hawkins made another note. “We’re also arranging for Mr. Wong’s family to visit Millcrest in the next few days. They want to see where Thomas lived and worked, pay their respects. It might help them find some closure after all these years.”
The idea of grieving family members walking through our district, seeing the place where their relative had been murdered and hidden, made my chest tight with sympathy and anxiety.
“Is there anything else you need from us today?” Dominic asked, his protective instincts clearly urging him to get me away from this place.
“Not at the moment.” Sheriff Hawkins’ expression grew more serious. “I’ll send Martinez to collect your grandfather’s records. Don’t touch anything in the meantime.”
That last bit sent ice through my veins. I was the grandson of the man who’d made Thomas’ shoes—the very shoes he’d been buried in.
Was the sheriff insinuating that my grandparents were suspects?
The drive back to Blake’s penthouse passed in tense silence. Dominic kept glancing at me, his concern spiking through the bond as he picked up on my growing distress.
“You okay?” He finally asked.
“Yeah... I’m just thinking.” I replied.
“I can practically hear it through the bond.” He said.
My head snapped toward him, eyes widening. “You can hear my thoughts?”
He chuckled, the sound warm in the confined space of the car. “Not word for word, so don’t worry about that. It’s more like... impressions.” His voice dropped to a deeper register. “Sensations.”
“So you can feel that I’m thinking about something?”
He fell quiet, his fingers drumming once against the steering wheel before he finally spoke. “More like I feel the resulting emotions that come from what you’re thinking about.”
“Oh,” I said, a small flutter of relief washing through me. “I get that too.”
I turned to the window and stared out at the familiar streets, trying to imagine them as they would have been in 1973.
“Someone in our community is a murderer. Someone who’s been living among us for fifty years, maybe even talking to us at town meetings and holiday gatherings—living their life as if nothing happened. ”
“We don’t know that they’re still alive—”
“But they could be, right?” I turned to face him, my anxiety bleeding into real fear. “Thomas was young when he died. Even if his killer was older, they could easily still be alive. Still in Millcrest. Possibly still dangerous.”
Dominic’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “No one is going to hurt you.”
The automatic response—his protective declaration—should have been comforting. Instead, it reminded me of all the reasons I couldn’t trust him with the complete truth. How could I tell him about the baby when his solution to every threat was overwhelming force?
What if his idea of protection involved destroying anything that posed even a theoretical danger?
I couldn’t face those gray walls again, couldn’t survive another separation with visiting hours and bulletproof glass between us.
My phone buzzed as we pulled into Blake’s building. A text from Penny:
Emergency meeting at the Community Center tonight. Mrs. Henderson is in full crisis mode about the centennial celebration. Mayday, mayday! You HAVE to come help me survive this !!!
“Community meeting,” I told Dominic, showing him the message. “Apparently Mrs. Henderson is taking her new responsibilities as chief coordinator very seriously. Penny’s in a panic.”
Through the bond, I felt his immediate reluctance.
I understood his unwillingness to let me go anywhere that could lead to potential danger, no matter how small the likelihood of a dangerous situation occurring. But I needed his recognition that isolating me would only make things worse between us.
“I’ll come with you,” he said finally.
“Dominic—”
“As your mate. As a community member.” His silver eyes met mine. “Not as your bodyguard. I know the difference.”
The distinction mattered, even if I wasn’t sure why or if I believed it.
Everything felt fragile right now—our relationship, my secret, the safety I’d always taken for granted in the district.
But hiding in Blake’s penthouse wouldn’t solve anything, and Penny needed support dealing with whatever chaos Mrs. Henderson was orchestrating.
“Fine,” I said. “But no hovering… and I decide when it’s time to leave—”
“Deal.” His response was immediate. “No arguments on my end.”
The Community Center exterior sparkled with Christmas preparations, garland strung between lampposts and twinkling lights reflecting off frost-covered windows. But when I stepped inside the building, there was an underlying heaviness beneath the festive atmosphere.