Chapter 3 - Tom
It's not enough.
I know fear when I see it. Spent fifteen years in the military, saw it on the faces of soldiers before their first firefight, on civilians caught in war zones, on people who knew that danger was coming and had nowhere to run.
Claire Donovan has that look. Not the fresh fear of someone facing immediate danger, but the worn-down fear of someone who's been living with it for so long it's become part of her. The kind that makes you check over your shoulder, flinch at sudden movements, weigh every word before you speak.
Someone hurt her. Someone she's running from.
And she's got a four-year-old kid who thinks this is all an adventure.
I start the car and pull out of the parking lot, heading back toward town. The sky has gone full gray now, those rain clouds finally making good on their promise. The first drops hit my windshield as I turn onto Main Street.
The scars pull tight, reminding me of the explosion that should have killed me. Would have killed me, if Sergeant Davis hadn't pulled me out of the rubble. He died three months later in a different explosion, in a different country, and I wasn't there to return the favor.
The things that stay with you. The debts you can never repay.
I park outside the station and sit there for a moment, rain drumming on the roof. I should go inside, finish up the paperwork, check in with Deputy Williams, make sure everything's running smoothly.
Instead, I pull out my phone and dial a number I haven't called in months.
"Tom Harris." Murphy's voice is warm with surprise. "Calling me? To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Need a favor."
"Name it."
"Woman came into town today. Claire Donovan. She's staying at the motel for now, but she's going to need a job. Something flexible, if you've got it. She has a four-year-old son."
Murphy's quiet for a moment. "You vouching for her?"
"I am."
"That's good enough for me, but Tom, I just hired someone last week.
Kid named Danny, fresh out of high school.
Good worker, needs the money." He pauses.
"Tell you what, tell her to come by tomorrow afternoon anyway.
I've been thinking about taking some time off.
Maybe it's time I actually use those vacation days my daughter keeps nagging me about.
If Claire works out, she can cover some of my shifts. "
"Thanks, Murphy."
"You okay, Tom? You sound... I don't know. Off."
"Fine. Just been a long day."
"If you say so. Come by for dinner this week. Real dinner, not just a quick burger at the counter like today."
"I'll try."
I hang up before he can push harder. Murphy's a good friend, but he's also perceptive as hell, and I don't want to explain why I'm calling in favors for a woman I met two hours ago.
The truth is, I don't understand it myself.
I head inside, wave at Williams who's manning the front desk, and shut myself in my office.
The paperwork takes longer than it should because I can't focus.
Keep thinking about the way Claire looked at me, like she wanted to trust me but didn't know how.
Like she'd learned the hard way that trust gets you hurt.
And the kid. Jackson. Dark hair and brown eyes and a stuffed dinosaur named Rex. Four years old, small for his age, completely unaware that his mother is terrified.
I know what it's like to grow up scared. My old man had a temper and a drinking problem, and my mother spent most of my childhood walking on eggshells, trying to keep the peace. It didn't work. Nothing ever worked. I got out the day I turned eighteen, joined the military, never looked back.
Some kids don't get out.
By the time I finish the paperwork and lock up the office, it's past eight. The rain is coming down harder now, a steady downpour that turns the streets slick and reflective. I drive home on autopilot, park in my usual spot, and sit in the driveway staring at my house.
Small. Quiet. Empty.
I should eat something. Should put on some music, crack open a book, pour a glass of whiskey and let the day drain away. Should do all the things I normally do when I'm home alone.
Instead, I sit there in the car, rain hammering the roof, thinking about a woman with tired brown eyes and a little boy who loves dinosaurs.
A few hours later…
Sleep doesn't come easy.
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the rain. My mind won't shut off. Keeps circling back to Claire, to the way she moved, to the fear that flickered across her face when I first approached.
Who is she running from? A husband? Boyfriend? Someone dangerous enough to make her pack up her whole life and get on a bus to nowhere?
It's not my business. She made that clear. I'm just the sheriff who helped her find a decent place to stay. Tomorrow, she'll figure out her next move, and I'll go back to my regular routine of traffic stops and noise complaints and checking on Mrs. Patterson's lost cat.
Except I can't stop thinking about Jackson's small hand clutching that dinosaur. About the way Claire held herself together even when I could see she was one wrong word away from breaking.
I roll over, punch my pillow, and close my eyes. When I finally drift off, I dream about explosions and smoke and someone calling for help that I can't reach.
Next Day
I wake up at five-thirty, same as always. The rain has stopped, leaving everything wet and clean and smelling like pine. I go through my morning routine on autopilot—shower, coffee, toast with peanut butter. Check my phone for any overnight emergencies. Nothing urgent.
By six-thirty, I'm dressed and out the door. Tell myself I'm just doing an early patrol. Checking on things. Making sure the storm didn't cause any damage.
The truth is harder to admit.
I can't stop thinking about them.
I drive through town, taking my usual route.
Everything looks normal. The bakery is already open, lights bright in the pre-dawn gray.
A few early risers are out walking their dogs.
The stoplight at Main and Cedar is working properly.
It's been on the fritz lately, and I've been meaning to call the county about it.
I turn onto Route 9 without consciously deciding to. The motel appears ahead, its neon sign still flickering in the morning light. There are maybe six cars in the parking lot. A sedan in front of Room 7.
I tell myself I'm just checking. Making sure they're okay. Making sure no one bothered them during the night.
I tell myself this is part of my job.
I park a few spots down and sit there for a moment, engine running. What am I doing? I can't just knock on their door at six-forty-five in the morning. Claire will think I'm stalking her. Or worse, that I'm exactly the kind of man she's running from.
I should leave. Come back later with a legitimate excuse. Maybe bring information about job opportunities or rental listings. Something professional. Something that doesn't make me look like a lonely middle-aged sheriff who can't stop thinking about a woman he met yesterday.
Before I can make a decision, the door to Room 7 opens.
Jackson comes out first, still in his pajamas, holding Rex and looking around with sleepy curiosity. Claire follows, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, wearing the same clothes from yesterday. She's scanning the parking lot, checking for threats, I realize. Looking for danger.
Her eyes land on my car. I see the recognition, followed immediately by wariness. She puts a hand on Jackson's shoulder, ready to pull him back inside if necessary.
No choice now. I turn off the engine and get out, raising one hand in what I hope is a non-threatening gesture.
"Morning," I call out. "Sorry to bother you so early."
She doesn't answer right away. Just keeps watching me, one hand on her son, like she's calculating how quickly she can get him to safety if I turn out to be a threat.
"Mommy, it's the sheriff!" Jackson bounces on his toes. "He likes dinosaurs!"
"I remember, baby." Her voice is steady, but I can see the tension on her shoulders. "Stay close to me."
I stop walking when I'm still a good ten feet away. Far enough that I'm not crowding them. Close enough to talk without shouting.
"I was doing my morning patrol," I say. The lie comes easily. "Wanted to check in, make sure you had everything you needed."
"We're fine." She shifts slightly, putting herself more firmly between Jackson and me. "You didn't need to come by."
"I know." I pause, trying to figure out how to say what I need to say without making this worse.
"Look, I talked to a friend of mine last night.
Guy named Murphy who owns the grill on Main Street.
He just hired someone last week, but he said if you stop by this afternoon, he'll see what he can work out.
He's been thinking about taking some time off, and if you're interested, you might be able to cover some of his shifts. Flexible hours, decent pay."
"You didn't have to do that."
"I know. But I did anyway." I shrug. "Murphy's a good guy. Fair boss. And the food's excellent, so you won't go hungry."
"I..." She stops, takes a breath. "Thank you. That's, that's really kind."
"He said to stop by this afternoon if you want to talk about it. No pressure."
Jackson tugs on his mother's shirt. "Mommy, I'm hungry."
"I know, baby. We'll get breakfast in a minute."
"There's a bakery on Main Street," I say. "Opens at six. Best muffins you'll ever taste, and they always have chocolate milk for the kids."
"Why are you doing this?" she finally asks. The same question from yesterday, but with a different tone. Less defensive, more genuinely confused.
"Because you need help," I say simply. "And because I can."
"You don't know me."