Chapter Two
~ Floyd ~
There’s a precise moment each day, before the town stirs itself awake, when the world feels not exactly clean but at least contained. That’s the moment I live for.
Sometimes I catch it driving the county roads at first light, sometimes it’s the deliberate click of my own front door as I lock it behind me, but always it’s there: the sense that, for a few heartbeats, things make sense.
Today it’s the latter. I double-check the deadbolt, let my palm linger against the cool brass, then walk the perimeter. Habit, not paranoia. Perimeter check is as natural to me as breathing.
My neighbor’s tabby stares from the porch rail next door, eyes slitted and mean, and I think about how Ransom McKenzie would paint the scene—something about predators and prey, if his wit in person is anything like the mural work he puts up in his shop.
I shake off the thought, boots crunching over the last thin scab of frost on the walk, and swing up into my truck. Engine kicks over first try, because I maintain it the way a man should.
I sit for a second, watching my own breath fog the glass, then reach for the sun visor and snap it down. My whole uniform is perfect—never a thread out of place—but I still run a hand over my collar, check the pin, make sure the hair is precisely in line.
You don’t get to be the face of law in McKenzie River by looking like you rolled out of a deer blind. My old sergeant used to say: If you don’t respect the badge, no one else will. I can still hear the gravel in his voice, and sometimes I echo it back just to prove I’m still listening.
Main Street at sunrise is nothing but silhouettes and gold-pink light. I roll slow, no sirens. I want to see who’s up, who’s out, who’s already plotting to get my day off on the wrong foot.
Jenkins is on his usual circuit—old bastard moves at exactly one mile per week, but he sees more than people think. I clock him in my rearview, cane tapping out an arrhythmic warning to the rest of the street.
Ahead, the bakery’s already got the lights on, and I can almost taste the cinnamon in the air. I skip the temptation and park where I always do, nose in against the curb right across from Inked Rebellion.
I don’t need to watch the tattoo shop to know its rituals. I have a running list: 0800, Ransom is in there rearranging his set-up, maybe prepping stencils or just staring down the world through his big front window.
Sometimes he wipes the glass like he’s erasing evidence. Sometimes he lingers with his back turned, daring me to come over. I’ve learned it’s better not to rise to the bait.
My phone buzzes in the console. I glance, see it’s from the office, and let it ride.
I have fifteen minutes before the morning meeting, and I use it to walk the block, check the alley, get the lay of things.
The town runs on routines, but routines are just the soft underbelly for people with bad intentions.
There have been three break-ins in the last two weeks.
Nothing high dollar—tools, some irrigation equipment, couple of propane tanks—but the pattern is the thing.
Always the south end, always between midnight and two, always a window or latch jimmied with careful, practiced hands.
My gut says kids, but my gut’s been wrong before, and I know better than to ignore the other angles.
You never ignore the McKenzies.
I do a lap, then circle back to my truck.
I let myself look, just once, through the wide window of Inked Rebellion.
Ransom is there, arms crossed over his chest, watching.
He’s wearing a long-sleeved black shirt today, which means he either has a client who’s skittish about seeing ink, or he’s trying to be less of a spectacle.
It doesn’t work.
The man could wear a burlap sack and still look like trouble. He’s taller than most men have a right to be, and the way he fills a room even when he’s standing still—well. There’s a reason every rumor in town eventually loops back to him.
He sees me, but pretends not to. Good. If I ever gave him the satisfaction of being rattled, he’d never let it go.
I let my expression go flat, then turn away, pretending the interest is in the bakery next door.
But I clock every detail—who goes in, who comes out, who lingers at the display cases, who never makes it inside at all.
At 0800 on the dot, my phone buzzes again. I pick up. “Hardesty.”
It’s the dispatcher. “Hey, Chief. Rosalie’s got a noise complaint already. It’s—” I can hear her flipping a page. “—the bakery again. Says the mixer’s waking up the neighborhood.”
I sigh. “That’s not a code violation unless it’s before six.”
“Should I tell her you said that?”
“Tell her I’ll check it out on my rounds,” I say, and hang up.
I have a list of priorities. Number one: keep the peace.
Number two: don’t let the peace keep you.
Which means I get my own coffee, from the gas station, because Rosie’s is a powder keg this early, and the last thing I need is to be drawn into a three-way brawl over gluten-free cinnamon rolls before I’ve had my caffeine.
I drive the county roads for a while, just to get the smell of ink and disinfectant out of my head. When I come back through town, it’s time for the morning stand-up with the deputies. There’s just three of us now that Deputy Collins was arrested, which means we don’t have the luxury of screwups.
My guys are good, but young. Most of them are hoping to transfer out to Eugene or Salem within a couple years. No one comes to McKenzie River for a lifetime appointment unless they’re me, or old as dirt. I’m the first category, which means I have to be better.
Deputy Latham is already in the squad room, polishing his boots, because he still believes in upward mobility. “Morning, Chief,” he says, not looking up.
“Latham.” I nod, then tap the desk with the files I brought from the car. “Got a new one for you. High school’s reporting some vandalism on the north side. Paint. Nothing too offensive, but it’s on the gym doors.”
“Is it—” He pauses, thinking how to phrase it. “—gang related?”
“It’s a penis, Dan. Just a penis.” I allow a half-smile, because the joke’s too easy.
He grins, shakes his head. “Copy that.”
I go over the other cases—coyote sightings, a fender bender, a lost dog—then set them loose. I want Latham on the break-in, but I want his eyes on the high school first. The timeline on the thefts is too tight for a kid who’s pulling all-nighters for finals.
I retreat to my office. It smells like old paper and floor polish, and the window is just smudged enough to make me itch. I clean it. There’s a satisfaction in that, the same satisfaction I get from putting my badge exactly where the sun hits it on the coat rack every night. Little things, in line.
It doesn’t last. My phone vibrates with a text from an unknown number: My number. In case you remember something.
I stare at the message for a long time, then check the sender.
It’s local, but not in my phone. Which means Ransom didn’t use his personal, or he got a new one.
Or maybe he wants me to know he’s got a burner, like I wouldn’t be able to track it if I wanted to.
I don’t reply. I just let the phone sit on the desk, vibrating every couple minutes as Ransom sends nothing, and then nothing, and then finally a picture of the sun rising over Main Street.
The son of a bitch. He’s baiting me, but he’s good at it. I delete the photo, but not before saving it to my hidden folder. Sometimes the enemy knows exactly how to get under your skin.
By noon the day is already slipping sideways. There’s a report of livestock theft on one of the outlying farms, and a rumor that the McKenzie clan is running an illegal distillery out in the woods.
I know for a fact that’s true—the old man never let Prohibition go out of style—but I also know that busting the operation would be more trouble than it’s worth.
The whole valley runs on a quiet arrangement: as long as no one gets hurt, I let the traditions slide.
Besides, the shine is better than what they sell at the grocery store, and everyone knows it.
Still, it puts me on edge. There’s a pattern to the break-ins, and the more I map it, the more I suspect it’s not just kids. It’s surgical. Almost professional. I start a new file, handwrite the details, connect the dots. By two p.m. I have a lead, but I don’t like it.
I get in the truck, drive out past the river to the old bridge, and sit with the engine off.
The only sounds are the crows and the slow trickle of water.
I watch the surface, flat and shining, and think about the stories my father told me about this place—how the McKenzie clan used to dump bodies here during the feud years, how sometimes the ghosts still walked the banks at dusk.
There’s a darkness in this valley, old as the dirt, and it’s my job to keep it contained. I take pride in that. But lately, I feel it pressing closer, like the river’s running a little higher every day.
After an hour I go home, strip out of the uniform, and put on a flannel shirt that still smells faintly of the cedar closet. I make myself a sandwich, eat it standing up, and then walk the perimeter of the house again. Just in case.
The doorbell rings at 1800, which means it’s either a Jehovah’s Witness or my ex-wife. I open the door. It’s my ex-wife.
“Vivian,” I say. “You’re early.”
She holds out a Tupperware. “Brought you casserole. Saw you at the bakery this morning, figured you’d appreciate a home-cooked meal.”
I take the dish, careful not to touch her hand. “I’m good, thanks. But appreciated.”
She doesn’t leave. Instead, she plants herself in the doorway, arms folded, eyes scanning the living room behind me like she’s looking for evidence of a crime. “You still keeping your own house?” she says, voice sweet as glass.
“Not much changes,” I say. “You need something?”
She sighs. “You could call more. Levi’s having a rough time, and it’s not helping him that you’re—” She gestures at me. “—emotionally unavailable.”
“Levi’s fine,” I say, almost rolling my eyes. Levi did not need me to be ‘emotionally available’. He wasn’t my kid no matter how much Viv wished otherwise. “Levi’s a seventeen-year-old boy, and he’ll get over it. What he needs is less supervision, not more.”
She makes a face. “He’s my stepson, Floyd. You could take more of an interest.”
I take a breath. “Noted.”
She stands there a beat longer, then sniffs and heads back to her car. The casserole is heavy, dense, and probably loaded with enough sodium to kill a horse. I set it on the counter and make a mental note to take it into the station for the deputies.
At night, I sit on the back porch with a glass of the McKenzie’s best, watch the river shine under the moon, and let myself think, just for a minute, about Ransom.
He’s like a splinter, that man—sharp and impossible to ignore. I could rationalize my attention any way I liked: he’s a person of interest, he’s disruptive, he’s dangerous. All true. But it’s not the whole truth.
When I see him through that glass, arms folded, eyes burning a challenge, I want to cross the street. I want to call his bluff. I want to touch that stubborn jaw, see if the stubble bites as much as his words do. I want—hell, I don’t even know what I want.
It’s easier to stay on my side of the street. Cleaner, simpler. I finish my drink, then take the bottle and smash it in the trash, sharp end up.
Order. Containment. Routine.
I tell myself that’s all I need. I tell myself that hard enough, I almost believe it. But tomorrow’s another day, and I already know who’ll be waiting in the window.
Maybe next time I’ll cross over.
Maybe next time I won’t come back.