Chapter Ten #2
At 1:17, the door chimed and a delivery guy dropped off a package for “Sheriff Hardesty.” I signed for it, thanked him, then left it unopened on the end of the desk. My hands shook a little, so I clenched them into fists and forced myself to do paperwork. It didn’t stick; the words blurred.
The shop stayed dark.
At 2:58, a woman came in to file a complaint about “suspicious persons” on the hiking trails. I walked her through the forms, kept my voice even, nodded at all the right places. I caught myself doodling Ransom’s last name on the intake sheet, and had to ball it up and toss it. I blamed the pen.
At 4:10, I called the shop. The line rang six times, then went to voicemail. His voice sounded the same as always: “You’ve reached Inked Rebellion, and if you’re a cop, leave your badge number.” I almost laughed, but instead I just hung up.
Latham knocked on my office door at 5:06, poking his head in. “You good, Chief? You want me to lock up?”
I nodded. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
He lingered, reading my face. “You sure you’re all right?”
“Yeah,” I said, “I’m fine.”
He left, but I could feel him hovering, waiting for the sound of the outer door locking. I sat there, watching the shadows creep across Main Street, feeling the ache behind my ribs get heavier and heavier.
At 5:37, I gave up. I closed out of the day’s log, shut off the lights, and walked to the window for one last look. The shop was still dark. The only light on Main was the streetlamp by the alley, flickering against the dusk.
My phone was still dark, too.
I went to the locker room, changed into jeans and a flannel, and left the uniform folded on the bench. On the way out, I paused at the threshold, staring across the empty street. I thought about going to his place, but the last time I tried that, he wasn’t there.
The night pressed in, thick and absolute. I felt the snap of something inside me—the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d reach out first.
He hadn’t.
I got in the truck, sat there for a long time with my hands on the wheel, and tried to decide whether to go home or start searching. My chest ached. My head felt like it was full of bees. I put the truck in gear and headed out, the dashboard clock ticking off the seconds I couldn’t get back.
The world outside the station looked different at dusk—colors sharper, shadows longer, everything on the verge of vanishing. I drove straight to Ransom’s place, mind already working through the list of possible places he could be. My hands were so tight on the wheel that I couldn’t feel my fingers.
His apartment was on the second floor of a half-renovated Craftsman, the kind of place where you could hear your neighbors fucking and nobody called the cops.
The steps creaked under my boots. His mailbox was stuffed so full the lid wouldn’t close.
I stood there for a second, staring at the sad bulge of junk mail and overdue bills, then climbed up.
I knocked, loud. Nothing. I tried again, harder. The silence on the other side of the door was absolute. I almost used my badge to bluff my way in, but there was no point. I put my ear to the wood. No music, no voice, no sign of life.
Back in the truck, my heart started thumping so hard it made my head ring.
I drove to the Blacktail Bar, the only place in town with a pool table that didn’t have more duct tape than felt.
The parking lot was full—Thursday was trivia night—but his bike wasn’t there.
I went in anyway, searching the faces for any trace.
The air inside was thick with stale beer and the perfume of sweat and cheap tequila.
The bartender, a guy with a mustache so perfect it could have been a sticker, spotted me and gave a nod. “You looking for someone, Sheriff?”
“Seen McKenzie tonight?” My voice sounded shredded.
Mustache shrugged. “Not since Tuesday.”
I checked the back room, the patio, even the men’s room. Nothing.
Back in the cab, the panic started to build.
I tried the skate park next, then the gas station on the edge of town where he used to hang out with the burnout kids.
I drove to the river, parked, and walked the trail where he sometimes went to clear his head.
The only thing I found was a raccoon, dead and frozen on the shoulder of the path, and the way my breath fogged out in front of me.
Each failure made it harder to think. I went through every place I could remember him ever mentioning—a sandwich shop, a pawn shop, the shitty laundromat with the broken vending machine. No sign of him. Each time I left a spot, my chest got tighter, my thoughts more scattered.
Last stop: the McKenzie farm.
The gravel on the driveway sounded like bone chips under my tires.
There were lights on in the main house, and a few figures visible through the front window—shapes hunched over dinner or a board game.
I parked, turned off the engine, and sat for a minute, breathing like I was about to go into a fight. My hands would not stop shaking.
I walked up the path, boots crunching on the frost. The porch light was on. Before I could knock, the front door swung open. Knox McKenzie filled the frame, arms folded across his chest. He looked at me, and whatever I was hiding, he saw right through it.
“Evening, Sheriff,” he said. His voice was rougher than I remembered.
I tried to sound casual. “Evening, Knox. Is Ransom home?”
The way he looked at me—half contempt, half pity—told me everything. “Naw, man. He’s gone.”
For a second, the words didn’t land. “Gone?”
Knox let out a long, slow breath, like he’d been waiting to say it all night. “Packed up this morning. Said he needed to get away for awhile. Left before lunch. Didn’t say when he’d be back.”
I must have staggered, because the porch railing was suddenly under my hand. My vision narrowed to a pinpoint.
Knox looked past me, out into the empty night. “You okay, Sheriff?”
I tried to answer, but my throat was locked up. The world seemed to have gone silent except for the dull, rhythmic pulse of my own heart. I could hear the McKenzie family inside—clinking of forks, a sudden burst of laughter—but out here it was just me and the cold.
I squeezed the rail, forced myself to speak. “If he calls, can you tell him to call me?”
Knox’s eyes narrowed. “He in trouble?”
“No,” I said, and it was almost a laugh, the kind of laugh you choke on. “He’s not in trouble.”
We stood there for a second, both of us silent. The night pressed in around us, full of invisible things that used to be true.
Knox spoke first. “You want to come in? Coffee’s on.”
I shook my head. “No. Thank you.”
He nodded, and I could see the suspicion melting away, replaced by something else. Understanding, maybe. Or just the kind of sadness that doesn’t have a name.
I turned to go, but Knox called after me, voice softer now. “He’ll be back, Sheriff. He always comes back.”
The porch steps wobbled under my feet. I got to the truck, shut the door, and sat for a long time with the engine off, headlights cutting two pale cones through the night. My breath misted on the inside of the window.
I pressed my forehead to the steering wheel, knuckles white on the leather. I wanted to scream. I wanted to punch something until my hands were numb. I wanted to make sense of any of it, but I couldn’t.
Instead, I picked up my phone, stared at the empty message thread, and whispered the thing I hadn’t said to his face. The thing I’d spent my whole life avoiding.
I whispered it once, then again, just to see if I could survive it: “I love you.” It hurt in a way nothing else ever had.
I put the truck in reverse, backed out slow, and watched the lights from the house fade away in my mirror. I told myself Knox was right. That Ransom would come back. But right then, driving alone through the darkness, I wasn’t sure I believed it.
The drive home happened in slow motion. The dashboard clock flickered 11:47, then 11:54, then 12:03. I barely remembered the turns, the stop signs, the dead stop at the blinking red in front of Miller’s Feed. My hands knew the way without help from my brain.
When I pulled into my driveway, the headlights washed over the frost-silvered grass, making the yard look like the surface of the moon.
I cut the engine and sat there, the tick-tick-tick of the cooling block filling the air.
My breath ghosted on the window, and for a minute, I just stared at it, waiting for the condensation to run down like tears.
Inside, the house was even colder than before.
The heat had shut off hours ago, the thermostat blinking a warning I didn’t bother to read.
I shut the door behind me, locked it, and then pressed my back to the wood, waiting to feel something.
Instead, I just heard the hollow echo of my own heartbeat.
The living room was a museum of absence.
The couch where we’d sat together, me pretending to care about his dumb streaming shows while he dozed off with his feet in my lap.
The blue mug on the shelf—how the fuck did that get back here?
Had he snuck it in when I wasn’t looking?
I crossed to it, picked it up, and traced the hairline crack by the handle with my thumb.
I wanted to throw it, but I couldn’t. I set it back on the shelf, exactly where it belonged.
In the kitchen, the coffee pot was still set up from that morning, the cone filter full of spent grounds.
I lifted the pot and poured the dregs down the sink, then ran the faucet until the water ran clear.
I leaned over, staring at the drain, and remembered the way his hair always fell in his eyes when he was concentrating, how he’d make a face when he tasted the coffee, how he’d call me “old man” and kiss my cheek when he thought I wasn’t looking.
I gripped the edge of the sink until my knuckles went white. I wanted to scream. Instead, I turned off the tap and wiped the counter until it was dry.
In the hallway, I caught my reflection in the mirror.
The face was the same as this morning, but the eyes were older, the red rims darker.
I tried the neutral face, the one I’d practiced a thousand times, but it looked like a Halloween mask.
I punched the wall beside the mirror, just hard enough to sting, and then did it again.
The pain helped, for a second.
I went to the bedroom, peeled off my shirt, and let it fall to the floor.
I sat on the edge of the bed, hands on my knees, and stared at the patterns in the carpet.
There was a stain from the time Ransom spilled red wine and tried to hide it with baking soda.
I’d pretended not to see, because I liked the idea of something imperfect in the house.
I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to block out the memory. Didn’t work.
I lay back, but sleep wouldn’t come. I tossed, rolled, punched the pillow, but nothing made it better. Every part of me was awake, every nerve screaming with the need to move, to do something, to fix it.
So I got up. I put my uniform jacket on, then took it off and let it drop to the floor.
The badge glinted in the lamplight, the reflection stabbing me right in the chest. I stared at it for a long time, wondering if I’d traded the only real thing I’d ever wanted for the comfort of rules and appearances.
I walked back to the living room, past the blue mug, and collapsed on the couch.
The cushions were cold, but they held the shape of a memory.
I curled up, arms wrapped around my ribs, and let the grief take over.
It started as a single sob, sharp and sudden, then another, and another, until my whole body was shaking.
I cried like I hadn’t since my mother’s funeral, loud and ugly and relentless.
My throat burned. My eyes ached. I punched the arm of the couch until the pain in my knuckles matched the one in my chest. I sobbed until there was nothing left, until the house was silent again except for the uneven stutter of my own breath.
The badge lay on the floor, catching what little light was left. The house was dark, except for the single lamp in the living room. The phone was in my hand, the message thread still open, still empty.
I stared at the screen, willing it to light up, to give me some sign that it wasn’t really over. That he’d come back.
But it didn’t.
And all that was left was the sound of the house settling around me, creaking and shifting in the cold, the echo of every word I hadn’t said, and the ache of an empty space where he used to be.