Chapter Seventeen
~ Ransom ~
If there’s anything more surreal than watching the man you love come out in front of his ex-wife, it’s watching him try to check himself out of a hospital forty-eight hours later like he hasn’t been held together by tape and spite for a week.
I’m not built for caretaking, but the first thing they teach you when you’re the black sheep of your family is how to watch people without them noticing.
So I watched Floyd the whole time, sitting in the world’s least ergonomic chair while he bullied the day nurse, snuck real coffee into his IV drip, and proved to every attendant on the ward that a “doctor’s release” is more suggestion than law.
By the time I helped him into his jeans—he refused to leave in a hospital gown, on account of “having been emasculated enough for one lifetime”—he looked less like a near-fatality and more like someone who’d lost a long, stupid fight with a rabid raccoon.
Still handsome, but in a ruined, ex-cop sort of way.
The shiner on his cheek had faded to a brown-yellow, and his left wrist was mummified in ace bandage.
He moved like every rib was a raw nerve, but wouldn’t let me carry anything but the discharge paperwork.
“You sure you’re up for this?” I asked, offering my arm because that’s what people do in movies.
He just shot me a glare. “If you ever say the word ‘up’ again, I will personally break your kneecaps.”
“Fair enough,” I said, but didn’t move my arm.
He leaned into it anyway, pride be damned.
The elevator dinged open, and together we shuffled past the nurse’s station, Floyd’s lips pressed in a tight line like he was about to be called in front of the firing squad.
Instead, the younger nurse on shift just smiled and said, “You two take care of each other,” which made Floyd blush all the way to his hairline.
Out in the parking lot, the wind had that bite you only get this time of year, sharp enough to remind you you’re alive. Knox had parked my truck at the curb.
Floyd glared at the battered Ford like it had called his mother names. “Couldn’t have gotten anything with suspension?”
“If you’d rather, Knox offered to carry you home in a wheelbarrow,” I said. “You’d have to fight Harlow for it.”
He rolled his eyes. “Get in. I need to stop at the station before we go anywhere.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You’re supposed to be off duty. Doctor’s orders.”
He leaned his head against the seat and let out a breath, the tough-guy act crumpling for a second. “I just want to check in. That’s all.”
It wasn’t “all,” but I wasn’t going to fight him on it. Not today.
The ride into town was mostly quiet. Floyd watched the landscape go by like he was seeing it for the first time, eyes flicking from the frost-crusted fields to the patchwork of winter woods.
There were stories in every half-burnt barn, every porch swing, every hand-painted mailbox. He pointed out a few, sometimes just with a grunt or a chin-tilt. For a man who hated words, he could say a lot without talking.
After a while, he started to fidget. “You think people know?”
I shrugged. “Depends what you mean. The hospital staff definitely do. Latham figured it out before either of us did, so that’s a given. Your ex-wife is already writing her tell-all memoir, so—yeah, probably the whole damn valley.”
He let out a snort. “Bet there’s a betting pool.”
“Knox is running it,” I said. “I’m favored to leave you at the altar for a traveling circus.”
“That checks out.”
He went quiet again. By the time we hit Main Street, the sun was climbing, burning off the mist that clung to the river. The town looked smaller than I remembered. Maybe because, after the last few days, it was.
I pulled in behind a patrol car, which was parked crooked in front of the station. Latham was on the curb looking like he hadn’t slept since the incident. When he saw us, he jogged over, arms open like he was going to help, then realized what that meant and pretended he was just stretching.
“Morning, boss,” he said, voice a little too loud. “You look… good.”
Floyd grunted, then reached for the door handle with his good hand. I got there first, opened it for him, and watched his face to see if he’d make a scene. He didn’t.
Latham caught my eye and mouthed, “Thank you,” as if I’d just delivered the world’s most volatile package.
We made our way up the steps, Floyd refusing to lean on me even as he limped and swore under his breath. At the top, he paused, turned back to me. “You coming in?”
I shrugged. “Figured you’d want to keep this low-key.”
For a second, I thought he’d let me go. Then he said, “Fuck that. You’re with me.”
The lobby was chaos. Not the busy kind, but the aftermath kind, when everyone pretends to work but actually just gossips about what went down.
There were three deputies, a dispatcher, and what looked like half the town’s retirees crammed in with coffee and cinnamon rolls from Rosie’s Bakery.
And every eye in the room went straight to us.
Not just to Floyd. To us.
I felt the old itch of shame, the instinct to shrink or make a joke, but Floyd just squared his shoulders, reached back, and took my hand. Not subtle. Not apologetic.
You could have heard a fly fart.
He walked us straight through, past the wide-open mouths and the coffee halfway to lips. Past Latham, who gave me a thumbs up so exaggerated I wanted to punch him. Past the old-timers who’d spent their whole lives betting on whether Floyd Hardesty was a real person or just a well-dressed cyborg.
At the door to his office, he stopped, let go of my hand, and looked at me. Not angry, not ashamed. Just tired, and grateful.
“You good here?” he asked.
“I’m good,” I said, and meant it.
He nodded, then walked in, shutting the door behind him.
I stood in the middle of the lobby, the silence now thick enough to wade through. For the first time in my life, I didn’t want to disappear. I wanted to stay, to see what happened next.
Latham sidled up, his smile so wide it nearly wrapped around his head. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “About time.”
“What?” I said, feigning innocence.
He just shook his head, grinning. “You know, the pool was two to one you’d both chicken out. Guess I owe Miller five bucks.”
Behind me, the retirees were still watching. I raised a hand in a lazy salute, like, Yes, it’s true, the world still spins and now it’s just a little gayer.
Outside, the sky was clear and blue. Inside, nobody cared if I existed or not, which was fine by me. Because for once, I wasn’t hiding. And Floyd was waiting for me. It wasn’t happily ever after, not yet. But it was the closest I’d ever come.
And that was enough.
Inside the sheriff’s office, I did my best to blend into the scenery, which was tough given I was six-three, tattooed to the gills, and still wearing a flannel that smelled like hospital air and Floyd’s shampoo.
The place was just as I remembered: an open bullpen, tan paint job chosen to offend nobody, and desks that had been there since at least Reagan.
In the center, Floyd sat at his desk, the chair creaking under him, while his deputies rotated in and out, dropping folders, questions, and gossip like it was all part of one seamless job description.
He answered everything. He was good at it—efficient, sharp, never raising his voice.
Even now, stitched up and running on nothing but adrenaline and painkillers, he had the room eating out of his hand.
I watched him field a call from the DA, negotiate the return of a meth-lab dog to its owner, and coordinate a charity car wash for the local little league, all without missing a beat.
I hated how easy he made it look. I also hated how much I loved him for it.
While Floyd wrangled the chaos, Knox materialized at my side.
He did that—showed up without warning, all muscle and beard, like the world’s most intimidating AA sponsor.
He wore a jacket that hadn’t been cool since the 1970s and had a mug of gas-station coffee that could strip paint off a battleship.
He nodded at the deputies, who scattered like startled quail, and jerked his chin toward the lobby.
We stepped outside, onto the concrete steps. Main Street was all hard sunlight, the sky cloudless and blue as a gas flame. Across the street, Inked Rebellion waited—my shop, my world, my home. The windows were dark, the signboard above freshly scrubbed but still showing the ghost of old graffiti.
Knox handed me a ring of keys. “Figured you’d want to be the first in.”
“Police finish up?” I asked, twirling the keys so I wouldn’t have to meet his eyes.
He nodded. “CSI wrapped up yesterday. Family and I did what we could, but…” He trailed off, and for once, the silence felt like mercy.
He put a heavy hand on my shoulder. “You want company?”
I shook my head. “Not unless you want to see a grown man ugly-cry on a Tuesday.”
He snorted. “I seen worse. You should’ve watched Latham try to do the Heimlich on a dog last week.”
I almost smiled, but the tension in my neck wouldn’t let it land.
Knox walked me across the street. The whole time, I expected him to say something big-brotherly—chin up, or some bullshit about fate, or how “it builds character.” Instead, he just paced alongside me, a silent, solid wall. When we got to the front door, he stepped aside, hands in his pockets.
I fumbled the key, but the lock turned smooth. It was the only thing that had survived untouched.
Inside, I found the aftermath.
They’d repainted the walls, just like he’d said.
The color was close, but not perfect, and the flash art I’d hung over the years was gone—every frame, every ink print, every blown-up photo of a satisfied customer.
In their place, there were faint lines of spackle, damp and uneven, like scars that would never quite heal.