Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
WINSLOW
“I’m going to run home and grab a new shirt,” I told Janice, frowning at the mess I’d made of my white blouse.
My sleeve, stained with black coffee, was as much of a disaster as my desk. Folders, reports and sticky notes cluttered the brown wooden surface. Or was it gray? I hadn’t seen it in two days.
I was officially buried.
When Janice had come in to tell me that it was time for the weekly staff meeting with the administration crew—an unofficial standing meeting that hadn’t been on my calendar—I’d been in such a rush to join them that when I’d gone to grab my coffee mug, a blob had leapt out of the cup and splattered my shirt.
“Will you call me if anything comes up?” I asked.
“Of course.” She smiled and walked for the door, pausing at the threshold. “You’re doing great, Winslow.”
“Am I? Because I feel like I’m drowning.” Something I’d only admit to Janice. She was my one and only ally at the station. Winning people over was going slower than I’d expected. Much slower.
It was my age. No one had outwardly admitted that they thought I was too young—not to my face. But the sideways looks had held unspoken words. Doubts.
I can do this job.
Maybe the others doubted me but I wasn’t about to doubt myself. Much.
“You’re drinking from a fire hose right now, but it will get easier,” Janice promised. “And the folks here will come around. Give it time.”
I sighed. “Thank you.”
She gave me a sure nod, then slipped away for her spotless desk.
Taking my purse from the bottom drawer, I scanned the piles of reports to review and officer résumés to read.
Tonight, I’d take another stack home and read over them like I had last night.
I was in learning mode, trying to familiarize myself with the staff.
I’d also had Janice pull every case file from the past three months so I could glean what type of crimes happened in Quincy.
So far, it had been nothing more than four drunken drivers, a busted high school kegger, one bar fight and a domestic disturbance. Janice had warned me that there was a meth arrest hidden in the mix but I hadn’t reached that file yet.
Overall, the officer files were thin, too thin. The reports were short, too short. And everything was handwritten on paper templates.
Pops hadn’t been kidding when he’d told me that the Quincy Police Department needed a shove into the future. Though shove seemed too gentle a word. What we needed was a bulldozer.
I was that bulldozer.
Walking through the bullpen, I waved at Allen, one of the day-shift officers.
He nodded, his eyes darting to my sleeve. The corner of his mouth turned up.
I shrugged. “Coffee attacked me.”
“That’s why I’m partial to our black shirts and pants. Hides the spills.”
“My uniform order is supposed to get in today. Then I’ll be sticking to black shirts too.” I smiled and headed for the door.
Okay, that was nice. Allen hadn’t avoided eye contact. Progress, right?
I waved at Officer Smith when I passed him for the lobby, hoping for a nod. “I’m going to run home quickly. Would you please call me if anything comes up?”
He ignored me, like he had for the past two days. Even when we’d bumped into each other in the break room yesterday, he’d acted like I hadn’t even been there. The heat from his glare burned down my spine as I walked out the door.
Early retirement. We were definitely going to discuss an early retirement if he didn’t change his attitude.
I plucked my sunglasses from my purse, using them to shield my eyes from the glare and cover up the dark circles under my eyes—sleep hadn’t been easy this week.
My Durango was parked beside Allen’s cruiser.
The leather seats were warm and the air stuffy.
I cracked my window, drawing in the scent of summer sunshine.
Located in the heart of western Montana, Quincy was about an hour from Glacier National Park.
The town was situated in a valley surrounded by snowcapped mountains, their slopes covered by a dense evergreen forest. The Clark Fork River cut a path through the trees and provided a natural border on one side for the city limits.
Pops would take us camping along the river when I was a kid. My family would spend a few precious summer weekends at his favorite sites, where we’d fish and hike and roast s’mores.
At every turn, Quincy held a memory.
Visiting Pops had always felt like an adventure. My father had grown up here, and for him, Quincy was home. Mom and Dad would have loved to see me living here. They probably would have followed me from Bozeman.
Though if they hadn’t died, I doubted I would have moved to Quincy.
If they hadn’t died, a lot would be different.
At every turn, Quincy held a memory.
I had yet to decide if that was good or bad.
Pushing the past aside, I took in the tourists meandering down the sidewalks on Main. Because of our proximity to Glacier, Quincy would be bustling until fall with out-of-town visitors.
As the mayor, Pops loved the influx of cash to his small town. As a resident, the tourists tended to grate on his nerves. The abundance of visitors was the reason he loved whisking us away to the mountains for summer campouts.
It had been during the fall and winter visits that we’d actually stayed in Quincy to explore. Not much had changed since my childhood. There was comfort in the familiar.
As in most small Montana towns, Main Street was a segment of the highway that led in and out of town. Everything branched away from Quincy’s downtown, like arteries from a thriving heart. But the bulk of the commerce was right here, all clustered together in the town’s core.
Restaurants, bars and retail shops were the primary appeal for our seasonal visitors.
Offices and banks filled the gaps in between.
Mom’s favorite stop had always been the antique shop.
Dad’s, the hardware store. The grocery store and two gas stations acted as the bookend to one side of Main. Quincy Farm and Feed was the other.
The community took pride in this street. The window displays were artful and charming. Flower baskets hung from lampposts in summer, holiday garlands and twinkle lights in winter.
I loved this town.
My town.
It hadn’t quite sunk in yet that Quincy was mine.
Maybe because I felt more akin to the tourists than the locals.
I slowed at a crosswalk, waiting for a couple to navigate the intersection. Between them was a little girl wearing a yellow jumper and an adorable smile. Her parents swung her between them after every count of one-two-three-yippee.
Once upon a time, I’d been that little girl.
“What is wrong with me today?” I shook my head, snapping myself out of the past, then I took the next side street on my route to home.
Mom and Dad had been a constant on my mind these past two days. Probably because I was in Quincy. Probably because so much had changed in just a week.
A new house. A new job.
Moving was the right decision, but that hadn’t made it easy. I missed my friends in Bozeman. I missed my old department and my coworkers.
Sure, I had Pops, and it was wonderful to see him every day. In time, I’d fit in here. But at the moment, being new felt a lot like being alone.
Was that why I’d slept with Griffin on Sunday?
I cringed for the hundredth time just thinking about his face at the restaurant.
Pops and Harrison Eden had chatted through the entire meal, carrying the conversation. Griffin had barely uttered a word. He’d simply sat there, glowering at his plate, while I’d forced a smile and done my best to make small talk with his father.
The tension radiating off of Griffin’s shoulders had grown exponentially over the meal. Regret had been so plainly written on his handsome face that I’d nearly faked a stomachache to escape.
Thankfully, he’d bolted first. The moment he’d finished his club sandwich, he’d excused himself from the table.
I was still mad at myself for checking out his ass as he’d walked away.
With any luck, a few months would pass before we bumped into each other again. Maybe by then I’d stop thinking about his naked body in the backseat of his truck.
Griffin Eden was a one-time mistake, and with any luck, not a soul in Quincy would find out I’d screwed him my first night in town.
My house was a single-story Craftsman painted dove gray with white shutters. I parked in the driveway and made my way up the brick porch steps to the red front door.
The door was the reason I’d bought this house—that and because there had only been three places on the market.
This two-bedroom, one-bathroom house was the perfect size for my simple life. I didn’t need a large yard. The extra bedroom would become my office because I didn’t need a guest bedroom—I rarely had guests.
I hurried inside and ignored the disaster that was the living room. Boxes crowded the couch in the center of the room. They’d gone untouched since Sunday because I’d spent every evening since reviewing case files.
My bedroom was in the same state—maybe worse.
On one side of the room, three suitcases were open, their contents spilling onto the hardwood floors.
Somewhere under this roof there were hangers, I just had yet to find them.
I dug through the closest pile of clothes, finding a new shirt, then stripped off my stained blouse, tossing it into the growing pile of laundry.
My new washer and dryer were arriving on Friday. The rest of the furniture I’d ordered had been delayed, so for now, my mattress was on the floor with my wardrobe.
Maybe tonight I’d search for the hangers. Maybe not.
Dressed and no longer smelling like stale coffee, I hurried outside and into the Durango, reversing onto the street. Then I retreated the way I’d come toward Main.
I was slowing at the intersection when a flash of red and blue streaked by, the wail of a siren splitting the air.
That was Allen’s cruiser.