Chapter 20 Matt
I sat in the patrol car with the radar gun pointed at the empty road and tried not to think about how different this was from detective work. No homicides, no interrogations, no late nights chasing suspects through alleys while Lopez complained about his knees.
Just me, a radar gun, and a Sunday afternoon with nobody going more than five over the limit.
But it was what I needed to be doing. So here I was.
I'd sat down with Sheriff Davis this morning, my first day officially on the job.
I remembered him from when I was a kid. He'd been a deputy back then, but this was the first real conversation we'd had.
He was older now, late fifties, with the kind of face that had seen everything twice and wasn't impressed either time.
"You're overqualified for this," he'd said. "But I'm not going to complain about having someone with your experience. Welcome aboard."
The other deputies had been friendly enough. A couple of them remembered me from high school, and one asked about my parents. Nobody mentioned Elena, but I could feel the awareness in the room. Small town, so that was to be expected. Everyone knew everyone's business.
I shifted in the seat and looked out at the road. Millbrook hadn't changed much. The old Miller house had been renovated, and someone had finally repainted the hardware store sign, but mostly it looked the same as it had when I left.
And the clinic. I'd driven past it this morning on my way to the station. It was bigger than it used to be, expanded and modernized, the sign out front reading Millbrook Veterinary Care—Dr. Elena Whitaker. The Reeves surname she'd carried while we were married was gone.
I kept driving.
The radio crackled. "Unit 3, we've got a call about a loose dog on Maple Street. Near the elementary school."
I picked up the handset. "Copy that. En route."
I put the car in drive and headed into town.
The chicken was almost done when Mom came into the kitchen.
"Something smells good," she said, and I felt that small relief I'd learned to hold onto. Good days were getting rarer.
"Roasted chicken. Your recipe." I checked the oven. "Twenty more minutes."
She smiled and sat at the table, watching me work. For a moment it felt like how coming home used to feel.
"You didn't have to cook," she said. "I could have—"
"I wanted to." I grabbed the salad bowl from the counter and set it on the table. "Besides, I'm pretty sure Dad's been living off frozen dinners for the past month."
"He has not."
"He has absolutely been doing that."
She laughed, and the sound made something in my chest ease. That was still her, still Mom.
Dad came in from the garage, wiping his hands on a rag. "Smells good in here."
"Matthew made dinner," Mom said.
"I can see that." He hung the rag on the hook by the door and washed his hands at the sink. "How was the first day?"
"It was fine. Quiet." I pulled the chicken out of the oven and set it on the counter to rest. "Spent most of it on Route 12 with a radar gun. Did get called in for a loose dog situation, though."
"Exciting stuff," Dad said, but he was smiling.
"Very. The dog's name was Biscuit. A golden retriever. Took me ten minutes to catch her because she thought we were playing."
Mom laughed again. "Did you bring her back to her owner?"
"Eventually. After she rolled in a mud puddle and tried to get in the patrol car."
"Sounds about right," Dad said. He sat down at the table next to Mom, and I watched the way his hand found hers automatically. The way he squeezed gently, checking in without words.
I brought the chicken over and started carving. "Sheriff Davis seems decent. Didn't make a big deal about the detective thing. Just handed me a badge and put me to work."
"That's Jim Davis for you," Dad said. "Fair man. You'll do fine."
"What time do you start tomorrow?" Mom asked.
"Seven."
"That's early."
"It's not that early." I put chicken on each of their plates, then mine. "I used to start at six back in the city."
"The city," Mom said, like she was testing the word out. "All these hours. Must've been hard."
"Sometimes." I sat down and passed her the salad. "But I'm not doing that anymore."
She nodded and took a bite of chicken. "This is good, Matthew."
"Thanks, Mom."
We ate in comfortable silence for a while, the kind that only comes from years of shared meals at this same table.
"This is really good," she said after a few minutes, looking down at her plate.
"Thanks, Mom."
She frowned slightly. "Did I already say that? I feel like I just said that."
"You did," I said easily. "But I don't mind hearing it twice."
Dad's hand tightened around his fork, but he didn't say anything.
We finished dinner, and Mom excused herself to go upstairs. "I'm tired," she said, standing slowly. "I think I'll read for a bit and then go to bed."
"I'll be up in a few minutes," Dad said.
She smiled at both of us and left the kitchen. We listened to her footsteps on the stairs, steady and even.
Dad and I cleared the table in silence. I started loading the dishwasher while he dried the pans I'd left in the rack. The rhythm was familiar, easy.
"Thank you," he said finally. "For being here and… and doing this. I know you gave up a lot to come back."
I felt it immediately, that familiar pull. The warmth of being needed, being seen as the good guy who drops everything and shows up.
"You don't have to thank me, Dad."
"I know I don't have to. I want to."
"I just mean…" I set down the plate I was holding. "I'm not doing you a favor. I wanted to come back. I needed to."
He was quiet for a moment, studying me. "Okay."
"I'm not trying to be difficult. I just don't want you thinking I'm some kind of—" I didn't know how to finish that.
"Some kind of what?"
"I don't know. Hero. Martyr. Whatever." I picked the plate back up. "I'm just here. That's all."
Dad nodded slowly. "All right, son." His voice was rough. "But it still helps. You being here. It does."
We finished the dishes without talking. When the last pan was dried and put away, Dad hung up the towel and headed for the stairs.
"Goodnight, Matthew."
"Night, Dad."
I stood at the sink for a while after he went upstairs, looking out the window at the dark yard. It looked the same as it always had, the same tree I used to climb, the same porch where I'd spent summer nights with Elena back when we were teenagers and everything still felt possible.
The house was quiet. Mom was probably asleep by now, and Dad would be reading in bed the way he always did. And I was in the kitchen, drying my hands.
Trying to remember how to be part of this.