Chapter 14
fourteen
. . .
LANE
“We’re going to put you through a series of strength tests,” my physical therapist, Don, said. We were in the PT room at the hospital, and to say I was nervous was an understatement.
How things went today would determine when I got to go back to work, and I was desperately hoping I’d get the all clear before I left.
Don directed me to the bench press and had me lay down while he loaded the barbell with plates.
“I know before your accident, you were capable of doing a lot more than this, but we’re going to start small, okay? No sense in setting yourself back.”
I nodded as I settled onto the bench, feet flat on the floor, bar directly overhead.
A few weeks ago, he’d given me the go ahead to start lifting again in my basement, but he’d also provided me with a very strict routine I had to follow so as to not overdo it.
It had taken all my willpower to not push myself beyond his instructions.
Honestly, I knew I wasn’t back to full strength, and I wouldn’t be for a bit yet. The important thing was this guy and my doctor thinking I was at least strong enough to return to work.
Once he was satisfied with the weight he’d added, he indicated I should go ahead, moving behind the bench to spot me should things go awry.
He didn’t need to worry.
“How much is this?” I asked, easily raising and lowering the bar over my chest. I felt good. There was no tightness, no soreness to push through, no ache in my shoulder joint or at the place on my pec where the bullet had pierced my flesh.
“One twenty,” he said.
“I can do more,” I told him once I finished the set and racked the bar again.
Don laughed. “I’m sure you can.”
Still, he made no move to add more. In fact, he had me get up and move over to the cable machine, where he worked me through a set of pull-down exercises including lats and triceps extensions.
“Final test,” he said nearly an hour later. I’d hardly broken a sweat, but my limbs were warm from the exertion, a sensation I’d sorely missed.
“Put your arms out straight and hold them at shoulder height. I’m going to test your dexterity and strength. Keep your core as still as possible.”
Nodding that I understood, he began his ministrations, pulling down on my arms, pushing them back and forth, rotating my shoulder, palpating my chest around my scar. The whole time, he asked a constant stream of questions.
Any pain?
Any tightness? Numbness? Weakness?
The answer was “no” every time.
“Well, Mr. Lawless,” he said, dusting his hands off then propping his fists on his hips to study me. “It’s going to be my recommendation that you’re cleared to return to duty.”
A grin broke out across my face, and I stupidly pumped my fists into the air, feeling a little like Rocky at the top of the Philadelphia Museum of Art steps.
“Fuck yeah!” I yelled, dropping my head back and letting my eyes fall closed, basking in the moment.
Until Don burst my bubble.
“I get you’re excited, and I would be too, but Doc still has to clear you.”
I waved him off, still smiling. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
Twenty minutes later, I was in the exam room with my doctor. He sat on his little stool at the mobile desk, laptop open. His glasses were balanced at the tip of his bulbous nose, eyes darting back and forth across the screen as he studied Don’s notes.
At last, he pushed back and took off his glasses, his attention turning to me.
“Well, Lane, everything looks great. How do you feel?”
“Ready to go back to work.”
He smiled. “Consider it done.”
Fucking finally.
Two days later—the time it had taken the city to clear my return—I walked back into the department in my uniform for the first time in over two months.
“Welcome back, boss!” Bertie, my desk sergeant, crowed when I appeared.
“Thank you,” I said with a wink as I passed by, buzzing myself in.
I’d expected the bullpen to be buzzing with activity, but it was eerily silent, not a single one of my deputies to be found.
Odd.
“Oh, hey, boss,” someone said from behind me, and I turned to find Johns, looking at me like today was any other day and not the occasion of my triumphant return.
Maybe he was pissed he’d have to go back to answering to me instead of calling the shots.
“Hey. I’m gonna drop my stuff off,” I said, indicating my bag and coat. “Then I’ll be in for the morning briefing.”
Johns nodded. “See you there.”
I made quick work of setting my things in my office then headed to the conference room we used for briefings.
The moment I pushed on the door, I was assaulted by a chorus of cheers.
My entire department had crammed into the room.
The whiteboard at the front was covered with a sign that read WELCOME BACK, SHERIFF.
Two tables had been pushed together and off to the side, laden with an assortment of pastries, coffee, and juice from The Spout, our local coffee shop.
“Aww, you missed me!” I grinned.
A young deputy named Lee approached me first, clapping me on the shoulder, then pulling me into an awkward, one-armed, back-slapping hug.
“Good to have you back, Sheriff.”
“Uh, yeah. Thanks. Good to be back.”
Every man and woman in the room eventually came up and welcomed me back, and by the time we all got some food and I’d settled everyone into their seats, warmth had suffused my body.
Goddamnit, I’d missed this.
“Alright, catch me up. What’s active right now?”
“Not much, honestly,” Johns piped up. “These break-ins are taking the bulk of our manpower.”
“Have there been more?” I asked.
I should’ve known the answer. But the last few weeks had been so chaotic with my unexpected houseguest and ensuring I was ready to return to work that I’d been a bit out of touch
“Two more,” Johns confirmed.
“And we don’t have a line on this little shit?”
He shook his head. “Nothing has jumped out in the files to connect them except the method of entry and timing of the incidents.”
My mind spun. “Okay. I want all the files on my desk as soon as possible. I’ll review and see if I can catch something. Fresh eyes and all that.”
Johns nodded, then the conversation shifted away. My deputies brought me up to speed on the other shit they’d tackled in my absence: mainly, a lot of drug- and alcohol-related offenses, plus a few domestic disturbances.
“Well, great work everyone,” I said when we wrapped. “Thanks for holding down the fort while I was gone.”
The room dispersed, and I headed to my office. A moment later, Johns appeared with a stack of files.
“This is everything we’ve got,” he said when he dropped them on my desk. “Six incidents, not a speck of evidence.”
I nodded grimly. “I’ll see if I can shake anything loose.”
“Good luck.”
Hours passed before I even had a chance to peek at the files, much less dig into them.
Being on medical leave for over two months meant there were a lot of high-priority agenda items I needed to attend to before I could get into any sort of investigative flow.
Signing off on upcoming PTO and holiday bonuses for my staff, reviewing a few complaints that had come in from both civilians against the department and deputies against their colleagues, and a mountain of other paperwork I didn’t even want to look at.
In the midst of it all, I took a break for lunch that lasted longer than anticipated when the locals at the diner saw me in my uniform and realized their sheriff had returned to work.
Later that afternoon, I stepped out to have some status check conversations with a few of my deputies regarding both the complaints and a couple of cases that had closed while I’d been gone.
When I returned to my office, I groaned at the sight of a large manila envelope resting on my computer keyboard, my name written across the front in bold, neat letters. Surely, that couldn’t be good.
I tore into the package, eager to react to whatever the fuck it was so I could move onto the one task I’d been looking forward to all day—those break-in files.
At first, my brain couldn’t compute what I was seeing. A sheaf of papers tumbled out onto my desk, what I recognized as newspaper clippings. Headlines blared at me.
UNIVERSITY STUDENT ACCUSED OF RAPE
BOISE STATE RAPE CASE SETTLED
HUMAN REMAINS FOUND
BELIEVED TO BE THOSE OF RYAN BOYD
DNA CONFIRMS REMAINS AS RYAN BOYD
None of it made sense. Why would someone send this shit to me? This happened so long ago and had nothing to do with me—at least so far as anyone knew.
I flipped the envelope over, looking for a return address or any indication of who might’ve sent it, but of course there was nothing. Only my name on the front, which meant it had been hand-delivered.
Tipping it on its side, I shook it to see if I’d missed anything, and a single index card fluttered out, coming to rest face up atop the stack of articles.
There, in the same neat font as my name on the front, were two lines written in blood red that made my own blood run cold.
I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.
COME CLEAN TO HER OR
I’LL DO IT FOR YOU.
Come clean to her? As in…Sutton?
Who the fuck…?
Questions flew through my mind, so many I couldn’t make sense of any of them.
With shaking hands, I stuffed everything back in the envelope and shoved it in my bag. I made quick work of closing up shop—shutting off my computer, the lamp in the corner, making sure the door was locked once I’d collected my coat and stepped onto the floor of the bullpen.
Johns must’ve seen something in my face because when I brushed past him, he asked, “You good, Sheriff?”
“Yeah,” I said, voice steadier than I expected it to be. “Just packing it in for the day.”
He flicked his wrist to check the time but wisely didn’t comment further. I knew it was too early to be leaving. Hopefully he chalked it up to exhaustion and assumed it would take me some time to settle into my pre-gunshot hours.