Chapter 2
Chapter Two
MILES
I’d been parked on the same stretch of highway for a solid hour, and not a single speeder passed. No one was weaving through traffic, no busted taillights, no expired registration. What was with all these damn law-abiding citizens?
I mean, I definitely didn’t wish for anyone to get hurt. But come on. Couldn’t someone just forget their turn signal for once? Just enough to remind me that I was actually doing something with my life?
Instead, there I sat, staring out at an empty road like it was some kind of metaphor for my own life.
All those years of training, all the hours I spent in the academy, running drills and filling out reports, just to end up with my biggest decision being which radio station to listen to while I sipped on stale coffee. The irony was enough to make me groan.
“Stop complaining,” I muttered under my breath, turning the volume up on the radio with a flick of my wrist. “Stop looking for trouble.”
The sharp click of the dial was my cue to settle down, but the second the music hit my ears, I found myself leaning forward. All tension drained out of my shoulders as the sweet and sassy notes of Loxley Adams filled the cab of my patrol car.
She was singing about how much she hated men, about how they’d all done her wrong.
The lyrics were filled with stories of revenge, of scars left on her soul, but there was something in the way she sang it that made it sound less like an anthem, and more like a confession.
The words were sharp and defiant, yet the melody was smooth, as if she was trying to soften the blow.
I’d hate to be on her bad side, I thought wryly. But damn, I could listen to her all day.
I could never put my finger on what made her different from all the others.
But I knew I was hooked the first time I heard her perform at the Harmony Haven music festival.
There was something about the way she sang that went deeper than the lyrics on paper.
She seemed to be channeling the air around her and turning it into something we could all feel.
Sometimes, the sadness in her voice didn’t quite align with the anger in her lyrics, and that contradiction, like a slow-burning fire, kept drawing me in. Intoxicating. Confusing.
Then, she shifted. The guitar softened, and she launched into an acoustic version of one of her older songs, which was a haunting ballad about wanting to feel something again but being too tired to even speak. Her voice was stripped.
Vulnerable.
I’d been standing on patrol next to the stage to keep the crowd from getting too close. I was near the staircase leading up to the stage, but I couldn’t have told you what was happening around me at that moment. I was too enchanted by Loxley Adams.
Even more so when I saw her stepping off the stage, heading right toward me.
My heart skipped a beat as she looked up at me, her eyes meeting mine.
Then, the faintest curve of a smile pulled at her lips as she made her way carefully down the metal stairs.
Her movements were deliberate, like she was holding herself together just a little longer for the crowd’s sake.
I nodded at her, offering a small smile in return, and then instinctively held out my hand as she approached the last two steps. I don’t know why I did it because it wasn’t part of my job, but somehow, it felt like the right thing to do.
When she took my hand, her smile slipped just a little, and I caught the tiredness in her eyes before she quickly masked it.
The radio host’s voice pulled me from my thoughts:
“That was the latest by Loxley Adams, who has been on a small-town tour and is set to play again tonight in Tullahoma. If you’re thinking of getting tickets and going, don’t bother.
That show has been sold out for months and Ms. Adams’ appearance is set to break all kinds of records for her show and the town of Tullahoma. ”
The radio DJ moved on to another segment, but my mind stayed locked on the thought of Tullahoma.
I mentally kicked myself for not looking into tickets earlier.
I could’ve made the three-hour drive—no problem.
It would’ve been worth it to see Loxley Adams perform again.
Especially since I wouldn’t be working, so I could actually enjoy the performance without having to keep my eyes peeled for trouble in the crowd.
Shaking my head, I pushed the thought aside and glanced at the clock.
I had fifteen minutes left on my shift, so I decided to head back into town and check on Blue, the bartender at the pub.
It wouldn’t be long before she'd be calling me anyway, probably to come escort the Murphy brothers back to their place after their latest afternoon bender.
As I readied myself to pull onto the highway, a car came over the hill, speeding past me. Okay, that was the wrong word because they were only going eight miles per hour over the limit.
Usually, I’d let that go. A ticket for less than ten miles per hour over the speed limit wasn’t worth the paperwork. But today? Today, I felt restless. Agitated. I hadn’t done anything remotely cop-like all day, and I needed that little burst of adrenaline.
Chances were, I wasn’t going to issue a ticket. But I was at least going to slow them down a bit. The car was approaching the heart of Harmony Haven, and we didn’t need anyone tearing through the main strip.
Flipping on my lights, I let the flash of blue and red signal the car to pull over, then I eased up behind them. I ran the Tennessee plates as the driver looked around. It took me a second to pull up the information, but when it popped up, I glanced at the screen.
Rental. Of course, it was a rental. Which meant I had no idea who I was about to deal with. Probably a tourist. Someone going from Nashville to Atlanta, like so many others who passed through.
When I stepped out of my vehicle, I adjusted my belt, ensuring everything was in place—gun, radio, flashlight—and began my slow approach toward the driver's side of the car.
I kept my distance at first, practicing my old patrol mantra: Never assume.
Never get comfortable. Always stay aware.
Even in a small town during a routine traffic stop, I never wanted to disregard my training.
“License and registration, please,” I called out, my voice steady, professional.
The driver didn’t react immediately. There was a brief silence, followed by him shifting in his seat. He adjusted the baseball cap on his head, pulling it down to cover his eyes. He reached for the console and pulled an ID out, handing it to me without even looking up.
I glanced down at it, reading the name aloud. “Sam Moreno?”
“Uh huh,” the voice came out gruff, flat.
"Sir, do you know why I pulled you over?"
“Uh huh,” he muttered again, still refusing to look at me. His eyes stayed glued to the dashboard, his jaw tight.
I took a step closer, wanting to press him just a little further, to see if I could get some kind of reaction. If he thought he could just shrug me off without even acknowledging my presence, I was going to make sure he knew he couldn’t.
“And why is that?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral.
“Speeding,” he said quickly.
Something about him rubbed me the wrong way. I took another step closer, keeping my eyes on the side of his face as his whole body tensed, and he turned away even more. He was now facing entirely toward the passenger seat, awkwardly, as if I might disappear if he ignored me hard enough.
All it did was give me another minute to look at him. He wore oversized sunglasses and a jacket that swallowed him whole. Did that thing say Members Only?
Without question, I should have arrested the guy for wearing a Members Only jacket. What did he think this was, 1985? Just the jacket alone almost had me convinced he was a serial killer.
Isn’t this how they caught Ted Bundy?
“Sir, I’m going to need you to step out of the car.”
“For speeding?” He asked, then cleared his throat. “Just give me a ticket, I’ll pay it.”
It was the most he had spoken and there was definitely something off apart from his poor fashion sense and the alien-like sunglasses.
“Can you look at me please?”
He turned his head just enough for his eyes to glance up, but never fully turned around.
“Sir,” I said, my voice louder, “just get out of the car. You were doing twenty over the speed limit.”
Then, the driver jerked his body around so fast that I didn’t have time to react. He almost knocked his baseball cap off and the sunglasses fell down his nose.
“I was not!” he squeaked, sounding less like a gruff man and more like the high cadence of a pissed off woman.