Chapter 35
Micah sensed Naomi’s sadness and wished he could take her grief away.
Hugging her earlier had been spontaneous. He hadn’t planned it, hadn’t thought it through. He’d just seen her standing there—exhausted, anxious, trying so hard to keep everything together—and his body had moved before his brain caught up.
But he didn’t regret it.
Even now, Micah still caught traces of her scent on his clothes. Something floral—lavender, maybe. Or maybe something softer he couldn’t name. Every time he caught a whiff of it, something in his chest tightened.
He forced his attention back to the man approaching as they walked to the kennel.
The guy looked harmless enough, like the kind of person you’d pass on the street and forget five minutes later. His truck was older but well-maintained. His clothes were clean. Nothing about him screamed “threat.”
But Micah’s instincts were already on alert.
Maybe it was the timing. Maybe it was everything else that had been happening. Or maybe it was the way Good Boy’s body had gone tense the moment the man stepped out of the vehicle.
Good Boy wasn’t growling. Wasn’t barking. But he wasn’t wagging his tail either.
The canine just stood beside Naomi, staring at the man with an expression Micah couldn’t quite read.
He didn’t act like a dog who was seeing his long-lost owner for the first time in days.
The man stopped and smiled. “Afternoon. Thanks for letting me come.”
“You’re the one who called?” Naomi’s voice was steady, but Micah heard the strain underneath it.
“That’s right. I’m Arthur Bleakman.”
“I’m Naomi King, and this is my friend, Micah.”
“Nice to meet you, Sheriff.” Then the man’s gaze dropped to Good Boy, and his smile widened. “There he is. Hey, Roscoe. Hey, boy.”
Roscoe.
Micah filed the name away and watched the dog’s reaction.
Good Boy—Roscoe—didn’t move or respond. Instead, the dog stayed where he was, leaning slightly into Naomi.
The man seemed to notice, and his smile faltered just slightly. “Guess he’s mad at me, huh? Can’t say I blame him.”
“What happened?” Micah asked, his tone neutral but firm.
Arthur looked at him, taking in the uniform, the badge. Something shifted in his expression. Not necessarily guilt but maybe caution.
“I had a dog sitter watching him while I was out of town,” Arthur explained.
“I was on a work trip—I sell copy machines. Anyway, I was gone about ten days. I called to check in, but the sitter wasn’t answering her phone.
Long story short, I found out she bailed on me. Left town. Let Roscoe loose, I guess.”
“That sounds reckless and cruel,” Naomi said.
“It was. I’m considering taking her to court.”
“Where are you from?” Micah asked.
“About twenty miles south of here. Little town called Ridgeway.”
Arthur’s explanation sounded plausible. Dog sitter flaked out. Dog got loose. It happened.
But something about the story didn’t sit right with Micah. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly what, however.
Micah glanced at Good Boy again. The dog still hadn’t moved or acknowledged the man at all.
“He answers to Roscoe?” Micah asked.
“Sometimes.” Arthur shrugged. “He’s stubborn. Always has been.”
Naomi crouched down, her hand still resting on the dog’s head. “Is that your name, boy? Roscoe?”
The dog’s ears flicked, but he didn’t turn toward the man. He looked at Naomi instead.
The man took a step closer. “I really appreciate you taking care of him. I was worried sick when I couldn’t find him. Let me give you something for your trouble.”
He pulled out his wallet and flipped it open, pulling out a few bills. “Fifty bucks? For food and whatever else?”
“No.” Naomi stood, shaking her head. “That’s not necessary.”
“Come on, I insist. You went out of your way—”
“No,” Naomi said again, more firmly this time. “We were happy to help.”
Arthur hesitated, then tucked the bills back into his wallet. “Well, thank you. Really.”
He reached toward Good Boy—Roscoe—and snapped his fingers. “Come on, boy. Time to go home.”
The dog didn’t move.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
The man’s smile thinned. “Roscoe, come.”
Still nothing.
“He’s been through a lot,” Naomi said. “Just be patient with him, okay?”
The man’s expression softened. “Of course. I’ll get him all fixed up. Take him to the vet, make sure he’s healthy. He’ll be back to normal in no time.”
She crouched down one more time, her face level with the dog’s. “You be good, okay?” Her voice cracked. “You’re a good dog. I’m glad we got to hang out.”
The dog’s tail wagged once, slow and hesitant.
Then Naomi stood.
The man clipped a leash onto the dog’s collar and tugged gently. “Come on, Roscoe. Let’s go home.”
The dog resisted, looking back at Naomi. Then he followed, his head low and his tail tucked.
Naomi stood frozen, watching as the man led the dog to the truck, opened the door, and let him jump in.
A tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly, but Micah saw it.
The man climbed into the driver’s seat, gave them a wave through the window, and started the engine.
Then the truck pulled away.
Micah looked at Naomi, still standing there with tears on her face, and wished—more than anything—that he could tell her it was going to be okay.
But he wasn’t sure it would be.
Naomi settled into the rocking chair near the window of the living room, Grace cradled in her arms, the bottle angled carefully against the baby’s lips.
Grace drank steadily, her dark eyes drifting closed, her tiny hand resting against Naomi’s chest.
But Naomi couldn’t relax.
She kept glancing toward the window. Toward the empty spot near the door where Good Boy used to lie. Toward the driveway where that man had driven away with him less than an hour ago.
Her chest ached.
She told herself Good Boy was just a dog. That he’d gone home. That everything was fine.
But it didn’t feel fine.
It felt wrong.
She wished Micah was here.
He’d been called back to work—some emergency at the station that couldn’t wait. But part of her had wanted him to stay. Wanted his calm, steady presence. Wanted the reassurance that everything would be okay even when it didn’t feel like it.
Grace made a small sound, and Naomi adjusted the bottle.
The television was on in the background—low volume, just noise to fill the silence. Her mom had turned the news on earlier and left it running.
The reporter’s voice drifted across the room.
“Federal investigators have expanded their probe into allegations of securities fraud involving Marrs & Associates, a Washington, DC-based investment firm accused of running a Ponzi scheme that defrauded investors of an estimated two hundred million dollars—”
Naomi’s attention drifted toward the screen.
A photo flashed of an older man in a suit, standing outside a courthouse, lawyers flanking him on either side.
“CEO Jonathan Marrs maintains his innocence, but former employees have come forward with evidence suggesting the firm knowingly misrepresented returns to clients for more than five years—”
A memory flashed in her mind—not a visible one. More like a feeling, a familiarity.
But why? She didn’t recognize the man on the screen. She’d never even heard of the company.
Still, something unknown begged for her attention. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force the memory to return.
It didn’t.
Naomi’s phone buzzed on the side table.
She blinked, pulling her gaze away from the television, and picked it up with her free hand.
Karen.
Her pulse quickened. She had to be calling with an update.
She put the phone to her ear. “Hi, Karen.”
“Naomi, hi. I’ve got good news. The jail visit came through. Everything moved faster than I expected.”
Naomi’s stomach tightened. “Okay.”
“It turns out you can see Sissy tomorrow. Morning visit, nine a.m. I’ll email you the details—what to bring, what not to bring, how the process works.”
“Tomorrow?” Naomi’s voice came out quieter than she intended.
“I know it’s short notice. But the scheduling window was tight, and if we didn’t take it, the next available slot wouldn’t be for another two weeks.”
Naomi nodded, even though Karen couldn’t see her. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Of course. Let me know if you have any questions.”
They said goodbye, and Naomi set the phone down slowly.
Tomorrow.
She’d thought she’d have more time. A few more days to prepare herself. To figure out what she wanted to say to Sissy. To process the weight of bringing Grace to see her mother while she was locked up.
But tomorrow was . . . soon.
Too soon.
Grace finished the bottle, and Naomi set it aside, lifting the baby to her shoulder to burp her.
The reporter continued in the background.
“Prosecutors allege that senior executives, including Marrs himself, fabricated financial statements and misled auditors in order to—”
Something else tugged at the edge of Naomi’s mind.
A flicker. A fragment.
She looked at the screen again. The reporter was talking, but Naomi wasn’t hearing the words anymore.
She heard something else.
A voice. Male and familiar.
Gio, she realized. “This doesn’t look good.”
Naomi’s breath caught.
The image shifted to an office. Glass windows. City lights beyond them.
She was standing near a desk.
Gio stood across from her. “This is serious. I’m glad you came to me.”
The fragmented memory flickered. She couldn’t remember what they were talking about. Couldn’t hold onto the details.
But the feelings . . .
Concern. Outrage. They both coiled in her chest.
Then the feelings disappeared.
Naomi blinked, and she was back in the living room. Grace warm and solid against her shoulder. The news anchor still talking on the television.
Her heart pounded.
Her hands shook.
What was that?
She pressed her eyes closed, trying to pull the memory back. Trying to see more. To understand what they’d been discussing.
But it was gone. The memory slipped away like water through her fingers.
All that remained was a disturbed, unsettled feeling, along with the certainty that whatever she and Gio had been talking about, it hadn’t been good.