Chapter 10
Emery
This covered porch was always my mother’s favorite spot.
It’s tiny, just enough space for two wicker chairs nudged together, but it faces south and catches the sun for most of the day.
She’d fantasized about replacing it with a grand extension often, but when my father offered to hire a contractor to make her dream come true, she quickly shot down the idea, insisting it was perfect the way it was.
She’d spend mornings out here with a tea and, after she retired from teaching, her afternoons with a pint of Guinness and her crochet needles. Annie would often join her.
Since she passed, I find myself coming here to see if I can feel her.
Sometimes I think I can—with the way the wicker still holds her body’s shape and the pungent scent of a freshly lit citronella candle.
But on this crisp morning, bundled in a blanket, as I cradle my oversized coffee mug, waiting for the caffeine to kick in and the weight of sleeplessness to fade, all I feel is her immense absence.
What I would give to have her or my father sitting in the empty seat beside me, letting me bend their ear as I struggle to navigate the unexpected wave of emotion that threatens to drown me.
I was fine.
I’d dealt with losing Logan. It wasn’t an overnight healing. It took years, long after marrying Dillon. I recall those late, quiet nights, rocking a fussy Isla to sleep, allowing my mind to wander for the briefest of moments to a place where she was Logan’s child instead.
Dillon often accused me of keeping him at a distance, of not letting him in. Once, in a particularly heated fight, he threw Logan’s name into the ring, a well-placed dagger to blame me—or Logan, I could never tell—for our failing marriage.
I denied it with my whole chest. I had nothing left for my childhood crush but fond memories, and there would never be anything to regain once he returned.
But what if Dillon was right? What if I gave him a second chance because I knew I’d never fall truly, madly, deeply in love with him, which meant he could never hurt me like Logan had?
Even as I sat on the hood of my car that night at the Silver Pines Motel, waiting for Dillon and Donna to leave their room so I could see the looks on their faces, there was a part of me that was relieved.
I finally felt justified about ending a marriage that should never have happened in the first place.
Sure, my ego took a bruising, and I likely gave Donna more grief for her part than I needed to.
But in the end, Dillon’s infidelity was a blessing.
I spent the better part of last night staring at my bedroom ceiling fan as I pondered all this, in between waves of fresh, hot tears that came out of nowhere. I haven’t cried like that in years.
A horse gallops in the distance, and I recognize it right away as Biscuit by his white coat. But that’s not Isla on his back. She never rides him that fast. Nobody does. Jon won’t even attempt to climb on him again and, besides, I don’t see his telltale hat.
There’s only one person I know who would ride with such reckless abandon.
Despite this unbearable weight that’s crushing me with Logan’s return, I smile as I watch a glimmer of the boy I used to know race across the field.
Jim Dolan is hunched over his desk when I stroll into work early Monday.
My fifty-two-year-old admin sergeant filled the role when my father was here, and there isn’t a better person suited to the job.
He revels in paperwork—ensuring every facet of station compliance is met with vigor.
I’ve half-jokingly told him he can’t retire until I do.
“Good morning.” I pause at his office door. “How was the weekend?”
“’Mornin’ to ya.” He salutes lazily. “Uneventful. You?”
I wouldn’t know where to begin. “Same,” I say before I walk on.
It’s quiet. Shift change has come and gone, and my platoon sergeant and constables are out patrolling the 13,000 square kilometers that make up our jurisdiction, leaving only Dolan and the two admin clerks in the station.
And Dan, I discover, as I enter the kitchenette that serves as our cafeteria and social gathering spot. It hasn’t changed since I was a kid, visiting my father here. Even the mundane beige paint color remains the same.
“What time did Benoit sober up enough to go home?” I ask by way of greeting, collecting a fresh mug from the rack and holding it out wordlessly.
“Oh, hey, boss. Was just about to get back on the road. It was late. Had himself a good sleep.” Dan pours piping-hot black coffee for me before filling his own travel mug. “Snores like a chainsaw.”
“So I’ve heard.” Our court guard, Nathan, describes it as an ungodly sound. “Did he complain about his tickets?” That had to have hurt, especially given his recent unemployment.
“Not a word. Called his wife to come get him. They could hear her shrieking through the phone.”
“Can’t blame her.” She would’ve had to fetch her car at the Bale House. “Anything else exciting?”
“Same old.” He dumps a heaping spoon of sugar into his coffee that makes me cringe.
“Andy said a woman hit two deer last night on the highway. One of them was a big buck. Her truck’s totaled, but it sounds like she’ll pull through.
And Collier’s cows were roaming the road again.
Took hours to get them back in yesterday afternoon. ”
I shake my head. “The amount of time we spend wrangling wayward cattle, we might as well hang up our guns and pick up lassos.” But if we don’t get involved, one of those cows is liable to cause a major car accident.
“Right? I’ll take cows over Benny the Hulk any day,” he murmurs through a sip. “Oh, also, Sue booked Shane Murphy last night.”
Murphy. That name haunts me all these years later. Every time it crosses someone’s lips, my thoughts lead directly to Logan, and it crosses a lot of lips around this station. In this case, it’s Ian Murphy’s youngest son, so the connection is that much more instant. “For what?”
“Pulled him over in a U-Haul and found a bunch of brand-new flat-screens in the back. Get this, though. Total retail on them comes to $4900.”
“Clever little bugger can do math.” Theft under $5000 will keep him from serving a serious sentence, even with the two priors he already has. “You’d think someone in that family would learn to stop stealing.”
Dan shrugs and offers up, “Axel’s record is clean.”
“Yeah, jury’s still out on that one.” Axel is Ian’s oldest, raised by his grandparents after his mother took off for greener pastures.
He spends a lot of time with his uncle Hank, Ian’s older brother, who is no stranger to us.
Hank served time for tampering with VINs and crushing cars without registering them at the auto wreckers where he worked for years.
“Just because we haven’t caught Axel yet doesn’t mean he’s not up to something.
” The tow truck he owns is the perfect cover for transporting illicit shit.
“Damn, when’d you get so jaded, Staff?” Dan teases.
“I like to call it wise.” I hold my mug in the air in a silent salute of thanks as I stroll to my office and the onslaught of meetings waiting for me, the most painful one being a video conference with my regional commander, Doug Freeman.
He’s a lazy prick who was tapped for promotion three years ago and has spent nearly as long trying to find fault in the way I run things.
If I were the suspicious sort, I’d think he has a promotion in mind for someone—a buddy, a protégé, some owed favor—and he’s decided Cold River is the perfect place.
It’s a small detachment, the command spot filled by a staff sergeant rather than a higher-ranking inspector like in larger centers.
Or maybe it’s that he doesn’t think a female is capable of running things.
Those types still do exist, unfortunately.
Or—and Freeman has dropped enough subtle comments to hint at this—having a McAllister heading the town’s detachment for twenty-six years breeds a sense of tenure that he feels isn’t healthy for the community.
I’ve taken my first bite of an apple spice muffin from the Landry Market when my admin clerk Jackie’s name shows up on my call display.
“Morning. What’s up?”
“Hi. There is a gentleman here to see you.”
I check the clock. My meeting starts in exactly eleven minutes. “Okay, take his information and tell him I’ll call him when I’m free—”
“It’s Brad Whitley.”
I sigh heavily. If I’d taken bets on this man showing up here within days of Logan’s release, I could have won some much-needed cash. “I thought you said ‘gentleman.’”
“He is insisting.” I can almost see Jackie’s owlish blue eyes. The crispness behind that single word means he’s being rude.
Normally I wouldn’t cater to this behavior, but the sooner I get him out of here, the better for all parties involved.
I pick at my breakfast and Jackie waits patiently for my response. “Bring him here but tell him he has five minutes.”
Thirty seconds later, Jackie’s curly bob appears at my door, gesturing the white-haired man in.
“Officer.” Brad shuts the door behind him before facing me.
My mouth is full of muffin, stopping me from correcting him. Not that there’s any point—the prick knows my rank and chooses to minimize it.
Brad drags out the vacant chair and settles his solid six-foot frame into it.
He may be nearing eighty, but there is nothing frail or elderly about him.
He still exudes the same strength and confidence that I remember shrinking away from inside the courtroom at Logan’s sentencing.
“Good turnout at the fair this year, wouldn’t you agree? ”