Chapter 1 - Tom #2
She's trying to carry everything at once: four duffel bags, two backpacks, her arms straining with the weight. It's a losing battle. One of the bags keeps slipping, and every time she adjusts, another one threatens to fall.
I'm out of the truck before I fully register what I'm doing.
"Here, let me help with that."
She spins around, and something in her expression makes me stop short. Fear. Pure, unfiltered fear, there and gone so fast I almost think I imagined it.
"I'm fine," she says quickly. Too quickly. "I've got it."
She doesn't have it. The duffel bag she's been wrestling with finally wins, slipping from her grip and hitting the ground with a soft thud. She stares at it for a moment, shoulders tightening, like she's expecting something bad to happen.
"I'm Tom Harris," I say, keeping my voice calm and even. The same voice I use with scared witnesses and spooked animals. "Sheriff of Blackwater Falls. I'm not going to hurt you."
Her eyes drop to the badge on my chest, then back to my face. She's beautiful, I realize. Beautiful curves, long dark blonde hair that needs a cut, brown eyes that look too tired for someone her age. Late twenties, maybe. Pretty in a real way, the kind of beauty that doesn't need effort.
But there's something else there too. Something bruised. The way she's standing, slightly turned, weight on her back foot, ready to move. I've seen that stance before. In soldiers who've been in too many ambushes. In people who've learned the hard way that danger can come from anywhere.
"I saw the rental listing," I say, nodding toward the house. "The pictures online don't match reality. I'm sorry you came all this way."
"It's fine." Her voice is steadier now, but her eyes keep darting behind me, checking the road. "I'll make it work."
"Ma'am—"
"Claire." She lifts her chin slightly. "Claire Donovan."
"Claire." I try a small smile. "That house isn't safe. The mold alone is a health hazard, and the foundation's been sinking for years. I can't in good conscience let you stay there."
"I paid for two months."
"I know. And I'll help you get that money back or find somewhere else. But—"
"Mommy?"
The small voice comes from behind one of the duffel bags.
I didn't even notice him at first, a little boy, maybe four years old, with dark hair and brown eyes that match his mother's.
He's clutching a stuffed dinosaur and looking at me with the unguarded curiosity of a child who hasn't yet learned to be afraid of strangers.
"It's okay, baby." Claire's whole demeanor shifts. The fear and wariness don't disappear, but something softer moves over them. Love. Fierce and absolute. "This is Sheriff Harris. He's here to help us."
The boy considers this information seriously. "Are you a real sheriff? Like in the movies?"
"Real as they come," I say, crouching down to his level. "What's your name?"
"Jackson." He holds up the dinosaur. "This is Rex. He's a T-Rex. T-Rexes are the best dinosaurs because they have the biggest teeth."
"That's a good point. I can see you know a lot about dinosaurs."
"I know everything about dinosaurs."
Despite everything, the sagging house, the smell already wafting from inside, the barely concealed terror in Claire's eyes, I feel myself smiling.
"Jackson." Claire's voice is gentle but firm. "Why don't you sit on that bag for a minute while I talk to the sheriff?"
The boy obeys without argument, settling onto one of the duffel bags and making Rex walk across his knee. Claire watches him for a moment, something painful flickering across her face, before turning back to me.
"Look, Sheriff Harris—"
"Tom."
She pauses. "Tom. I appreciate the concern. I do. But I don't have a lot of options right now. I used most of my cash to pay for this place, and I can't exactly get a refund from someone who takes two weeks to answer emails. Whatever's wrong with the house, I'll figure it out."
"The mold could make your son sick."
It's a low blow, and I know it. But I also see the way her expression tightens, the way her eyes cut to Jackson. She's not stupid. She knows I'm right.
"There's got to be somewhere else," I continue. "The motel on Route 9 isn't fancy, but it's clean. Or I could make some calls, see if anyone in town has a room to rent short-term."
"I can't afford—"
"Let me help." I don't know why I'm pushing this hard.
I've redirected plenty of people away from the Harlow place over the years.
Usually, I point them toward the motel and wish them luck.
But something about this woman, this boy, this situation, is making me want to do more. "That's my job. Helping people."
Claire stares at me for a brief moment. I can see the calculations happening behind her eyes: weighing risk against benefit, trust against experience. Whatever she's running from, it has taught her to be careful.
"Why?" she finally asks.
"Why what?"
"Why do you care? You don't know me. You don't owe me anything."
It's a fair question. I should have a professional answer ready, something about civic duty, community welfare, the responsibilities of my office. But what comes out instead is the truth.
"Because you look like you could use someone on your side."
Her eyes widen slightly. For a second, I see past the fear and exhaustion to something raw and startled. Something that might be hope.
Then she blinks, and the walls go back up.
"One night," she says. "I'll stay at the motel for one night while I figure out my next move. But I'm paying for it myself."
"I can—"
"I'm paying for it myself," she repeats, and there's steel in her voice now. A strength that was hiding beneath all that wariness. "I don't take charity."
I hold up my hands in surrender. "Fair enough. But at least let me help carry these bags to my truck. I'll drive you over to the motel. It's too far to walk with all this."
She hesitates. I can see her fighting the instinct to refuse, to keep handling everything alone. But then Jackson makes a sound, a small, tired sound that's half yawn and half whimper, and her resolve crumbles.
"Okay," she says. "Thank you."