Chapter 5 - Tom
What the hell am I doing?
The question loops through my mind as I watch Jackson take another bite of his burger, ketchup smearing across his chin.
Claire reaches over with a napkin, wiping his face with the efficiency of a mother who's done this a thousand times.
It's such a simple gesture, so ordinary, but something about it makes my chest ache.
I'm sitting in Murphy's at noon on a Wednesday, eating lunch with a woman I met yesterday and her four-year-old son, instead of doing any of the dozen things I should be doing.
There's paperwork back at the office. One of the deputies texted me twice asking about the incident report from last week's bar fight.
Someone called about teenagers loitering behind the hardware store again.
None of it seems important right now.
That's the problem. That's what I should be worried about.
I'm the sheriff of Blackwater Falls. This town depends on me to be focused, present, doing my job. Instead, I'm here, making job introductions and library visits, helping a stranger get settled like I have nothing better to do.
Except every time I think about leaving, about going back to my office and my reports and my regular routine, I look at Jackson's face and can't make myself move.
Murphy's burger is as good as always. Perfectly seasoned beef, melted cheese, fresh vegetables, all on a toasted bun that's somehow both crispy and soft. I've eaten here hundreds of times over the past four years, but today it tastes different. Better, somehow.
Because I'm not eating alone.
That's the truth I don't want to examine too closely.
I'm forty-three years old, and I'm sitting here with a woman and her son, pretending for an hour that this is my life.
That I'm the kind of man who comes home to someone.
Who helps with homework and wipes ketchup off small faces and listens to excited chatter about dinosaurs.
It's pathetic, really. Creating a fantasy out of a single meal.
"This is really good," Claire says, and I realize she's barely eaten half her burger. She keeps pausing, watching Jackson, scanning the restaurant like she's waiting for something bad to happen. "Thank you again. For all of this."
"You don't have to keep thanking me."
"I do, though." She sets down her burger and looks at me directly. There's something in her eyes. "I still don't understand why you're doing this."
"Because I can help, and you need help. It's that simple."
"Nothing's that simple."
She's right, of course. Nothing is that simple.
But I can't exactly tell her the truth: that I'm a lonely middle-aged man who's spent too many nights alone in an empty house, and that spending a few hours with her and her son makes me feel like something more than just the sheriff.
Like I could be someone's... what? What am I imagining here?
Not a father. Jackson has a father, even if he's not here. Even if he apparently tells his son that dinosaurs aren't real.
Not a boyfriend. Claire's clearly running from something, someone, and the last thing she needs is another man trying to insert himself into her life.
Just a friend, maybe. Someone who helps. Someone who cares. Except it doesn't feel like friendship. It feels like something else. Something dangerous.
Jackson finishes his burger and yawns hugely, nearly dropping Rex in the process. "I'm sleepy."
Claire glances at her watch, a cheap plastic thing that's probably from a drugstore. "It's past your nap time, baby."
"I'm too big for naps," Jackson protests, but his eyes are already drooping.
"How about a rest then?" Claire suggests. "We'll go back to the room, and you can rest while I read to you."
Back to the room. Back to that motel with its thin walls and questionable plumbing and the faint smell of mildew that probably never fully goes away.
Back to the place where Claire will lie awake worrying about money and safety and whatever she's running from, while Jackson sleeps on a bed that's seen better decades.
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
"You could stay at my place instead."
Claire freezes, her hand halfway to her water glass. "What?"
What am I doing? This is insane. I don't invite people to my house. I barely let my friends come over. My home is my sanctuary, the place where I can finally drop the sheriff persona and just be Tom.
But I'm already talking, the words tumbling out. "I have a guest room. Two, actually. Better beds than the motel, and the house is quiet. Good for sleeping. You could stay there while I'm at work, get some proper rest. Both of you."
She's staring at me like I've lost my mind. Maybe I have.
"You're inviting us to stay at your house," she says slowly, like she's testing the words. "Your house."
"Yes."
"A house I've never seen, in a town I just arrived in, with a man I met yesterday."
When she puts it like that, it sounds insane. It is insane.
"I know how it sounds," I say. "But think about it practically.
You need to save money, and hotel rates add up fast. Even Betty's discount rates.
You have a job starting tomorrow, which is great, but you won't see a paycheck for at least a week, maybe two.
In the meantime, you're burning through your cash in a motel room that's not even comfortable. "
"So, your solution is to move in with the sheriff." There's an edge to her voice now. Not quite anger, but something sharp and defensive. "That's your idea of practical?"
"I'm offering a guest room, Claire. Not asking you to move in permanently.
Just until you get on your feet, find a proper place to rent.
A few days, maybe a week." I pause, knowing what I'm about to say will either convince her or make her run.
"And you can check me out if you want. Call the station, ask about me.
Talk to Murphy, to Sarah at the bakery, to anyone in town.
They'll tell you I'm not… That I wouldn't—"
I can't finish the sentence. Wouldn't what? Hurt you? Take advantage? Turn out to be exactly the kind of man you're running from?
Claire is quiet for a long moment, her jaw tight, her hands clenched in her lap. I can see the calculation happening behind her eyes. Weighing risk against benefit. Survival against comfort.
Jackson leans against her shoulder, his eyes closed now, the book forgotten on the table. He looks so small, so vulnerable. So completely dependent on his mother to make the right choices.
"I'll be at work most of the time," I continue, keeping my voice low and even.
"I usually leave around seven in the morning, don't get back until six or seven at night.
The house would be yours during the day.
You'd have privacy, space, a real bed. A working kitchen if you want to cook. A backyard where Jackson can play."
Murphy appears at the table, collecting our plates. He glances at Claire's barely-eaten burger with knowing eyes but doesn't comment.
"Everything good here?" he asks.
"Fine," I say. "Thanks, Murphy."
He nods and walks away, giving us privacy.
Giving Claire space to make her decision.
She's looking at Jackson now, stroking his hair while he dozes against her shoulder.
I can see the exhaustion in every line of her body, the kind of tiredness that comes from weeks, maybe months, of running on adrenaline and fear.
"One night," she finally says. "Just tonight. And if at any point I feel uncomfortable, we leave. No questions, no arguments."
Relief floods through me, so strong it's almost embarrassing. "Of course. Whatever you need."
"And I want to see the place first. Before Jackson wakes up all the way. I need to know where the exits are, what the layout is, if—" She stops, taking a shaky breath. "I need to feel safe."
"I understand."
Do I, though? I understand that she's scared. I understand that someone hurt her badly enough that she's running. But do I really understand what it's like to live with that kind of fear? To need to map out escape routes before you can rest?
Maybe not. But I can try.
"My place is about ten minutes from here," I say. "We can go now if you want. Look around, and if you don't like it, I'll bring you right back to the motel. No pressure."
She nods slowly, then gently shakes Jackson awake. "Come on, baby. We're going for a ride."
"Where?" he mumbles, still half-asleep.
"To see Sheriff Tom's house."
Jackson perks up slightly. "Does he have a yard?"
"I do," I say. "And there's a tree that's perfect for climbing, if your mom says it's okay."
Claire shoots me a look that's half exasperation, half amusement. "Let's see the house first before we start making climbing plans."
We leave Murphy's and walk to my truck. The afternoon sun is warm, and Main Street is busy with the lunch crowd. People wave at me as we pass: Mrs. Patterson with her ancient golden retriever, Casey from the mechanic shop taking a break, a few teenagers hanging around outside the ice cream parlor.
Normal small-town life. The kind of life I thought I wanted when I moved here.
It is what I wanted. It's just been lonelier than I expected.
Jackson is alert enough to climb into the truck himself, though Claire hovers close, ready to catch him if he stumbles. She buckles him in, then slides into the passenger seat.
"It's about ten minutes east of town," I say, starting the engine. "Small house, nothing fancy. Bought it when I first moved here because the price was right and it had good bones."
"Where were you before Blackwater Falls?"
"All over. Fifteen years of deployments will take you to more countries than you want to see." I pause. "After I got out, I tried settling in a few different places. Nothing felt right until I found this town."
"What made it feel right?"
Good question. What did make Blackwater Falls feel different?