Cyrus
Chapter five
Forced Callaborations
If you’d told seventeen-year-old me I’d end up back in Bluestone as Chief of Police, I would’ve laughed in your face. Not because I didn’t care about this town. But because I care too much.
Some places don’t let you leave clean. They linger under the skin long after you’ve gone. Bluestone did that to me years ago. Now I stand in my new office, my name freshly stenciled on the door, and Bluestone City once again has me firmly in its grasp.
Chief Cyrus McCoy
I’m really doing this.
The desk still smells of pine. Someone put a lot of effort into making it welcoming. Organized. A fresh start. There was a basket in the corner filled with pens, notepads, and a wooden sign reading ‘Welcome Home.’
I turn it face down as a knock comes from the door.
“Come in.”
Mayor Anderson steps inside, all momentum and authority.
When I was a teenager serving detention beside Jonah for whatever foolish prank we’d pulled, he was still on the city council, trying to scare us straight.
He once told us—completely straight-faced—that our parents had signed away their rights, and we’d be working for the city by day and housed in the local jail by night.
I shake my head at the memory. Good times. Some things never change.
“Morning, Chief.”
“Morning, sir.”
He takes the chair across from my desk, leaning back comfortably, scanning the room, cataloging the changes. Or perhaps things that hadn’t changed.
“You settling in?” he asked.
“As much as necessary.”
“That’s about all any of us can do,” he says. “You’ll find your rhythm.” I nod once, waiting. The mayor isn’t the type to make small talk without a reason. Sure enough, he clasps his hands together and leans forward. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
Here it comes.
“The Fourth of July parade.”
Of course. He doesn’t wait for me to respond.
“Bluestone’s been doing it the same way for decades.
Police and fire departments coordinate the floats, the route, and the safety measures.
It’s not just a parade here, Cyrus. It’s a tradition.
Families plan their summers around it. People come back home for it.
It brings this town a lot of revenue. I’m sure you’ve noticed how well-maintained our town is.
It’s taken a lot of work and money to make progress happen. ”
I listen, even though I already know. I’d grown up with those parades. Riding bikes behind the floats, sneaking extra candy from the church ladies, watching her balance on my bike’s handlebars as her red ponytail whipped back and forth across my face.
I shoved the image away before it could take root. The old office chair creaks, the leather cracking as I lean back, waiting for Anderson to continue.
“It matters,” Anderson continues. “More than most people realize. Folks pay attention to how their leaders show up for community events. They notice effort. They notice when it’s taken seriously.”
“I take it seriously,” I tell him.
He smiles. “I know you do. That’s why I wanted you to hear it from me, not buried in a binder somewhere.”
“Understood,” I say. “What do you need from me?” Tension radiates through me. He’s going to tell me to work with him.
“Coordination with the fire department, same as always. Has to happen. You and their captain usually meet and map out the details. Decide who’s handling what.”
Shit.
I nod. “When do you want that started?”
“Sooner rather than later.”
He hesitates a beat, casually, as if it doesn’t mean anything.
“You’ll want to speak with their captain.
Jonah Addams.” He’s playing it cool, as his eyes hold mine.
Anderson was a calculating old timer; no one sneezes in this county without him knowing about it.
He knows there’s bad blood between Jonah and me.
The name hits like blunt force. I keep my face neutral—years of training taught me how to hold steady when everything inside me is anything but.
“Right,” I say. “He’s back in town.”
“Has been for some time,” Anderson tells me. “Took it over after Tom retired. Seems to be doing a hell of a job over there.” I don’t respond. “He’s got experience,” Anderson adds. “California departments. Wildland work. Big stuff. Hotshot work. He brings a lot to the table.”
Lucky for Bluestone. The town has a hero. The words stay locked behind my teeth.
“Anyway,” Anderson says, standing. “I’ll let you get back to it. Just wanted to make sure this was on your radar. The parade’s non-negotiable around here.”
“I gathered.”
“Oh, and Cyrus. We have a young lady on the force who runs the police department’s social media page. Her name is Lucy; you can’t miss her desk. She’s at the end of the hall. We try to keep up with the times. Give her a short bio; it’s an introduction of sorts to post with your photo.”
The tension coils back in my shoulders; if anything can make my day go downhill more. It’s knowing that we have to be on a fucking social media page. I hate the internet. Opinions are like assholes, everyone online has one. Some just smell worse than others.
Fantastic.
“Sure thing.”
He chuckles. “Good to have you home, Cyrus.”
Home. The word stirs something inside me.
Since we arrived, everyone says, ‘It’s good to have you home.
’ They mean well, but what’s good about it?
It took my partner getting killed, and me almost being blown to bits beside him, for me to drag my sorry ass back here.
I didn’t even do that, though, did I? Jackson made that decision for me.
I sit, staring at the grain of the desk, mapping out the generations of my predecessors before me through the wear and tear of the oak desk. I inhale, trying to slow my spiraling thoughts.
Jonah Addams.
Best friend. Former brother by choice. Now a ghost that follows me around town, sucking me back into the past.
I hadn’t said his name purposely in years. Some names carry a sentence on the soul. Some names wrap you in chains, to drag you down, drowning in memories.
High school bleachers. Football games. Late-night drives with the windows down and the music roaring. Two idiots who thought the world would never touch them. And then, I’d been told Jonah got Fallon pregnant.
Not by Fallon. Not by Jonah. The two most important individuals in my life. No-this town has ways of spreading poison. Their decision destroyed everything. I hadn’t believed it until it was confirmed by Jonah’s twin sister, Jordan. It was enough for me to leave.
Enough for me to stay angry.
Enough for the past to rot quietly while we both built separate lives on opposite sides of the country. California. That’s where he’d gone. Hotshot firefighter. The kind of job that made you sound heroic in headlines. The kind of job that gave you a clean narrative. Brave. Selfless. Respected.
The kind of life that didn’t carry the stains mine did. So why come back? That question sits heavily on my chest. Bluestone wasn’t exactly a career move. If you return—it’s by choice.
Family. Regret. Obligation. Or ghosts you can’t outrun.
Jonah.
Fallon.
I don’t plan for this to be a reunion tour.
I stand abruptly, needing movement, and cross to the window. Outside, the street looks the same as it always has. Same diner on the corner. Same hardware store. Same courthouse clock that never quite kept accurate time. This town preserves things. Memories. Stories. Wounds. Unresolved endings.
I wonder if Jonah is experiencing this too.
The weight of it dragging us both down. The way Bluestone wraps around your ribs and squeezes when you least expect it.
Coming back here was a fucking mistake. This town isn’t big enough for the three of us.
I wondered if he still thinks about her as I do.
The uninvited thought invades me, sharp and unwelcome.
Of course he does. How could he not? My forehead rests against the window; the coolness of the pane is a welcome reprieve.
I imagine the two of them together, happy, as a family.
His hands on the person who was meant to be mine.
Fallon.
The name hits harder than it should. Fallon—ribbons of hair wrapped so easily around my fingers, like she belonged there.
Fallon, with constellations of freckles scattered across skin I used to know by memory.
Fallon, whose gold rimmed-green eyes used to track me as if our life together were something worth holding onto.
Fallon Lawson. I close my fist until my knuckles pop, forcing it down. I’m not here to lose control. Not in this uniform. Not in a town where everything carries weight and nothing stays private.
I wear the badge for what it is—a responsibility, not a weapon for personal history. Lead first. Feel later. That’s the rule.
I push away from the window and grab the stack of onboarding paperwork instead—safer ground. Policies, schedules, anything that doesn’t lead back to my life before I left this place. But the names follow anyway. Jonah Addams. Fallon Lawson. Firehouse captain. The woman who was meant to be mine.
I snap open the laptop. A quick search pulls up old parade photos, and I start making notes—each click a small act of control.
If I can map everything out cleanly, keep it contained in a folder, then maybe I can keep the rest of it contained too.
I’ll have what I need. Enough to limit contact.
Enough to keep distance where it matters.
Jonah is unavoidable; I’ll deal with him on my terms. The thought sours my mouth.
We’ll have to work together. Coordinate. Stand side by side like nothing ever happened. The town will eat it up—two hometown boys back in charge, healing old wounds, unity on display like a postcard. I’d be the third wheel in my own story. The one who remembers what everyone else wants to forget.
And the public won’t see any of it. They wouldn’t be present for the steady hum of tension already living under my skin at the thought of sitting across from him. The laptop snaps shut with a soft click. I pick up my pen and start signing forms, my handwriting sharper than usual.
This is the job. This is the choice I made.
Professional. Controlled. Focused. Jonah will be a name on a memo, a contact in another department—nothing more.
That’s what I tell myself. But even as I write, concentration slips through my fingers.
There’s no burying it under policy and procedure.
One thought keeps circling, raw and persistent, refusing to settle.
How does Fallon feel about me moving home?