Chapter 37
Sarah closed the front door behind her and leaned against it, eyes closed.
No radio. No dispatch. No Walter asking whether she’d signed the transfer paperwork for Cord.
Cord was in federal custody now, being held at the station until two deputy marshals arrived from Anchorage to collect him tomorrow.
Nora was stable at the hospital, wrapped in warming blankets with warmed IV fluids running.
A doctor had told Sarah another few hours in that cellar would have been a different conversation entirely.
Now she was home. The house was quiet. She unlaced her boots, toed them off and padded into the kitchen.
The flowers Hudson had bought were fully open, catching the last of the afternoon light on the kitchen table, petals wider than they’d been this morning.
The fridge was still absurdly full—enough food for a week, maybe two, bought by a man who apparently believed the correct response to an empty refrigerator was to declare war on it.
She closed the refrigerator but didn’t move away immediately. Yesterday this house had felt like somewhere she slept between shifts. Today it felt like somewhere she wanted someone to come home to.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. She reached for it, expecting Walter. Or dispatch. Or her mother, who had called three times today already.
Hudson.
Dinner?
Hotel bar.
Seven?
If you’re up to it.
She stared at the screen. Four lines. No pressure or assumptions. The question mark after seven made her smile. Even now, he was leaving her room to say no.
Her stomach flipped. It hadn’t done that since she was eighteen.
Seven.
She hit send.
Oh God. I just agreed to a date.
She put the phone face down on the counter and walked toward her bedroom before she changed her mind. She showered quickly, then stood in front of her closet with nearly two hours to figure out who the hell she was supposed to be when she got there.
Mostly she owned practical things. Work shirts.
Thermal layers. Jeans in varying shades of sensible.
Clothes bought to do a job in, not to be noticed in.
Her uniform hung at the far left. Sheriff Sarah.
The version of herself she put on without thinking because the job decided for her. Tonight it didn’t.
She touched the sleeve of her work shirt and moved on.
She reached for her good jeans. Practical. She held them up, then put them back.
A blue and white summer dress. Except it was November and below freezing. Absolutely not.
Her hand stopped on something she’d forgotten she owned—a navy wool dress, fitted and soft. She’d bought it for an anniversary party two years ago and worn it exactly once before it disappeared into the back of the closet behind her work jackets.
She pulled it out. It was just a dress. Warm enough for November, simple enough that she wouldn’t spend the whole evening wondering if she’d overdressed.
She took it off the hanger and pulled it on.
When she stretched behind her for the zipper, the bruises across her ribs objected immediately.
It fit differently than denim ever did, soft against curves her usual clothes mostly ignored.
She smoothed a hand down the wool almost self-consciously before sitting on the bed to zip her knee-high boots.
She pulled the elastic from her ponytail. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders, and she ran her fingers through it, shaking it out. She opened her jewelry box and added tiny silver hoops to her ears, then applied mascara and a slick of lip gloss.
She barely recognized herself in the navy dress, hair down, about to go to dinner with a man she’d kissed that morning. She exhaled a shaky breath. She wasn’t entirely sure who this version of her was yet.
A knock sounded at the front door.
She opened the door, and Wyatt walked right in. He was still in his flight suit, orange against the blue dark behind him, clearly straight from a shift.
“Just checking on you. Heard about Nora—” He turned to face her.
“Make yourself at home, Wyatt.” Sarah closed the door.
His eyes moved from her face to the dress, then back up to her face. “Well.”
She pressed her lips together.
“Are you going out?”
“Yes.” She arched a brow at him.
“Anyone I know?”
“Wyatt.” She folded her arms. “Last time I checked, I wasn’t twelve and didn’t need my big brother’s approval.”
“Still my little sister.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Never said you couldn’t.” He leaned against the kitchen doorframe, arms crossed. “You look great. Does he know how lucky he is?”
Her throat tightened. “I think he does.”
Seconds ticked between them.
Wyatt stepped forward and kissed her forehead. She leaned into it. A few seconds, no more, but she let herself have it—the steadiness of her brother, his smell of jet fuel and cold air.
“You look happy,” Wyatt said, stepping back. He headed for the door, then paused with his hand on the frame. He looked back at her. “Does Mom know?”
Sarah groaned. “Don’t tell her.”
“Not a chance.” He grinned, pulled the door shut behind him, and was gone.
The house was quiet again as she headed to the bathroom and took a photo in the mirror. She sent it to Jen with a question mark.
The reply came back in approximately three seconds.
A second message followed immediately:
About damn time. Don’t wear your sheriff face.
Sarah snorted. “I’m not.”
She put the phone down.
She glanced at herself in the mirror again.
There was no sheriff looking back at her tonight. Just a woman who looked a little nervous and, God help her, hopeful.
Sarah reached for the perfume on the shelf above the sink. She sprayed her wrists and throat, releasing citrus, sea salt, and soft white musk. She’d bought it years ago because it smelled like the coast after rain. Now it was almost unfamiliar on her skin.
“Okay, Sarah. Let’s do this.”
She grabbed her station key and cruiser fob, the set she could find blindfolded at three in the morning. She almost laughed when she realized she’d grabbed the wrong set. She shook her head and swapped them for Wyatt’s Volvo keys.
She looked around the quiet house one last time. Flowers on the table. Fruit in the bowl. A life she’d built one careful day at a time.
Tonight she wasn’t driving to a call.
She was driving toward Hudson.