4. Eric
ERIC
After helping Hartwell wrestle a goat, two alpacas, and a miniature donkey into a temporary enclosure behind the festival grounds, I did what I always did when something threatened to derail my focus.
I went home.
Or at least I tried.
The problem was that Hartwell kept coming with me.
In my head.
At least if she was physically sitting in the truck beside me, I’d know where she was and what kind of trouble she was creating. The version in my head was far less predictable.
The woman had somehow managed to turn a petting zoo delivery into a public safety concern. She had no idea what she was doing, not even a little. I’d seen first-time volunteers with more preparation. Hell, I’d seen middle-school fundraisers run with more organization.
The strange part was that she didn’t quit.
Most people would’ve. Hell, some would’ve quit before the alpaca stole the clipboard. Most would’ve called Helen, admitted they were in over their head, and walked away.
Hartwell just kept going. She’d panic for about three seconds, say something completely ridiculous, make the situation worse, and then dig in and start fixing it again. It should’ve been exhausting to watch. Somehow, it wasn’t.
Half the time I couldn’t tell if she was solving problems or creating new ones. Sometimes it looked like she was doing both.
But she never stopped.
She’d looked exhausted, embarrassed, and completely overwhelmed. Yet every time something went wrong, she’d take a breath and throw herself right back in.
I took the next right, driving slowly to check out the streets, even though I was off duty now.
Habit, I guess. I might be off duty, but I was always the sheriff.
Twelve years on the job had a way of rewiring a man’s brain.
You stopped seeing streets and started seeing details—open doors, broken streetlights, cars that didn’t belong where they were parked.
Most of the time it amounted to nothing. But sometimes it didn’t.
The town was settling down for the evening.
Shop owners were locking doors and flipping signs from OPEN to CLOSED before heading home to dinner.
A few tourists wandered along the boardwalk with ice cream cones in hand, moving slowly enough that you could tell they weren’t locals.
Nobody from Maplewood Falls strolled anywhere during mosquito season.
The sky had started to darken over the water with thick gray clouds rolling in from the horizon and swallowing the last bits of blue, one piece at a time.
Rain.
A good one too, by the look of it. The kind that started with a few harmless drops before dumping buckets on everything in sight.
I slowed as I approached the four-way stop near the marina.
Mrs. Parker was crossing the street with her dachshund.
The dog was old. Mrs. Parker was older. Neither of them had ever been in a hurry, and they weren’t about to start now.
I gave the horn a quick tap.
Mrs. Parker looked up and pointed at me. “Don’t you start.” Her timing was impressive. Most people needed a second to identify the vehicle. Mrs. Parker somehow managed it before looking.
I rolled down the window. “Storm’s coming.”
She glanced toward the sky. “I have eyes.”
“I know. That’s why I figured I’d warn you.” Experience suggested logic rarely improved conversations with Mrs. Parker, but I kept trying anyway.
The old woman snorted. “You warn everybody.”
“Occupational hazard.” Also true. Half the town probably got weather reports from me, whether they wanted them or not.
She waved me off and continued walking. The dachshund stopped to inspect a fire hydrant. Mrs. Parker inspected it too. I’d responded to enough calls over the years to know there wasn’t much point hurrying people who had no intention of being hurried.
I shook my head and drove on.
Small town.
Everybody knew everybody and their business, generally before the people involved knew it themselves.
Usually that was enough to keep people out of trouble.
Usually.
I passed the hardware store, the bakery, and the pharmacy. A couple sat outside the coffee shop sharing a muffin. Someone was locking up the bookstore. Everything looked exactly the way it should.
Everything looked normal. The way I liked it.
I slowed when I passed Thompson Park, automatically checking the baseball field and picnic area the way I always did. Most nights there wasn’t much to see. Kids playing basketball. Dog walkers. Somebody pretending exercise was enjoyable.
Six teenagers occupied a picnic table near the far fence. Too old for the playground. Too young to be sitting around looking that guilty. They were attempting casual conversation with all the relaxed confidence of bank robbers waiting for the law to arrive.
One of the boys spotted my SUV.
His entire body language changed. His shoulders straightened, head lifted, and eyes widened.
Interesting.
Another kid quickly kicked something underneath the table.
Very interesting. People only made that kind of movement when they didn’t want you looking at something.
I already knew what that meant.
Beer. Maybe cigarettes. Maybe something stronger.
Whatever it was, nobody looked nearly relaxed enough for it to be legal. Innocent people generally didn’t react to seeing me like they’d just witnessed a shark fin in shallow water.
I pulled up alongside the curb and lowered my window.
Every head turned toward me.
The group suddenly became fascinated by absolutely everything—the grass, the trees, the baseball diamond, their shoes—except the sheriff.
One kid became deeply invested in studying a squirrel.
Another found the contents of his own hands absolutely riveting.
Teenagers really believed they were subtle.
It would’ve been impressive if it wasn’t so painfully obvious.
I recognized one of them immediately.
Tommy Baker.
Good kid. Terrible liar. His father owned the hardware store downtown. Tommy looked at me and tried to look somewhere else. Too late.
I pointed at him. “Tommy.”
His shoulders sagged. “Hey, Sheriff.”
“Storm’s coming.”
Six pairs of eyes lifted toward the dark clouds gathering over the ocean. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
“You boys should head home,” I told them.
Nobody moved.
Tommy swallowed. “We weren’t doing anything.”
I looked at the table. Then underneath the table. Then back at Tommy. “I didn’t ask.”
The silence stretched.
Tommy nodded once. “Yeah. Okay.”
Another rumble of thunder rolled across the bay.
I hooked an arm out the window. “Get home before the rain starts.”
The boys exchanged looks. Then, remarkably, they started gathering their things. One backpack. Two backpacks. Somebody grabbed a suspiciously heavy cooler. Nobody made eye contact with me, which pretty much confirmed everything.
I watched them scatter toward the parking lot.
Tommy paused long enough to give me an awkward wave. “Night, Sheriff.”
“Night, Tommy.”
Thirty seconds later the park was empty.
I gave a satisfied nod and drove on. Sometimes being sheriff meant solving major crimes. Sometimes it meant giving a bunch of dumb teenagers the opportunity to avoid becoming paperwork.
Those were usually my favorite days.
My smile faded a second later when my brain betrayed me yet again.
An image of Hartwell trying to reason with a goat flared in my mind’s eye.
Those soft curves, her blue eyes, and that smile that could trick you into doing things you didn’t want to do.
Like volunteer for something. Or agree to help.
Or spend an hour chasing livestock through the town square when you had absolutely no intention of doing any of those things.
The woman smiled like she genuinely expected the universe to cooperate with her.
The strange thing was that sometimes it almost did.
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel.
I wasn’t doing that. I had enough problems without adding Hartwell to the list. The woman was madness in human form.
She created a traffic jam with a miniature donkey and somehow looked surprised afterward.
Sensible men avoided women like that. Unfortunately, I was beginning to suspect she made it difficult to remain sensible.
I could always spot a liar. She was good.
I’d give her that. Most people probably would’ve bought it.
The confidence. The quick answers. The way she said things without hesitation.
She never paused long enough to sound uncertain.
Everything came out smoothly and immediately, like she’d already convinced herself it was true before anybody else had a chance to question it.
For a few seconds, you almost believed her.
But I’d spent too many years listening to people tell me stories. Listening was half the job. Most people thought being sheriff was about laws and arrests. Mostly it was about people. And people spent an amazing amount of time trying to convince you of things that weren’t true.
People lied when they got caught speeding. People lied when they got arrested. People lied when they cheated on their spouses. People lied when they got into fights. Hell, people lied about things that didn’t even matter.
I’d had grown men swear they hadn’t eaten the last donut in the break room while powdered sugar sat on their shirt.
I’d listened to teenagers explain why somebody else’s beer had somehow ended up in their backpack.
I’d heard husbands insist they were “just helping” their ex-wife move furniture at midnight.
And Hartwell? She’d answered my questions exactly the way somebody answered when they were trying very hard to sound like they belonged somewhere they didn’t.
After enough years, you stopped listening to the words. You watched everything else. The pause before the answer. The slight shift in posture. The eyes looking away a second too long. The overconfidence. The way someone tried just a little too hard.
Hartwell had all of it.