Chapter 18
HARLAN - TIGHTEN THE BOLTS
The station lights flickered again. Third time this week.
If I believed in signs, I might’ve taken that as one.
Instead, I muttered a curse under my breath and went back to fiddling with the stack of index cards in my hand, the bare bones of a speech I wasn’t even sure I wanted to give.
Outside, a thin rain tapped at the windows.
Not the heavy kind that broke branches, but the kind that blurred the world at the edges, that turned the gravel lot into mud and made the air smell like wet earth.
Spring was coming, you could feel it in the air, but winter hadn’t loosened its grip yet.
That limbo season. Too raw to be warm, too restless to stay cold.
I had no business planning a fundraiser.
I wasn’t a politician. I wasn’t a glad-handing sheriff in a western. I was just a guy who stepped into his father’s boots before they stopped smelling like grief and gasoline.
But Remi had planted the idea like it was obvious. Natural.
And damn it, once she said it, I couldn’t stop turning it over in my head.
“Looks like a hostage note,” her voice called out behind me.
I turned and there she was, standing in the doorway like she owned the room. Sundress under a worn denim jacket, her wild hair damp at the ends from the drizzle, a paper coffee cup warming her hands. Her smile was half amusement, half challenge.
“I thought you had clinic hours,” I said.
“I swapped with Ava. Figured I’d swing by and make sure you weren’t planning to open this fundraiser with a lecture on traffic codes.”
I held up the index cards before tossing them on my desk. “They’re colour coded.”
She snorted and dropped into the chair across from me. “Even worse than I thought.”
Her gaze skimmed the cards, not touching, not rearranging, just... reading the shape of my panic like it was written in neon.
“How nervous are you?” she asked.
“Somewhere between a root canal and a colonoscopy.”
“Charming, Chief.”
She sipped her coffee, and I waited.
“You’ll be fine,” she said finally. “Start with a story. Make it personal. Then tell them why it matters.”
“That easy, huh?”
She shrugged. “You’re not trying to impress them. You’re trying to remind them they give a damn.”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “You know what the real problem is?”
Her eyes sharpened. “Go on.”
“I’ve got MCs throwing punches in parking lots... starting wars on back roads, cartel whispers circling the border, trafficking rumours I can’t pin down, and half my team acting like every complaint is a personal insult. This town doesn’t need a fundraiser. It needs a damn miracle.”
“The MC stuff... getting worse?” she asked.
“Yeah. Had to break up a brawl between Spike and Hammer last week.”
Her expression cooled, the humour fading. “MCs are the worst.”
“You know them?”
“Not those names. But I’ve seen what they leave behind. Doesn’t matter which club—my client list is full of women carrying their scars.”
The room went quiet, heavy. The storm outside drummed harder against the glass.
Then she said, low: “You ever hear of someone called Preacher?”
The name twisted in my gut like a splinter I couldn’t place. “Can’t say I have. Why?”
“Just... keep your eyes open if you do. From what I hear, he doesn’t usually show up unless the storm’s already halfway here.”
Didn’t like the sound of that. Not one bit.
I shuffled my cards again; suddenly sure paper speeches weren’t much use if a wildfire was about to hit.
“You thinking of hiring?” she asked suddenly, like it was nothing.
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“New officers. You keep saying you’re short-staffed. Maybe it’s time. Bring in someone from outside. Someone you trust. Someone who isn’t already neck-deep in the rot you’re trying to scrub out.”
“You offering?”
She smirked, wolfish. “Not my style, Chief. But maybe what you need isn’t more of the same. Maybe you need someone who remembers what the system’s supposed to be.”
The thought stuck like a burr.
“I’ll think about it.”
“You should,” she said. “Sometimes the only way to fix a broken structure is to bring in someone who knows how to tighten the bolts from the outside.”
She tossed her empty cup in the bin and stood. “And for the record, don’t read your little rainbow panic cards tomorrow like you’re at a PTA meeting.”
“Noted.”
“Oh, and Chief?”
“Yeah?”
“Try not to look like you’re waiting for someone to throw a punch. It’s a fundraiser, not a hostage negotiation.”
That pulled a laugh out of me. Short, rough, real.
She turned to go, boots thudding softly on the tile. And before I could stop myself, I called after her:
“How’s Ava?”
She froze just a fraction, then looked back, eyes softer than I’d ever seen. “She’ll chew you up and spit you out, Chief.”
A crooked wink, and she was gone.
The storm rattled the window. I sat in my office, staring at the cards, but for the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel like I was walking into a firing squad.
Maybe, just maybe, spring wasn’t the only thing breaking through.