Chapter 12 Crossroads
Crossroads
Sheriff Burke Scott
The new day broke clear and bright over Sylva.
Sheriff Burke Scott was already on patrol, sunlight flashing across his windshield as he rolled down Main Street.
His thoughts weren’t really on stop signs and storefronts.
Part of him was working the usual beats, but another part was scanning, hoping for that blue Jeep.
He kept seeing her in his mind: the girl on the porch with Ned, glancing around like she expected someone to step out of the shadows.
That kind of unease didn’t come from nowhere, and it raised his hackles.
He couldn’t shake the feeling something was off—there was a story there, and it wasn’t a simple one.
Something in her eyes didn’t match her words. He’d learned to pay attention when that happened. He caught his reflection in the rearview and gave a short, humorless snort. Careful, Scott. You’re starting to sound like one of those nosy old ladies down at the beauty shop.
When he finally spotted the Jeep, curiosity got the better of him. He ran the plates. The answer—registered to Francisco Rossi, out in Colorado—only piqued his interest further. Why would her Jeep be registered to somebody else?
Burke leaned back, frowning at the screen.
Francisco Rossi. The name didn’t ring any bells.
He knew most families in the county, and none of them were Rossi.
Whoever the guy was, he trusted her enough to put his vehicle in her hands.
Husband? Boyfriend? A horn blared on Main Street, snapping the thread.
He rubbed a thumb along his chin, thinking it through. Colorado’s a long way to come for a fresh start. Too far. Too deliberate. People didn’t drift to Sylva from that far west without a reason.
He knew running plates without cause wasn’t exactly by the book. But he also knew he’d sleep better for doing it.
The more he thought about her, the more he couldn’t shake the sense that trouble had followed her here.
A kid on a bike waved as he passed the hardware store.
Burke lifted a hand without thinking. The rhythm of the town never changed—coffee brewing at Lucy’s, old men arguing over feed prices, a dog barking from the courthouse steps.
Maybe that was why her unease had gotten under his skin; it didn’t fit here.
He noticed Scout’s truck parked outside City Limits Café and figured it was time for lunch. Inside, Scout sat at the counter, working through a plate of fries, as Willow called out, “Howdy, Sheriff! What’ll it be?”
“I’ll take the special and a Diet Coke.”
Willow slid his drink down the counter and vanished into the kitchen. Burke claimed the seat beside Scout.
“What’s up?” Scout asked, mouth half full.
“Not much. You?”
“Same.”
Scout never changed—always eating, always watching, like he carried half the county’s secrets in his back pocket.
“You looking for someone,” Scout said, smirking, “or just hoping that pretty blonde from the other day shows up again?”
Burke shot him a look. “You’re full of it.”
Scout shrugged, popped another fry, and grinned. “Didn’t say it was a bad thing.”
The door swung open, and Scout’s grin widened. “Well, damn. Speak of the devil—look who just walked in.”
Darcy stepped inside, sunlight spilling in with her. She looked more at ease than before—her shoulders relaxed, her smile coming a little easier. Heat crept under Burke’s collar before he could stop it—a response he hadn’t felt in a long time, and one he wasn’t sure he trusted.
Scout muttered under his breath, “Cute thing,” before taking another bite.
Burke ignored the comment and called out, “Hi, Darcy. How are things going out at Moonshine?”
Her smile found him first, soft and genuine. “Oh, it’s beautiful. Peaceful.”
Scout cleared his throat theatrically. Burke caught himself and said, “Oh—Darcy, this is my buddy, Deputy Scout Wilson.”
Scout stood and wiped his hands on a napkin before extending one. “Pleasure to meet you, Darcy Nolan. Welcome to Sylva.”
She shook his hand. “Nice to meet you too, Deputy.”
Scout’s grip lingered just a beat too long—long enough for Burke’s mouth to flatten. Scout caught it, smirked, and released her hand with a look Burke knew all too well: pure mischief.
“Scout was just leaving,” Burke said, deadpan. “You don’t mind if Darcy takes that seat, do you?”
Scout shot him a look, shoved the last handful of fries into his mouth, and stood. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Sheriff.”
As Scout ambled toward the door, Willow emerged from the kitchen. “Oh, hi, Darcy!”
At Willow’s greeting, Darcy’s smile widened, her posture easing. She looked more at home than she had before as she took Scout’s empty stool.
Burke watched her settle, saw that flicker of calm touch her face, and wondered what she was thinking.
He knew what he was thinking. She’s beautiful. And just who the hell is Francisco Rossi?
Jason West
Later That Same Night—Denver.
It was close to midnight when Jason stepped into the house—too dark, too quiet. Only the faint hum of the refrigerator broke the silence.
He tossed his keys on the counter and rechecked the tracker app. The blinking dot hadn’t moved all day, her BMW parked at RiNo Arts Park.
“She knew I’d be home tonight,” he muttered. “Where the hell is she?”
He called her. Straight to voicemail. You’ve reached Caitlin West. I can’t take your call right now—
He ended it before her voice finished.
Next, he called Izzy. Four rings. Voicemail.
His mouth went hard. “Figures.”
He’d just spent the weekend in Miami—golf, bourbon, Claudia—and assumed Caitlin would be waiting, the way she always was. But she wasn’t. The empty house felt like an insult.
Irritation curdled into anger. He snatched his Porsche keys.
Outside, the neighborhood was asleep. A thin drizzle silvered the pavement under the streetlights. Jason backed out fast, tires spitting water—one hand on the wheel, the other scrolling through his phone, thumb precise even in motion.
A flash of blue exploded in his rearview mirror.
“Perfect,” he muttered, jerking the car to the curb.
Officer Jackson approached—steady, broad-shouldered—the same man who’d stood in Jason’s library weeks ago. Recognition flickered in the officer’s eyes.
“Evening, Mr. West,” Jackson said evenly. “You rolled through that stop sign back there.”
Jason forced a thin smile. “Did I? Must’ve missed it. Long day. Just got back from Miami.”
Jackson didn’t return the smile. “License and registration.”
Jason handed them over, movements clipped, controlled. “You know who I am.”
Jackson’s gaze didn’t budge. “That doesn’t make the sign any less red.” He studied the license, then Jason. “You in a hurry to get somewhere?”
“My wife’s car’s been sitting downtown all night,” Jason said. “Figured I’d make sure she’s not doing anything stupid.”
Jackson’s tone was mild, but his eyes said everything—he remembered her. “You drive careful, Mr. West. Wouldn’t want another… misunderstanding.”
Jason looked angry, but his voice stayed smooth. “Are we done?”
Jackson tore the ticket from his pad and passed it through the window. “Drive safe.”
Jason snatched it, eyes flat as glass. “Yeah. Sure thing, Officer.”
As he pulled away, the cruiser’s lights faded in the mirror, but Jackson’s stare burned between his shoulder blades the entire drive.
At RiNo Arts Park, Caitlin’s BMW waited beneath a gnarled oak, its windshield beaded with dew, neon puddles of streetlight wavering across the hood. The air clung damp and electric against his skin. Silence pressed in—too deep for midnight in Denver.
Jason hesitated at the curb, something raw and nervous biting at the edges of his anger. For a flickering instant, fear jabbed him—What if something had happened to her? He shoved it down. No. She was playing him; that’s what this was.
He strode toward the car, gravel crunching beneath his shoes, unlocking the door in one sharp motion.
The interior reeked faintly of vanilla and sandalwood—hers—and the cold blue glow of the phone screen made his nerves jump.
He scanned missed calls and messages in quick succession, fingers tense, forcing himself not to fumble.
The emptiness, the orderliness—it felt staged.
Like a set where the lead had vanished between acts.
Her purse sat beside the phone, neat, untouched. Under her wallet—a folded note. His name written in her careful, underlined hand: Jason.
He tore it open.
Dear Jason,
I want to begin by making one thing clear: I am safe. I have not been taken, and I have not been harmed—I’ve left of my own free will.
This may be difficult for you to accept, mainly because you’ve always tried to maintain control. But that’s precisely why I’m writing this letter—to let you know that I’m finally taking control of my own life.
I’m leaving you. You have deep-seated problems.
Our marriage has changed beyond recognition.
The man I once loved no longer exists, and I can no longer pretend that everything is okay.
For too long, I convinced myself we were happy while quietly enduring your dissatisfaction and emotional withdrawal.
But when your anger turned into physical violence, the line was crossed—permanently.
I grieve the life I thought we had, but I see now it was never real. No man who truly loves his wife would treat her the way you’ve treated me.
I will not allow myself to be abused, threatened, or silenced.
I deserve safety, peace, and respect. I know what happens when abuse escalates, and I won’t be a part of that story.
You may not see yourself as abusive, but your actions speak louder than your intentions ever could. I refuse to live in fear.
I’ve taken nothing of yours that matters, and I’m asking you not to try to contact me or locate me. I will file for divorce in my own time, and I have no interest in engaging in a drawn-out or public battle. I want distance, healing, and peace.
One day, you’ll realize losing me was the only thing you couldn’t control.
— Caitlin
Each word seared him. Abuse. Fear. The man I once loved no longer exists.
How dare she?
His vision narrowed. He slammed the wheel, the sound sharp in the stillness. Then, with a snarl, he flung her purse across the car, its contents scattering like shrapnel.
No one walked away from Jason West. No one rewrote his story.
She wanted peace? She would beg for it by the time he was done.
Let her think she could hide in her new life—her illusion would shatter soon enough.
He pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to his guy: Pick up the BMW in the morning.
Locking the car, he spat the word under his breath. “Bitch.”
He needed answers. And he knew exactly who to corner first—Izzy.