Chapter 28 Logan
Twenty Eight
Logan
The blue and red lights start flashing as soon as we pull onto Main Street.
“What?” I slap the steering wheel in irritation. “I wasn’t speeding.”
“Oh, no,” Sierra whispers. She sinks low in her seat and covers her face with her hands.
“It’s fine,” I say, frowning at her overreaction. I pull over to the shoulder. “It’s been an hour or so since we had the wine. Maybe my headlight’s out?”
The deputy takes his sweet time to approach. I internally groan when I finally see who it is—of course, it’s the town marshal himself. He taps sharply on my window, and I roll it down.
“Logan LaSalle and Sierra Howard,” he drawls. Something about the way he says our names makes my back stiffen. He sounds too pleased to see us. “What brings you out here so late? It’s been a few years since I caught you two together in cahoots, up to no good.”
I frown. As unfortunate as it is, I see Marshal Dawson fairly often. It doesn’t make sense for him to talk to us like wayward teenagers.
“We’re just coming back from a date,” I say coolly. “What seems to be the problem, Marshal?”
“License and registration.”
I hand it to him. “Is my headlight burned out or something?”
He glances at the cards in his hand. “Have you had a chance to review the trust changes I asked for?”
I grit my teeth. This shit again? “I think I’ve made it pretty clear.”
For some reason, he looks past me to Sierra. His piercing blue eyes darken before turning back to me. “Humor me again. Will you change the trust designations?”
“I don’t know how many times you think you’re entitled to ask, but it’s not going to happen. Ever.”
He nods. “I see. Step out of the vehicle,” he orders. “Now.”
Anger sizzles in my belly, but I hold up my hands. “All right, all right.”
A cool wind blows past me as I step out. Even though the sun has set, the street is far from empty. There are still a healthy number of stragglers making their way back to their hotels and cars. A small, well-dressed tourist group poses nearby under the gas lamp post, snapping photos.
“I’m going to conduct a few field sobriety tests,” he announces loudly.
The fashionable group seems to hear that and pauses their photoshoot. What appears to be a bachelorette group walks by at that moment too, giggling when they hear Dawson’s words.
My frustration spikes. “I’m not drunk. I’ll take a breathalyzer test.”
He ignores me. “Walk nine heel-to-toe steps along a straight line, turn on one foot, and take nine steps back.”
I grit my teeth and perform the exercise. I look at him for confirmation that I’m done, but he taps his chin as if thinking hard.
“Again,” he finally instructs.
The back of my neck goes hot. We’re on a public street, for chrissakes. Clarice from Southwest Knickknacks is locking up her shop. Her dismayed expression at what she’s witnessing fills me with hot shame. Now everyone’s going to think I’m a drunk.
I quickly perform the task, then look at his stupid, smirking face.
“Now, I want you to stand on one leg, touch your nose, and recite the alphabet backwards.”
“All at the same time?” I snap.
“If you’re as sober as you say, this should be a cakewalk.”
“I’m clearly sober. Just let me take a breathalyzer, and we’ll be on our way.”
He shakes his head, smirking. The tourist group has given up trying to watch me coyly. Now two of them point their phones at me, filming my humiliation outright.
“If you think this harassment will make me change the trust, you’re insane,” I say in a low voice.
His smirk disappears. “Do the test right now, or I will arrest you for refusing to follow an order.”
Sierra hops out of the truck. “Marshal Dawson, please.” She wrings her hands. “Can we—”
“You’re right, this has gone on long enough,” he says sympathetically. “Logan, last chance. Nothing will make you change the trust?”
“Please consider it, Logan,” Sierra says.
I blink, confused. “Why do you care about his funding, Sierra?”
“I…” She looks at a loss for words. “Just tell him you’ll think about it.”
“I need a stronger promise than that,” Dawson says.
I shake my head and then answer Dawson. “No, Dawson. You’ll never get your hands on it, not in a million years.”
Dawson clenches his jaw. “Fine. This was a long shot anyway.” Dawson pulls out his phone and holds his thumb over a play button.
“No!” Sierra cries. “No, please don’t.”
He smiles, then presses a button on his phone, and a recording begins to play.
Even though the voice sounds stilted and young, I instantly recognize it as Sierra’s.
“The first day was a Tuesday. John Hillerman invited me over. Around 3 p.m. He invited me over every day that week, around that time, because his wife would still be at work and his daughter at softball practice. John Hillerman invited me over via text. He told me to take off my clothes. I don’t remember who initiated touching. I sucked his, uh, penis.”
I freeze. What. The. Fuck.
In front of me, Sierra’s eyes close, her face twisted in pain. She drops her face into her hands. All the while, this asshole holds the phone out toward me, smiling.
“Yes, I swallowed. It was in his…room. We had sex in other places, not just his bed.” The short pauses and the intonation of her words sounded too high at times.
As if she were responding to questions, even though her voice is the only one on the recording.
“I think it was Thursday, he…John Hillerman bent me over the kitchen table.”
“Please turn it off,” Sierra begged Dawson. My girlfriend, having to beg this monster not to air her private indiscretion on a public street, finally snaps me out of it.
“What the fuck is this?” I ask Dawson.
Sierra cringes, tears sparkling at the corner of her eyes. Her voice is barely audible over the recording that continues to play. “It’s my statement. About what happened with John Hillerman.”
The group of rubberneckers moves closer, curious about what we’re listening to.
“Shut that off,” I snap.
Dawson ignores me, smiling slightly as young Sierra’s voice describes how John Hillerman prefers his blow jobs.
I turn back to Sierra. “Statement. When did you make a statement?”
“Before I left.”
Suddenly, something clicks. Adrenaline pops through my veins, and white noise fills my head.
“Sierra, how did you leave Sagebrush when you ran away?” My voice sounds detached, calm, far from the turmoil that’s actually brewing inside me.
“Dawson gave me a ride out of Sagebrush.”
I exhale sharply. My fingers dig into my hair. I stop, try again, and fail to keep my voice steady. “Why did you do that?”
The question is for Dawson, but Sierra answers, seemingly oblivious to the volcanic heat rising within me.
“He said he didn’t want to arrest me for…
for prostitution,” she whispers. “That if I stayed, he’d have no choice but to prosecute me.
The thought of being arrested…I was a kid.
I was terrified. It was his word against mine.
It’s… He told me he wouldn’t if I left, if I never contacted anyone again. ”
Dawson pauses the recording. “Now, Sierra, that’s not—”
I cut him off. I don’t want to hear any more of his lies. “You knew exactly how she left last time.” It’s not a question, but I expect a confirmation anyway.
He smiles but doesn’t answer.
I scrub a hand over my face like I can physically push the mess of emotion back down where it belongs. But it keeps spilling through anyway.
And then I look again at his corrupt, unrepentant face, and I snap. The angry words spill from my mouth, growing louder and louder until I’m shouting at Dawson. “You let this whole fucking town think she was dead. We spent a year looking for her while you knew this. Whole. Fucking. Time!”
“Logan, please—” Sierra pleads.
“You fucking asshole,” I roar. “You corrupt, low-life cop. I’m going to fucking ruin you.”
“Logan, stop!”
“That’s enough.” Dawson grabs me and slams me against my truck’s hood.
Pain explodes behind my eyes as my head bounces off the hood. Blood pools in my mouth, and the world tilts.
“You’re under arrest for threatening a public official. You stay back, or I’ll take you too,” he snarls at Sierra.
“You think you can get away with this?” I spit.
He shoves me again. “You may think you’re the big man around here,” he says, voice low and dangerous, “but I’m about to show you who’s really boss.”