Falling Darkness

DARKNESS SMALL TOWN SUSPENSE SERIES

BOOK ONE

ZARA EVANS

Chapter

One

Special Agent Izzy Llewellyn’s breath frosted in front of her face as she crouched behind a stack of wooden pallets and glanced around the desolate warehouse district, her fingers flexing around the grip of her Glock 19.

This was no Hallmark card. The snow was black and littered with mounds of exploded garbage bags. The organic matter spilling across the sidewalk should have smelled terrible, but the bitter wind whipping in off the Hudson River had mercifully incapacitated Izzy’s olfactory sense completely.

She pulled her spare magazine from its holder, checking it for a third time before sliding it back into place. The familiar weight of her FBI ballistic vest did nothing to ward off the chill that had settled into her bones during the surveillance. Her gaze fixed on the dark sedan parked fifty yards ahead, its windows reflecting the lone sodium light that still functioned along the loading dock.

The warehouse loomed before her, its metal siding corroded from decades of salt air and neglect. Broken windows gaped like missing teeth along the upper level, and chains hung loose from doors that hadn’t seen sanctioned use in years. The south entrance stood ajar, darkness bleeding out onto the frost-slicked pavement.

Izzy moved forward in a low crouch, keeping to the shadows between pools of sickly orange light. Her shoes made no sound on the icy snow as she cleared corners and checked sight lines. The tactical training kicked in automatically—slice the pie, check high, check low, maintain situational awareness.

Inside the warehouse, stacks of abandoned shipping containers created a maze of blind corners and choke points. Water dripped somewhere in the dark, each drop echoing off the metal walls.

The beam of her tactical light swept methodically across empty spaces as she advanced. Her heightened senses caught every whisper of movement—rats scurrying through debris, the settling of old metal in the cold, the distant horn of a vessel on the river. She saw old mattresses and newspaper blankets, syringes and foil packets, discarded baggies. No human sounds. Not yet.

The main floor opened up ahead, illuminated by portable halogen work lamps that cast harsh shadows across the concrete. The light reflected off puddles of standing water and the frosted windows high above.

Izzy stowed her tactical light and pressed her back against a shipping container at the edge of the dark, counting breaths to steady her racing pulse. She knew what waited in that light. Or thought she did. The weight of her weapon offered cold comfort as she prepared to step out of the shadows.

Izzy exhaled silently as she peered around the edge of the container. The harsh light revealed two men at the center of the cleared space. Only one of the men appeared to have a firearm, but that was no given. Her fingers tightened on her weapon as she assessed the scene, eyes scanning the perimeter for additional threats. The shadows between containers could hide an army.

A man in a black puffer jacket and faded jeans faced another in a charcoal suit. The suit shifted his weight, and the fabric pulled across his shoulders—department-store quality, nothing custom. The guy in the puffer jacket looked warmer, but more agitated.

“You should’ve listened.” The gunman’s words echoed off the metal walls. “All you had to do was keep quiet.”

The other man’s breath came in visible puffs. “Please, I can explain⁠—”

“Take the money. Do what you’re told. Simple. Now you can’t be trusted.”

“No, wait.” His voice cracked. “I have a family.”

“Should’ve thought about that before you let us down.” The gunman eased his weight back and aimed.

Izzy recognized the shooter’s stance adjustment—creating distance to avoid blowback. Her muscles coiled as she maintained her position, waiting for any sign of additional players in the warehouse’s shadowed corners. The dripping water marked time like a metronome as she weighed her options, cataloging angles and cover positions.

High-pitched pleas bounced off indifferent metal walls. “I’ll do anything. Whatever you want. Please.”

The pistol remained unwavering, its bearer leaning back another fraction of an inch.

Izzy stepped into the harsh light, her Glock trained center-mass on the gunman. “Don’t do it.”

Both men’s heads snapped toward her. One offered her a menacing expression, while the other’s eyes held a deep sadness.

“You shouldn’t be here, Special Agent Llewellyn.”

“None of us should be here.” Izzy kept her stance solid, weapon steady.

He shook his head, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “No backup? That’s reckless, even for you.”

“Put the weapon down and step away.” The command came automatically, born from countless training scenarios. But this was no training exercise.

“If you’re here now, you know I can’t do that.” His grip shifted on his pistol, maintaining aim at his target. “But you can put yours down. Do that, and you won’t die tonight.” The shadows deepened around his eyes. “You have until the count of three. One, two⁠—”

Time compressed into heartbeats. The gunman’s weapon swung toward her in a smooth arc, and he fired. Izzy’s finger squeezed the trigger before conscious thought kicked in. His shot flew to Izzy’s right and hit the metal wall behind. Her shot hit closer to home.

Red bloomed across his shoulder as he fired again, this time upward, sparking off the dark rafters.

Then it all went bad. Did both men have guns? Bullets were flying in all directions. A round hit a work lamp, dropping the scene into half light.

Izzy dove for cover. Her shoulder slammed into a pallet of shrink-wrapped boxes. Pain shot through her arm as she hit the concrete. Bullets tore into plastic and cardboard above her head, raining debris.

For a moment the echo of gunfire rang around the warehouse, then was replaced by the slap of footsteps on concrete, someone running. The sound bounced between containers until directionality became impossible to track.

Izzy’s pulse thundered in her ears as she peered around the edge of the pallet. Through the dull light, a dark form lay motionless at the center of the warehouse floor. The suit. The puffer jacket was gone. Her breath caught as she scrambled to her feet.

“No, no, no.” The word repeated like a mantra as she sprinted across the open space, her shoes splashing through puddles of oily water.

Her trembling fingers fumbled with her phone, muscle memory finding the emergency contact. The screen blurred as she ran.

“Agent down! Agent down!” Her voice broke, desperate and raw. “Paramedics!”

She dropped to her knees beside him, cold concrete biting through her pants. Gently, she lifted his head into her lap, her hands coming away sticky and warm. His face was pale, too pale, in the harsh shadows cast by the remaining work lamp.

“Why? Why, Mark?” Tears fell onto his cheeks as she brushed back his dark hair. Ten years flashed through her mind—their meeting at Quantico, games at Mets Stadium, making love hidden in The Ramble in Central Park like teenagers. Their wedding day.

Mark’s lips moved, but no sound came out. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. His hand twitched, reaching for her, but fell short.

“Stay with me. Please, Mark.” She clutched him closer, willing her warmth into his cooling body. “Help is coming. Just hold on.”

His eyes, those beautiful eyes that had captured her heart years ago, fixed on hers one last time. A flash of recognition, of love, of regret—then they slipped closed, his final breath ghosting across her tear-stained face.

Mark went still in her arms, leaving Izzy alone with the dripping water and her echoing sobs.

NINE MONTHS LATER

Izzy stood on the rain-slicked forecourt of the J. Edgar Hoover Building, her dream workplace transformed into a monument to everything she’d lost. The bronze letters above the entrance blurred through the drizzle—or perhaps it was the ache behind her eyes. She pulled her coat tighter, the fabric already damp from the persistent mist that clung to DC like a shroud.

Inside, the building’s stark modernist architecture felt cold and unwelcoming. The security checkpoint brought muscle memory—badge out, metal detector, nod to the guards who didn’t know her name. She strode across the polished tile as she made her way past the touring groups gathered around the FBI seal embedded in the lobby floor.

This was not her place. It never had been. From stints in various field offices, Izzy Llewellyn’s career had taken her to the place she coveted most: the New York field office. Washington DC was the bureaucratic heart of the FBI, but New York was where Izzy had been her best self.

The elevator carried her upward, each floor bringing a fresh wave of memories she’d rather forget. Cases solved, celebrations shared, moments with Mark in the break room that now felt like scenes from someone else’s life. The scentless purified air a reminder that she wasn’t in New York anymore.

When the doors opened onto the executive floor, the atmosphere shifted. Here, power dressed itself in hushed tones and mahogany. Original art pieces hung on walls between American flags and formal portraits of past directors. The carpet absorbed her footsteps, making her feel like a ghost haunting her old life.

The secretary’s desk formed a barrier before the assistant director’s office. The woman behind it wore a tailored blazer and an expression that said she knew exactly who Izzy was, despite her absence from the day’s official schedule. No words were exchanged, just a slight nod toward the closed door.

Assistant Director Kate Van Buren’s office stretched out in elegant lines of blond wood and cream-colored upholstery. The room projected feminine authority without sacrificing an ounce of power. Morning light filtered through rain-streaked windows, casting a gray pallor over Van Buren’s perfectly styled brown hair and sharp features.

The assistant director held up one manicured finger as she finished her call, her voice carrying that particular tone of command wrapped in silk that had helped her climb to her position. Her gray eyes flicked over Izzy with calculated assessment even as she continued speaking into her headset.

“Yes, Senator. I understand completely. We’ll have those numbers for you by end of day.” Van Buren’s voice suggested a smile that never appeared on her face. “Thank you for your continued support.”

She tapped her earpiece and gestured to one of the chairs facing her pristine desk. “Agent Llewellyn. Please, sit.”

Izzy lowered herself into the chair, her back straight, hands folded in her lap. The leather was soft and expensive, designed to put visitors at ease while reminding them of exactly where they sat in the Bureau’s hierarchy. Van Buren’s desk gleamed, its surface holding only what was essential: a laptop, a single file folder, and a crystal paperweight that caught the dim light like a prism.

Izzy met Van Buren’s shrewd gaze. Years ago, she’d followed the Assistant Director’s career with admiration—a woman who’d carved her path to the highest echelons of the Bureau. There was every chance she would end up Attorney General, and from there, anything was possible. Now that appraisal felt hollow. Van Buren hadn’t blazed a trail for agents like Izzy. She’d climbed by mastering the political game Izzy could never stomach.

“How are things in Financial Crimes?” Van Buren’s voice carried practiced warmth.

“It’s important work.” The words tasted like ash in Izzy’s mouth. Every day behind that desk felt like drowning in slow motion. She was a field agent—her soul craved the street work, the real investigations, not shuffling papers and tracking digital breadcrumbs.

Van Buren’s perfectly manicured nail tapped the manila folder centered on her desk. “Your supervisor speaks highly of you. Says you’re first in, last out. A top performer.”

“He’s a good boss.” Izzy kept her voice neutral, though her fingers tightened imperceptibly in her lap.

“He also describes you as . . .” Van Buren paused, her gray eyes never leaving Izzy’s face. “A malignant cell that might turn cancerous. Says you’re rotting from the inside.”

The words struck hard, but Izzy refused to flinch. “I was better suited to field work.”

“And that brings us to why you’re here.” Van Buren opened the folder. “I’ve been reviewing your hearing report.”

Izzy held her breath as she suppressed the desire to ask which one? Three separate investigations had dissected that night in New York. The first had been standard procedure—weapon discharge, conduct review, jurisdiction questions. They’d cleared her, technically. The second dug deeper, three months of psychological evaluation that nearly broke her. The Bureau had insisted on leave, trapping her for weeks in an apartment haunted by Mark’s memory. Every coffee mug, every drawer, every empty side of the bed screamed his absence.

When she’d returned, they’d buried her in paperwork for two months before shipping her to Financial Crimes. All while the third investigation dragged on.

She’d been cleared in every hearing. But that third one—the one that had stripped away every layer of her marriage, every case she and Mark had worked, every conversation they’d ever had—that was why she sat here now, under Van Buren’s microscope.

“The Bureau’s official position is that you have been cleared,” said Van Buren. “Your conduct on that night was questionable, but no wrongdoing has been proven.”

Hardly glowing praise.

“You have also been cleared of any misconduct in regard to the actions of Special Agent Mark Duvall.”

Actions was a hell of a way to put it.

“You are technically cleared to resume full duties.”

Izzy didn’t frown. She had suffered trauma, but she hadn’t gone through a lobotomy. She was well aware of the side-eyes, the water-cooler talk, how the invitations to drinks and parties and baseball games had dried up.

The assistant director let out a sigh, a trait that Izzy hadn’t seen from her before. “However…” She met Izzy’s gaze with what appeared to be compassion, if not sadness. “Let me be blunt for the sake of clarity, Izzy. You are a special agent of the FBI. There are no grounds to dismiss you, so that isn’t going to happen. But let me assure you that where you sit today, your rank and seniority, they are terminal. You will progress no further in the organization. You will never lead a team, and you will never be promoted. Field work is a memory. Your days will be spent here in the Hoover building, shredding documents or something of that ilk.”

Izzy clenched her jaw so hard her eyes hurt. It was a shock in the way a long-suffering patient learned that today was the day they were to die. She knew it was coming, but it still stung to hear it.

Van Buren straightened up in her chair and pulled on the hem of her jacket. “I think you understand exactly what’s happening here, Special Agent.”

What happened to Izzy?

“There are greater things at play than your ability or conduct. The bottom line is, the Bureau is a team. We only work if we work as a team. And your team doesn’t trust you. Just or unjust, it is what it is. No agent is going to follow you into battle. Your judgment will be questioned every day. The questions that have not been answered will fester⁠—”

“The questions were answered,” Izzy said, holding her voice tight. “I went through three investigations.”

“And you know how the law works. We only prosecute if we have definitive proof. But the absence of proof is not a declaration of innocence.” Van Buren sighed again. “I don’t believe the questions will ever be resolved to my satisfaction or that of any agent who has to work with you. Why were you there that night, at a location and on a case that had nothing to do with you? I know the answer you gave, but I’m not sure I believe it. The circumstantial evidence is damning. And then there’s the…” The assistant director pursed her lips. “The Mark situation. You are asking the Bureau—and every agent you will ever work with—to believe that you were married to this man for five years, you lived with him, slept with him, worked with him, and you claim you didn’t know anything? You had no idea about what he was doing? And when you learned of it, you were what, the model of agency protocol? Or something else?”

Izzy fought the corners of her mouth from turning down. She knew the stories. What people thought. The gaps in the reports that they had filled in for themselves.

“So I’m not fired, but I get to spend the rest of my life in purgatory.”

“That pretty much sums it up.”

“And that’s the Bureau’s official position?”

“No, the Bureau’s official position is that you have been cleared for work. The rest is not for public consumption, and it would be foolish to make it so. But your card has been marked, Special Agent Llewellyn, and I tell you that because I think you were a good agent. But you will never be that again. That’s just how it is. My job is to protect the integrity of the Bureau and make sure we can undertake our very important role.”

Now Izzy did frown. “Then why are you telling me this? Why aren’t you just packing me off for Alaska?”

“I don’t expect you to believe this now, or maybe ever, but we care about our people. I care. We expect the best and we demand the best. And you were the best. But this cloud will never leave you, and it will affect every decision you make and every conversation you have. That won’t work for the FBI or for you.” Van Buren leaned forward on her desk. Honestly, if you were a lesser agent, it would be easy. There are agents who do the metaphorical paper-shredding and see out their twenty. But I think you’ve got more to offer. It just can’t be here.”

“So what then, if not the shredding?”

“Voluntary separation.”

Izzy lowered her eyebrows. “I resign?”

“Yes. With a separation payment.”

“You think I want money?”

“I think you’ll need it. We all do.”

“And the Bureau gets to wipe its hands of me?”

The assistant director took a long moment to answer. “Yes.”

“And Mark?”

“He has a star on the wall. It will remain.”

“So you’ll sweep all that under the carpet?”

Van Buren’s eyes narrowed. “We don’t sweep things under the carpet. We’re not the CIA. Where things must be investigated, they will be. That’s what we do. But Special Agent Duvall is gone. He cannot answer questions, so asking them is pointless. You’re still here, Izzy. You need to focus on that.”

Izzy sat for a moment. She wasn’t processing anything. Her mind had gone blank, and it brought temporary relief. Then Van Buren cleared her throat.

“How long do I have to decide?”

The assistant director nodded at the door. “Maureen has the paperwork on her desk.” She stood and tugged at the bottom of her blazer.

Izzy stood and reached into her pocket. She pulled out her badge and placed it gently on Van Buren’s desk.

“You can leave that with Maureen.”

Izzy didn’t pick up the badge. “My weapon is my own.”

“I know,” said Van Buren.

Izzy nodded. “Ma’am.”

She turned and walked out of the office. Three signatures later, she was twenty-five thousand dollars richer and no longer a member of the greatest law enforcement agency on the planet.

Izzy didn’t stop moving again until she reached the concrete blocks that protected the building’s main doors on Pennsylvania and 9th. She used a block to steady herself for a moment as the rain rinsed away her career.

She didn’t know the area well, but she had to find a bar. A dive bar. The kind of place with dark spaces where people minded their own business and didn’t ask questions about the woman drowning her sorrows in the corner.

Chapter

Two

Cole Barrow’s morning began like any other—0530 sharp. First, the triple threat: one hundred press-ups, one hundred sit-ups, one hundred air squats. Second, food.

Sunlight hadn’t yet breached the mountains surrounding his cabin, but the kitchen’s pendant lights cast a warm glow across the soapstone countertops. His feet slapped against the terracotta floor tiles as he moved through the space.

Nanook’s nails clicked behind him, the malamute’s tail sweeping back and forth in anticipation of breakfast. Cole pulled a stainless steel measuring cup from its hook, scooping precise portions of kibble into the chrome feeding bowl. Two cups of high-protein food, topped with a spoonful of salmon oil for the dog’s coat.

“Sit.” Cole held the bowl at chest height while Nanook’s haunches hit the floor. The dog’s brown eyes tracked the bowl’s descent, but he held position until Cole gave the release command. “Eat.”

With Nanook’s breakfast handled, Cole turned to his own. He pulled ingredients from the custom pantry—steel-cut oats, measured tablespoon of local honey, handful of almonds. The kitchen gleamed around him, all professional-grade appliances and clean lines. No clutter marred the soapstone counter or the tile backsplash.

Steam rose from the kettle as he prepared his coffee in the French press. The rich aroma filled the kitchen while his oatmeal simmered. Outside the window above the farmhouse sink, pre-dawn purple painted the high desert in otherworldly hues.

Cole ate at the breakfast bar, spine straight on the leather-topped stool, the way he had in mess halls across four continents. The only sounds were Nanook’s crunching and the tick of the wall clock.

When both bowls sat empty, Cole moved to the sink. Hot water cascaded over polished copper as he washed each dish, dried them with a fresh cotton towel, and returned them to their designated spots. Nanook’s bowl got the same thorough treatment before being placed back on its rubber mat.

Upstairs, Cole dressed in his civilian uniform—crisp white button-down, charcoal slacks with knife-edge creases, polished oxfords which he kept in his hand. His reflection in the bedroom mirror showed a man ready to face whatever the day might bring.

“Be good,” he told Nanook on his way to the mud room.

The dog glanced at his doggy door leading to the fenced yard, but the morning chill seemed to give him pause. Instead, Nanook circled three times on his memory foam bed near the kitchen island and settled in with a contented huff.

Cole slipped on his tan sherpa-lined duck cotton jacket and pulled on a pair of boots that didn’t fit the rest of his vibe and then took his keys from a hook. Carrying his shoes and his homemade lunch, he stepped outside.

The first hints of dawn painted Cole’s property in shades of blue and mauve. His cedar-sided cabin nestled against the base of the eastern Sierra Nevadas, weathered to a silvery patina that caught the emerging light. Fresh powder dusted the wooden railings of his front porch, collecting in the curves of the porch swing where it hung motionless in the still morning air.

Cole’s boots crunched through the thin layer of snow as he crossed to his truck. The cold bit at his exposed skin, but he paused to take in the view. His twenty acres stretched out before him, dotted with pinyon pines and juniper trees. The old mining shaft gaped dark against the mountainside at the property’s edge.

The first direct sunlight speared over the peaks to the east, catching the frost that coated everything below the snow line. His small barn and empty pasture sparkled, the metal roof throwing back golden reflections. A seasonal creek cut through his land, its banks traced in white while ice formed delicate patterns on the slower sections.

Cole climbed into his Dodge Ram, setting his shoes on the passenger floorboard and his lunch beside him. The leather seats were cold enough to penetrate his pants, but the engine turned over immediately. He let it idle, watching his breath fog the windshield while the defroster worked.

The dirt road wound down from his property, each curve revealing more of the valley below. Frost covered the desert floor in a crystalline blanket, transforming the harsh landscape into something ethereal. To the east, the smaller range was outlined by the morning sky on its peaks, slowly revealing rust and gold in its folds as the light slid down the mountain face.

Behind him, the Sierra Nevadas dominated the horizon. Their jagged peaks pierced the clouds, year-round snow gleaming on the highest elevations. This morning they wore fresh powder halfway down their flanks, while the lower slopes remained dark with pine forest.

The truck’s tires crunched over frozen gravel as Cole navigated the switchbacks. Each turn opened up new views of the valley, the light changing moment by moment as the sun climbed. The desert spread out below, a patchwork of sage and scrubland dotted with boulder formations that cast long morning shadows.

The familiar sight triggered memories of another mountainous desert, half a world away. The Hindu Kush had risen just as majestically, though their peaks had held different dangers. Cole hadn’t chosen this place as his home for its resemblance to Afghanistan, but the similarity centered him somehow. The high desert’s stark beauty and unforgiving nature demanded respect, just as it had there. The mountains reminded him daily that some things remained constant, unchanging, no matter where in the world you were.

The highway cut through the small town like a tarmac river, empty except for the occasional long-haul truck heading for Reno or Vegas. Cole crossed at Main Street, where the traffic light blinked yellow. The town was already stirring—lights burning in the diner, the bakery’s ovens warming up for the morning rush, ranch hands fueling their trucks at the Chevron station.

Cole breathed in the quiet. Back in Chicago, the city never truly slept. There was always movement, always noise—sirens, traffic, the elevated trains rattling overhead. Army bases were the same, without the trains but adding armored vehicles and the sound of exploding munitions. Here, peace settled over the valley like the morning frost. His life had simplified to its essential elements: his work, his home, Nanook. No complications, no expectations beyond those he placed on himself.

The strip of parking spaces stretched along the rear of the single-story building, empty except for Serena’s ancient Subaru. His office manager always beat him in, despite his early starts. Cole pulled into his usual spot, grabbing his lunch and dress shoes from the passenger floor.

The back door’s deadbolt clicked open under his key. Inside, coffee already percolated in the break room—Serena’s doing. She kept the clinic running with military precision, though he knew she had not served.

Cole changed into his oxfords in his office, hanging his jacket on the coat rack. Through the window, he watched the sun paint the landscape gold. Another day of whatever the high desert decided to throw at him. But for now, in this moment before the day really got going, the quiet wrapped around him like a cocoon.

It wasn’t enough to elicit a smile, but it was enough.

Chapter

Three

Izzy stood in the empty living room of her Upper East Side apartment, morning light filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows that once felt like a triumph. The view of Manhattan’s skyline stretched before her—steel and glass monuments reaching toward clouds that threatened rain more than snow. Yellow cabs crawled along 86th Street below, their horns a distant symphony that used to energize her. Now each blare felt like a needle under her skin.

Her footsteps echoed across the hardwood floors where their furniture had left ghostly impressions in the finish. The kitchen’s marble countertops gleamed, wiped clean of five years of morning coffees and late-night case files. She traced her fingers along the cool stone where Mark used to lean, mixing drinks after hard days, his smile hiding secrets she’d never suspected.

Two movers hefted the last boxes through the door, BEDROOM scrawled in her tight handwriting across cardboard that contained the remains of their shared life. She’d packed Mark’s clothes herself before sending them to Goodwill, each fold an exercise in numbness. His cologne still clung to the fabric, that familiar scent now tainted with gunpowder and betrayal.

The apartment had been their victory lap—the FBI power couple who could almost afford Manhattan rents. Now every corner held questions she couldn’t answer. The wall where they’d hung their academy graduation photos. The spot where he’d proposed. The dining room table where he’d planned God knows what while pretending to work cases.

Had any of it been real? The man who brought her coffee in bed, who knew exactly how she liked her eggs, who held her through nightmares about tough cases—was it just another undercover role? She’d thought she knew every inch of him, but in the end, she hadn’t known him at all.

Izzy took one final sweep of the empty rooms that had witnessed both their joy and deception. At the door, she paused, hand on the knob. The city pulsed beyond the walls, but its rhythm no longer matched her own. She pulled the door shut with a decisive click.

The headlights of Izzy’s rental car swept across red brick as she pulled into the driveway of her mother’s suburban Richmond home. White-painted columns flanked the front steps, glowing against the dark masonry.

Her mother had left the porch light on. The key stuck in the lock—it always had—but Izzy didn’t want to wake anyone by ringing the bell at this hour, so she kept working it gently until it turned. The house creaked as she climbed the carpeted stairs, each step familiar yet foreign.

Second door on the right. Her room. Scratch that—the room where she had slept for a year.

Pale winter moonlight filtered through bare branches outside the window, casting stark shadows across cream walls that had never seen posters or photos. The twin bed hugged the far wall, its navy comforter pulled military-tight across the mattress. A plain wooden desk faced the window, its surface empty except for a simple lamp. The closet door hung slightly open, revealing bare hangers that swayed in the draft from the heating vent.

No stuffed animals scattered across the bed. No cork board filled with ticket stubs and Polaroids. No teenage dreams had taken root in this soil. A single shelf mounted above the desk held three books: a dictionary, a thesaurus, and her mother’s old copy of Pride and Prejudice. The room waited, antiseptic and impersonal, like a model home staged for showing—or a crime scene after everything of value had been removed.

The nightstand bore a digital clock, its red numbers cutting through darkness that felt both empty and suffocating. 2:47 a.m. Izzy set her overnight bag on the bare floor and sank onto the bed’s edge. The mattress barely yielded beneath her weight.

Izzy lay down and stared at the ceiling, counting the same water stains she’d memorized during that first year after her father died. Three brown splotches that looked like continents on a blank map. The house settled around her with long forgotten creaks—sounds that belonged to her mother’s life, not hers.

Her phone lay dark on the nightstand. No messages, no case files, no urgent calls from the Bureau. Just silence and the weight of everything she’d lost.

The mattress felt too small, like she’d outgrown this space years ago. She had. But here she was, crawling back to hide in her mother’s house like a wounded animal. Sheriff Llewellyn’s daughter, the FBI hotshot, now just another failed cop with blood on her hands.

Mark’s blood.

Her husband’s blood.

The image flashed again—his eyes going dim, that final exhale against her chest, the way his body had grown heavy in her arms. She’d memorized every detail, replayed it a thousand times, searching for the moment she should have known. Should have seen through his act. Should have recognized the stranger wearing her husband’s face.

Five years of marriage. How many lies had she swallowed with her morning coffee? How many times had she fallen asleep beside a man who was plotting . . . what? The investigation in her mind continued, pieces of Mark’s corruption emerging like bodies floating to the surface.

Izzy rolled onto her side, pulling her knees to her chest. The comforter smelled like her mother’s lavender detergent—clean, homely, safe. But she didn’t deserve safe. She’d failed at every level. Failed as a wife, unable to see the truth in her own home. Failed as an agent, walking into that warehouse alone. Failed as a cop, letting a criminal escape while she cradled her dying husband.

The digital clock blinked its accusation: 3:15 a.m. Another sleepless night stretching ahead, filled with questions she couldn’t answer and memories she couldn’t trust.

Fatigue dragged her into sleep at some point, because Izzy’s eyes fluttered open to cold light filtering through bare branches. Her neck ached from the unfamiliar mattress and the clock read 7:23 a.m. The scent of coffee and chorizo drifted up the stairs, along with the distinctive aroma of her mother’s freshly baked sourdough.

She pulled on yesterday’s sweater and padded down the carpeted stairs. Family photos lined the wall—her father in uniform, her sister’s wedding, moments frozen in time before everything changed. A ceramic vase held dried lavender on the hallway table, next to a stack of well-worn paperback romance novels.

The kitchen glowed with morning light through gauzy curtains that had hung there since Izzy was sixteen. Copper pots dangled from a rack above the center island, their surfaces gleaming from regular polishing. Dried herbs in labeled mason jars lined the windowsill, and hand-embroidered dish towels hung from the oven handle.

Ainara stood at the stove, her silver-streaked dark hair pulled back in its usual practical bun. She wore her favorite apron, the one with Basque phrases stitched along the hem, moving between pots with the grace of someone who had cooked in this kitchen for decades.

“Buenos días, maitia.” Her mother’s smile was warm, as if Izzy had just returned from a normal day at work rather than showing up in the middle of the night with her life in pieces. “Sit, sit. Coffee’s ready.”

The mug Ainara set before her was the same one Izzy had used in high school—slightly chipped but still bearing the faded San Francisco Giants logo, a souvenir from a vacation back when her family was still whole. Steam curled up from dark liquid that smelled like Sunday mornings.

Ainara set a plate of chorizo and eggs in front of Izzy. Her mother’s voice filled the kitchen, a steady stream of updates about people Izzy barely remembered.

“. . . and Mrs. Henriques' daughter—you remember Sally-Anne? No, maybe it was after you moved. Anyway, she opened this lovely little boutique downtown. And the Ramirez’s oldest boy just made partner at his law firm . . .”

Izzy pushed eggs around her plate, letting the words wash over her. Her mother’s hands stayed busy, wiping already-clean counters, adjusting the fruit bowl, straightening dish towels—anything to avoid direct eye contact.

“The church group started this wonderful book club. We’re reading that new mystery series—the one about the detective in Maine. Though I told them the police work isn’t very realistic.” Ainara’s laugh held a nervous edge.

The ceramic rooster clock ticked away seconds. Outside, a neighbor’s dog barked.

“Oh, and Julia next door, her granddaughter just started college at⁠—”

“Ama.” Izzy set down her fork. “You don’t have to . . .”

Her mother’s hands stilled on the dishtowel. “I just want to know what you plan to do.”

The half-eaten breakfast blurred before Izzy’s eyes. What could she do? Fifteen years of law enforcement experience, specialized training in investigation procedures and counterterrorism, expertise in witness protection protocols—all of it tainted now. Every skill, every accomplishment, carried the shadow of failure.

But Ainara continued, “Today, I mean.”

Izzy’s breath caught. She looked up to find her mother watching her with those warm brown eyes, offering a lifeline in the form of a simple question about today, just today, when tomorrow felt impossible to face. But she had no answer.

The day stretched endlessly. Izzy flipped through channels on her mother’s smart TV, past soap operas and talk shows that felt like transmissions from another planet. She tried reading one of her mother’s romance novels but couldn’t get past the first chapter. The heroine’s blind faith in love felt like a personal attack.

Around two, she pulled on her running shoes and headed out into the neighborhood. The suburban streets were empty, most people at work or school. Mature oaks lined the sidewalks, their bare branches reaching toward a pearl-gray sky. The houses all looked the same—colonial revivals in muted colors, American flags hanging limp in the winter air.

Her feet carried her past the high school where she had done her senior year, past the corner store where kids had tried out their fake IDs after the prom she attended alone. Her old running route, muscle memory taking over while her mind wandered through the ruins of her life.

The doorbell chimed at six. Maya burst in with the twins, five-year-old tornadoes who filled the house with noise and motion. Ellie’s dark curls bounced as she ran to hug her grandmother. Leo trailed behind, clutching a tablet and showing early signs of their mother’s quiet nature.

“Brian’s at bowling league,” Maya explained, hanging up their coats. She resembled their mother in miniature—same warm eyes, same graceful movements. But where Ainara’s hair had gone silver, Maya’s remained glossy black, usually styled in some Instagram-worthy braid. Tonight, it hung loosely around her shoulders, and her scrubs had been replaced by yoga pants and an oversized sweater.

Izzy watched her sister move through the kitchen, helping their mother with dinner. Maya knew where everything belonged, which cabinet held the good plates, which drawer contained the serving spoons. She belonged here in a way Izzy never had.

Over plates of her mother’s legendary paella, Izzy studied her sister’s life through the lens of her own choices. Maya had married Brian right out of nursing school. They’d bought a craftsman bungalow in the Fan District, enjoying a few years as a professional couple before starting a family. Maya worked three twelve-hour shifts a week at VCU Medical and spent the rest of her time at soccer practice and PTA meetings.

The American dream, served with a side of garlic bread. Meanwhile, Izzy had chased badges and commendations across the country, collecting academic degrees and firearms certifications instead of baby pictures and mortgage payments.

After dinner, the twins sprawled in front of the TV watching some animated show about singing pets. Dishes clinked in the kitchen where their mother insisted on handwashing everything. Maya grabbed a thick blanket and nodded toward the front porch.

The sisters settled onto the porch swing, sharing the blanket against the evening chill. Streetlights flickered on, casting pools of yellow light across empty sidewalks. A few houses down, someone’s wind chimes sang softly.

“You know what your problem is?” Maya’s voice held the particular blend of affection and exasperation unique to younger sisters.

Izzy tensed. “Please, tell me.”

“You never let anyone in. Not really.” Maya pulled her feet up under the blanket. “Even when we were kids, you were always. . .preparing. Like you knew you’d have to face everything alone.”

“That’s not⁠—”

“It is true. Remember when you broke your arm climbing that tree in the backyard? You splinted it yourself with a ruler and some rubber bands before you’d let anyone take you to the hospital.”

“I was twelve.”

“Exactly. Most twelve-year-olds would have screamed for help. You’ve always been like that—handling everything yourself, keeping everyone at arm’s length.” Maya’s voice softened. “Even Mark, I think.”

The name hit like a pipe bomb. Izzy stared out at the quiet street, remembering other conversations on other porches. How many times had Mark tried to really talk to her? How many times had she deflected, changed the subject, retreated behind work?

“Maybe you need a hard reset,” Maya said. “Start over completely.”

“What does that even look like?”

Maya shrugged, the blanket shifting between them. “I don’t know. But you will, when you’re ready to see it.”

Chapter

Four

Izzy sat cross-legged on her temporary bed, laptop balanced on her knees. Another job listing for a private security firm scrolled past. The screen’s glow highlighted dark circles under her eyes.

She clicked through endless postings. Corporate investigator. Loss prevention manager. Security consultant. Each title felt like a step down from who she used to be. Her browser history read like a desperate attempt to reconstruct a career from ashes.

Downstairs, her mother’s vacuum cleaner whirred for the third time that morning. The constant cleaning had started three days ago—her mother’s passive-aggressive signal that Izzy’s presence was disrupting her routine.

Izzy rubbed her temples. Ten days of tiptoeing around each other, of carefully constructed conversations that avoided any mention of Mark or the FBI. Ten days of her mother’s concerned glances and Maya’s daily check-in calls.

Her phone buzzed against the bedspread. An unknown number with a vaguely familiar area code. Probably another recruiter who’d found her LinkedIn profile.

“Izar Llewellyn speaking.”

“Ms. Llewellyn, this is Elaine Preston, President of the Mirage County Board of Supervisors.” The woman’s voice carried the polished tone of career politics. “I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”

Izzy straightened, old instincts kicking in. “Not at all, Supervisor Preston.”

“I’ll be direct—we find ourselves in need of a new sheriff. Our previous one has moved on rather suddenly, and we’re looking for someone with federal experience to step in.”

The vacuum cleaner’s drone filled a pause.

“I understand you’ve recently left the FBI,” Preston continued. “We’re hoping you might be interested in a change of pace.”

Izzy’s jaw clenched. “How did you hear about my situation?”

“Small towns have big ears, as I am sure you know. Your reputation precedes you.” Preston’s voice warmed. “We could use someone with your expertise.”

“I appreciate the offer, but⁠—”

“Before you decline, consider this: Mirage County needs a fresh perspective. Someone who understands cutting-edge law enforcement but also the unique challenges of a small community like ours. Someone who can modernize our department while respecting its traditions.”

Izzy’s gaze drifted to the bare walls of her childhood room. A sheriff’s position hadn’t been on her radar. It felt too small after federal work, too confined after chasing cases across state lines. And certainly not in Mirage County. Did this woman know what she was asking, and who she was asking it of?

“I’m not sure I’m the right fit,” Izzy said.

“You’re exactly what we need.” Preston’s tone grew earnest. “Listen, I’ve lived here all my life. I know the history we’re facing. I know what you’d be dealing with.”

Izzy didn’t think she knew the half of it.

“But we’re talking the top job. Full autonomy. The chance to build something new.”

The vacuum cleaner cut off. Footsteps creaked on the stairs—her mother’s daily check to make sure Izzy hadn’t vanished.

“Could I have some time to think it over?”

“Of course.” Preston paused. “But we do need an answer as soon as possible. The sheriff’s office needs leadership, and the board meets next week to confirm the appointment.”

Izzy jotted down Preston’s contact information, promised to call back within forty-eight hours.

The bedroom door cracked open. Ainara stood in the doorway, concern etched in the lines around her eyes. “Everything okay, maitia?”

“Yeah, Ama. Just a job thing.”

Her mother nodded and retreated, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Izzy closed her laptop and moved to the window, pressing her forehead against the cold glass. Outside, winter-bare trees swayed in the Virginia breeze—so different from the concrete canyon views of her Manhattan apartment.

Sheriff of Mirage County. The title settled like lead in her stomach. She’d sworn she’d never go back there, not after her father’s death shattered their family. But the universe had a sick sense of humor, offering her father’s old position as her only life raft.

She traced a finger along the windowsill’s pristine paint. This room, this house—it wasn’t home. Just a way station where she’d briefly stopped between her childhood in California and her career with the FBI. Now one of those lives lay in ruins and the other beckoned her like a spurned lover.

Her reflection stared back at her, ghostly against the glass. Dark circles under her eyes, tension in her jaw. Mark would have said she was overthinking it. But Mark had lied about everything else, so why trust his voice in her head?

The vacuum started up again downstairs. Ainara had worked so hard to build a new life for them in Richmond, far from the shadows of Mirage County. The news would devastate her. She’d see it as Izzy walking straight back into danger, choosing the same path that had killed her father.

But what choice did she have? Private security felt like surrender. Consulting would mean staying in the same circles where Mark’s betrayal had poisoned her reputation. At least in Mirage County, she’d have real authority. A chance to do something meaningful, even if it meant confronting old ghosts.

Maybe that was what she needed—to face the past head-on instead of running from it. To prove she could trust her instincts again, that Mark hadn’t broken something fundamental inside her.

The vacuum’s whine cut off abruptly. Izzy straightened, squaring her shoulders. She’d have to tell her mother soon. Just as soon as she found the words.

She hadn’t found them by the time Maya and her family came over for dinner.

The scent of her mother’s coffee and Gâteau Basque filled the dining room. Izzy wrapped her hands around a warm mug, watching steam rise in lazy spirals. Maya sat beside her while Brian helped clear the last dinner plates. The twins' laughter drifted in from the living room where they watched TV.

“So,” Maya said, stirring cream into her coffee. “You’ve been quiet all evening.”

Izzy traced the rim of her mug. “I got a job offer today.”

“That’s great!” Maya’s face lit up. “Where?”

Izzy exhaled like she was facing a birthday cake. “Mirage County. They need a new sheriff.”

The crash of a plate hitting the sink punctuated her words. Ainara stood frozen by the counter, her back rigid.

“Sheriff?” Brian dried his hands on a dish towel. “Like your dad?”

“Exactly like my dad.” Izzy kept her eyes on her coffee. “Same office, same position.”

“In Darkness?” Maya’s voice dropped. “You’re going back to Darkness?”

Brian settled into a chair, grinning. “I still can’t believe you guys grew up in a town called Darkness. Sounds like something from a horror movie.”

“It’s not funny.” Ainara’s words cut through the kitchen. She turned, her face tight with anger. “That place took everything from us.”

“Ama—”

“No.” Ainara gripped the counter. “I didn’t leave my parents, my whole life in California, just for you to go back there. There’s nothing in Darkness but ghosts and bad memories.”

“It’s a good opportunity,” Izzy said. “Full autonomy, chance to rebuild the office⁠—”

“Like your father tried to rebuild it?” Ainara’s voice cracked. “Look how well that worked out.”

Maya reached for their mother’s hand. “Ama, please.”

“You don’t understand.” Ainara pulled away. “That town, those people—they smile to your face while holding knives behind their backs. Your father trusted them, and they let him die.”

“That’s not fair,” Izzy said. “Dad knew the risks⁠—”

“He knew nothing!” Ainara’s palm slapped against the counter. “He was blind to them, just like you’re being blind now.”

The twins' laughter faded as tension filled the kitchen. Brian shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“Maybe I should take the kids home,” he said quietly.

“No.” Ainara straightened, smoothing her apron. “No, stay. We’re family. We discuss things as family.” She sat down heavily, her hands trembling as she reached for her coffee. “Maitia, please. There must be other options.”

“I’ve looked.” Izzy met her mother’s eyes. “Every listing, every contact. My reputation—after Mark—” She swallowed hard. “This could be a fresh start.”

“A fresh start?” Ainara’s laugh held no humor. “In the place that destroyed our family?”

“Or a chance to make things right.” Maya’s quiet words drew everyone’s attention. “Maybe that’s what Izzy needs.”

Ainara shook her head. “You were too young to remember how it was. The whispers, the lies. How quickly they turned on us after your father died. The way they watched us pack up our lives like vultures waiting to pick over bones.”

“I remember enough.” Maya reached for Izzy’s hand under the table. “I remember Dad loved that town. Loved helping people there.”

“And look where that love got him.” Ainara pushed back from the table. “I won’t watch a child of mine sacrifice themselves to that place.”

“It’s not your decision.”

Silence fell. In the living room, the TV droned on, cartoon voices creating a surreal backdrop to the tension.

“No,” Ainara said finally. “It’s not my decision. But neither was leaving California. Neither was moving across the country to start over. Those choices were made for me by your father’s death.” She stood, gathering empty coffee cups. “Now you want to drag us all back into that.”

“Not all of us.” Izzy watched her mother’s rigid movements. “Just me.”

“You think your choices only affect you?” Ainara turned, cups rattling in her hands. “You think I can sleep at night knowing you’re there? Knowing you’re walking the same streets where they killed your father?”

“Ama,” Maya started.

“No.” Ainara set the cups in the sink with careful control. “I left everything I knew to protect you girls. My parents, my friends, my whole world. I built a new life. All to keep you safe from that place.” She gripped the edge of the sink. “And now you want to throw that sacrifice away.”

Ainara turned, and silence enveloped the room as her footsteps echoed down the hallway, followed by the soft click of her bedroom door. Izzy slumped back in her chair, the weight of her mother’s words sucking the energy from her.

Maya squeezed her hand. “I’ll talk to her.”

“Should I even be considering this?” Izzy’s voice came out barely above a whisper.

“You know what?” Maya leaned back, a hint of nostalgia softening her features. “I remember loving it there. It was different, sure—no shopping malls, no movie theaters, just that one pizza place where Dad always got the toppings wrong. But I remember being happy. Don’t you?”

Izzy’s finger continued wearing a path around the rim of her coffee mug. “I do. Right up until we weren’t.”

“Sure, but that was Dad’s job. Your job.” Maya’s tone grew firm. “It could have happened anywhere. We could all get hit by a bus tomorrow—it wouldn’t be Richmond’s fault. Things happen.” She shrugged, the gesture so familiar it made Izzy’s heart ache. “And if it doesn’t work out, you can always come back.”

“I’m not sure failure is an option.” Izzy stared into her empty cup, seeing reflections of Mark’s betrayal, her shattered FBI career.

Maya stood, smoothing her yoga pants. “Let me go talk to her.” She headed toward their mother’s room, leaving Izzy alone with Brian.

“Can’t be worse than this.” Brian’s words cut through the silence.

Izzy turned to him, surprised. “I thought you loved your life here.”

“I do.” He smiled, the same easy smile that had won Maya’s heart in college. “Love everything about it. But you don’t, Izzy. This isn’t you, and it’s not your life.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You know, I remember when you used to smile. You’re not a bad-looking girl when you smile. Not Maya-pretty, of course, but plenty of guys would disagree.”

The corner of Izzy’s mouth twitched. “Good recovery.”

“Go find yourself.” Brian stood, gathering the last of the dishes. “Go find your smile in a place called Darkness.”

The kitchen clock ticked away minutes as Izzy waited, her coffee gone cold. Brian had taken the twins upstairs to get ready for bed, leaving the dining room wrapped in uncomfortable silence.

Soft murmurs drifted from her mother’s room where Maya worked her magic. Of all of them, Maya had inherited their mother’s gift for emotional navigation. She knew exactly how to guide conversations through rocky waters.

Footsteps in the hallway made Izzy straighten. Her mother emerged first, her eyes red-rimmed but her spine straight with dignity. Maya followed, giving Izzy an encouraging nod.

Her mother settled back into her chair. “Maya reminds me that I cannot protect you forever.” She smoothed invisible wrinkles from the tablecloth. “I will worry, and I will pray for you. But then, I did that when you were in New York.”

Izzy reached for her mother. “Ama⁠—”

“No, let me finish.” Ainara’s fingers traced the embroidery in the tablecloth. “In New York, you were happy. Even with the danger, the long hours—you had purpose. Now . . .” She looked up, meeting Izzy’s eyes. “Now you’re not happy. So go. Do what you must.”

Relief flooded through Izzy. “Thank you.”

“But promise me one thing.” Her mother’s voice grew firm.

“Anything.”

“Stay with your aitona.”

The request lifted the corner of Izzy’s mouth. Her grandfather—her mother’s father—still lived in the same house he and Izzy’s grandmother had moved to from Bakersfield after they retired.

“If he’ll have me,” Izzy said quietly.

Maya’s hand found her shoulder, squeezing gently.

Izzy studied her mother’s face, noting how she avoided eye contact at the mention of her father. “You haven’t seen him since we left.”

“He won’t leave Darkness.” Ainara’s words carried years of hurt. “I won’t go there.”

The words tumbled out before Izzy could stop them. “I could set up a video call.”

Her mother’s hands stilled on the tablecloth. For a moment, Izzy thought she’d pushed too far. Then Ainara gave a small nod, so slight it might have been imagined.

The kitchen clock showed 8:47 p.m. Early evening on the West Coast. Izzy pulled out her phone and found Preston’s number in her recent calls.

Her mother and sister watched as she hit the call icon, their presence both comforting and overwhelming.

Preston answered on the second ring. “Elaine Preston speaking.”

Izzy took a deep breath, aware of the weight of her next words. “Ms. Preston, it’s Izar Llewellyn. I’m in.”

Chapter

Five

Izzy slumped in her seat at gate B17 at Atlanta International, her carry-on wedged between her feet. Her neck ached from dozing against the window during the first leg of her journey. The waiting area buzzed with conversations she couldn’t quite tune out—a businessman arguing about rental cars, a mother soothing a crying infant, teenagers laughing over something on their phones.

Three hours down, five to go before she’d reach Las Vegas. Her connecting flight had been delayed twice already. She checked her phone—no messages from her mother. The silence spoke volumes.

By the time she finally landed in Vegas, exhaustion had settled deep in her bones. The desert air hit her as she stepped out of the terminal, dry and sharp compared to Richmond’s winter humidity.

The rental car counter clerk typed with painful slowness. “I see you booked a compact SUV.”

“That’s right.”

“I can upgrade you to a Tesla Model 3 at no extra charge.”

Izzy shifted her weight. “Are there charging stations in Death Valley?”

The clerk’s fingers paused over the keyboard. “I wouldn’t take an electric out there, ma’am. The distances between charges can be tricky.”

“Then I’ll stick with what I booked.”

“Unfortunately, we don’t have any SUVs available right now.” He scrolled through his screen. “We’ve got the Tesla or a Nissan Leaf?”

Izzy rubbed her temples. She wasn’t driving anything called a leaf. “What else?”

“That’s it for tonight. Everything else is reserved or out.”

She thought of the mountain roads ahead. “The Tesla has all-wheel drive?”

“Yes ma’am. Dual motor. And the range is excellent—over three hundred miles on a full charge.”

“Fine.” She signed the paperwork, too tired to argue further.

The Tesla gleamed under the parking garage lights, its black paint reflecting the fluorescents. The interior smelled of new leather and electronics. The center screen lit up like Times Square as she settled into the driver’s seat.

The navigation system plotted her route through Nevada. Charging stations appeared as little lightning bolt icons—more than she’d expected. One in Beatty caught her eye, just before the turn toward Death Valley.

Vegas’s neon faded in her rearview mirror as she headed northwest. Desert stretched endless and dark beyond the highway’s reach. The Tesla hummed quietly, eating up miles while its massive screen bathed the cabin in blue light.

The Beatty charging station sat in a casino parking lot, flood lights creating pools of harsh white in the darkness. Izzy plugged in and watched the charging screen tick up—sixty percent, seventy percent, seventy-five. A message popped up: “Charging to 80% recommended for optimal battery life.”

Her law enforcement instincts bristled at the suggestion. In her world, you never started a journey without a full tank. She didn’t have to be anywhere at a particular time, but she was too anxious to sit around waiting, so she took the eighty and left.

Past Beatty, the road narrowed and twisted through mountain passes. Snow-capped peaks glowed silver under starlight. The Tesla’s headlights carved through darkness so complete it felt solid.

The Tesla’s range indicator had dropped faster than Izzy liked as she steadily gained altitude, the valley rising along with the mountains. Cold air seeped through the car’s sleek design, forcing her to crank the heat. The battery percentage ticked down with each mile.

Finally, the sulfur-yellow glow of Darkness’s highway lights appeared ahead. In New York it would have been peak rush hour. Here she passed only two other vehicles. The town’s name blazed on a weatherbeaten sign, letters catching her headlights: Welcome to Darkness, California—Gateway to Mirage County. Pop. 997.

She pulled into Johnny’s Gas & Go, the sudden brightness harsh against her tired eyes. The charging screen showed no stations in Darkness. Of course not. She had never owned an electric vehicle—living in New York, she hadn’t owned a car, period—so she wasn’t sure if there might be a local charging point the technology didn’t know about.

A black Dodge Ram occupied the far side of the pump island, its crew cab gleaming like it had emerged from a carwash. As Izzy stepped out of the Tesla, she caught movement by the truck. A man stood watching her, one hand resting on the pump handle.

He wasn’t what she expected. No worn coveralls or scuffed work boots. Instead, he wore charcoal slacks and a light blue button-down under a tailored tan coat. But it was his height that struck her first—well over six feet, with broad shoulders that filled out the coat’s clean lines.

His expression held genuine curiosity as he studied her emergence from the Tesla, like she was some rare species that had wandered into his territory. He took in the car like it was a lunar rover, then slow-blinked his attention to her. Heat crept up Izzy’s neck. She must look a mess after hours of travel—hair escaping its ponytail, mascara probably smudged under her eyes.

Strong hands, she noticed. The kind that seemed capable of both precision and power. They matched his face—handsome in a rugged way, with sharp cheekbones and warm brown eyes that caught the overhead lights. A slight smile played at the corners of his mouth as he watched her smooth down her wrinkled Georgetown sweater.

Izzy was used to taking a good long look at a suspect to sum them up, but now she felt conscious of staring. She wiped her hands on her jeans and moved around the gas pump toward the cashier.

“Ma’am, if you’re⁠—”

Izzy held up a hand, not bothering to glance at him. “I’m good, thanks.” The clipped tone she used with overeager rookies usually did the trick. She didn’t have the energy to chat with some urban cowboy trying it on or mansplaining how an electric vehicle didn’t use gasoline.

“Actually, about the charging⁠—”

Now she did turn, fixing him with the glare that made junior agents scatter. Some distant part of her brain registered his appearance—again. That easy smile was . . . what was it? Annoying. That’s what it was. She was too tired, too frustrated for whatever this was.

“I said I’m good.”

Inside the store, yellow fluorescent lights buzzed incessantly overhead as she approached the worn laminate counter. The elderly clerk’s obvious confusion about electric charging stations—complete with a bewildered head scratch and muttered comments about them fancy city cars—confirmed her worst fears about moving back to small-town California.

“Well now, don’t got nothing like that around here.” The old man’s extended drawl grated on her already frayed nerves. “Reckon they probably got 'em in Vegas, though. That’s only about . . .” He looked past her to the man she’d dismissed outside, who now stood behind her. Way close behind her. “What you figure, Cole? Four, five hours from here?”

She turned away before the cowboy could speak, pulling up her phone with trembling fingers. The battery indicator mocked her—both on the phone and the car—glowing an angry red that matched her frustration. She’d left the FBI for this? A town so remote it didn’t even have a charging station? The thought alone made her stomach churn. More than a decade building her career, working her way up through the ranks, only to end up stranded in a place that probably still thought electricity was newfangled witchcraft.

She got back and started the car, glancing involuntarily at the cashier station as she eased away. The cashier was rubbing his chin like he was still considering her question. The cowboy, however, had his eyes locked on her, wearing the kind of grin that might have gotten girls in small-town bars to go home with him.

But it wasn’t working on Izzy. Not tonight, or any other night, handsome.

Did I just call that guy handsome?

Cole paid for his gas and drove the dark road home. The snow glowed on the peaks on the Sierras, but everything at the base was a soupy mess of blurred lines. He pulled into his driveway and completed his routine, grabbing his work shoes and lunch cooler and locked the truck with a bleep of the fob.

Nanook met him in the boot room.

“How are you, boy?” he said, giving the big dog a solid head rub. Cole removed his boots and remained in sock feet, then carried his shoes and cooler inside. He left the cooler at the end of the counter beside the fridge and returned his shoes to the wardrobe in his bedroom, with Nanook following his every move.

Cole changed into a worn T-shirt and comfortable jeans, then pulled on his windbreaker. “Come on, boy. Let’s get some exercise.”

Nanook bounded to the door, his tail wagging with enthusiasm. The cold air hit Cole’s face as they stepped outside. The mountains loomed above, close enough to touch in the crystalline night air. Stars pierced the black overhead, unimpeded by city lights.

Nanook darted ahead, nose to the ground, investigating every new scent. His thick coat ruffled in the wind as he chased a western gray squirrel up a Jeffrey pine. A Lodgepole chipmunk scurried across their path, sending the dog into another frenzy of excitement. Cole smiled as Nanook pursued a tumbling leaf, his earlier lethargy forgotten in the crisp night air.

Once the dog had done his business and they both stretched their legs, Nanook took to his position at the end of the kitchen island. Cole lined up his ingredients: the chops, the vegetables, the olive oil, the pepper mill. The pork chops sat on the cutting board while he prepared the broccoli and carrots for steaming. He turned on the induction cooktop, watching the digital display flicker to life.

Instant cooking source, something he took for granted here. The wonder of electric power. His mind drifted to the sleek design of an electric car and on to the woman at the gas station, searching for a charging station for her Tesla. She’d looked exhausted, probably driven straight through from Vegas. But even tired, she’d been striking. She was an out-of-towner, no doubt. The car was a giveaway. The Georgetown sweater sealed the deal. The sweater had settled on her hips, showing her curves, and those jeans . . .

Cole shook his head, surprised by where his thoughts had wandered. She was just passing through, like most outsiders who found themselves in Darkness. Still, he couldn’t shake the image of her—the determined set of her jaw, the way she’d pushed her dark hair behind her ear as she checked her phone’s map.

The cooktop beeped, snapping Cole back to reality. He placed the pork chop in the hot pan, trying to focus on dinner instead of mysterious women in well-fitted jeans. Especially ones who went looking for help and then rejected it. Now, that was just plain rude.

He steamed the vegetables, and as they cooked, he took a second knife from the block and cut a slice of dog food from the log. He returned it to its plastic container and added kibble to the wet food.

“Hungry?” he asked Nanook.

The dog licked the slobber from his own lips but didn’t move.

The veggies and meat finished cooking at the same time. Cole confirmed the chops with a probe thermometer that stuck to the side of the fridge, then poured out the water and served up the vegetables. He dropped a few in the dog’s bowl, then cut one of the pork chops into pieces and tossed that in, too.

Cole put the bowl down on the mat, and only then did Nanook leave his post by the island and come to eat.

“Enjoy,” said Cole as he collected his own plate and took a bottle of beer from the fridge. He sat at the dining table and ate while reviewing patient files. When he was done, he collected the bowl and his plate and took everything to the copper sink, where he washed everything in hot water.

After putting it all away and wiping down the counter, Cole boiled the kettle and made tea before retiring to the sofa. Nanook lumbered up beside him and dropped his chin onto Cole’s lap. Cole sipped his tea and picked up a Lee Child novel from the side table and dove into the world of an army vet who roamed the world alone.

Chapter

Six

The Tesla’s headlights swept across the vaguely familiar streets as Izzy navigated through Darkness. Her hands knew every turn, muscle memory guiding her through the maze of residential roads that hadn’t changed in two decades. Past the old Masonic lodge, right at the crooked oak tree, left where Bruce’s corner store used to be.

Her grandfather’s house sat back from the road, an old California bungalow with peeling white paint. The porch light burned yellow, a beacon in the night. His ancient Ford pickup hulked in the gravel driveway, its chrome dulled with age.

Izzy killed the engine and grabbed her bag. The porch steps creaked under her feet, their protest unchanged since her childhood. Before she could knock, the door swung open.

“Izar.” Joe’s face crinkled into a smile. His arms enveloped her in a hug that smelled of pipe tobacco and Old Spice. Despite his eighty-five years, his embrace remained strong, though his frame had grown leaner. Silver hair crowned his head, still thick but no longer the jet-black she remembered from her youth.

“Kaixo, Aitona.” The Basque greeting felt natural on her tongue.

He pulled back to study her face, his dark eyes sharp beneath bushy brows.

Inside, the house bore the marks of a widower’s neglect. Newspapers covered every surface, yellowed at the edges. Dishes filled the kitchen sink. The air held the musty sweetness of old man and forgotten food.

They settled in his worn leather armchair, Izzy perched on the ottoman while he asked about the family in Virginia. She pulled out her phone, showing him photos of Maya’s twins. His face softened at the images of his great-grandchildren.

“And you?” he asked. “You look tired, txiki.”

“Long flight.” Izzy glanced toward the kitchen. “Have you eaten today?”

“Had a sandwich. For lunch.”

Izzy had interviewed enough people in her career to know when she was hearing less than the truth. The sharp pain of Mark’s memory stabbed at her. Maybe she didn’t know as much as she thought.

She investigated the kitchen. Canned soup lined the shelves. The milk in the fridge had expired days ago. A loaf of bread sat on the counter, the remnant of lunch, its cut end gone dry.

“Is Donnelly’s still in business?” she called over her shoulder.

“Hasn’t changed in fifty years.” He chuckled. “Still makes the best meatloaf in the county.”

“I’ll grab us some dinner.” She strode back into the living room and kissed his cheek. “Won’t be long.”

The streets were empty as she drove, streetlights casting pools of yellow on the asphalt. Her mind wandered from grocery store to gas station shop to the man at the gas pump. That tailored coat had fit him perfectly, highlighting broad shoulders that suggested regular gym visits rather than ranch work. And those eyes. She wondered what he was doing for dinner.

Izzy gripped the steering wheel harder. She wasn’t here to moon over some small-town cowboy, no matter how well he filled out his clothes. She had enough complications in her life without adding some hick to the mix.

She shook her head. Food first. Everything else could wait.

The automatic doors of Donnelly’s Market wheezed open. Fluorescent tubes buzzed overhead, casting a harsh glow across linoleum floors that had seen better days. The smell hit her—that peculiar mix of produce, cleaning supplies, and something indefinably small-town grocery.

Izzy grabbed a cart, its wheels squeaking with each turn. She reacquainted herself with the layout: three aisles of canned goods and a wall of frozen meals served the whole town. The dairy section held basic varieties of milk, eggs, and cheese—no artisanal goat cheese or imported brie. It was no Zabar’s.

A man who had walked in behind her stood by the yogurt, his cart blocking most of the aisle. Something about his stance caught her attention—the way he seemed more focused on her than selecting products. Dark hair, fashionable clothes, designer sneakers that looked out of place. When he turned slightly, she caught his profile studying her. She was used to this kind of behavior in Manhattan, where markets were the new clubs, the place to see, be seen, and to pick up more than produce.

Izzy forced herself to focus on her shopping list. Bread, milk, eggs. Basic supplies for Aitona’s empty kitchen. She tossed items into her cart, trying to ignore the crawling sensation between her shoulder blades.

“Well, if it isn’t Sheriff Lew’s girl!”

Izzy turned to find an elderly couple beaming at her. The woman’s curled hair was as stiff as whipped egg whites, her husband’s plaid shirt neatly pressed.

“You’re the spitting image of your daddy,” the woman continued. “Such a good man. Best sheriff this county ever had.”

“Thank you,” Izzy managed, her throat tight.

“He sure knew how to keep the peace,” the husband added. “Didn’t need all those fancy gadgets they got nowadays.”

Two men in mud-caked work boots and Carhartt jackets passed by, one muttering to the other, “Woman sheriff? That’ll be the day.”

“Ain’t no way she can handle it,” the other replied, loud enough for Izzy to hear.

The store grew more crowded, as if school had just gotten out, not eight at night. The aisles filled with the sound of squeaking carts and conversations. A harried-looking mother corralled three kids while trying to read a shopping list.

In produce, Izzy found herself face to face with the man from dairy again. He stood by the apples, watching her with that same intense gaze. Before she could move away, he approached, a smile spreading across his face.

“Izzy Llewellyn,” he said. “I thought that was you.”

She studied his face, searching for recognition.

“It’s Nate,” he prompted. “Bolton. From high school?”

“Right,” Izzy said, though she had no memory of him. “How are you?”

She took in his tanned features and designer stubble. If he had that back in school, it would have been more peach fuzz and not a memorable look. But now, she decided it wasn’t all bad. For the second time that night she was conscious of her own appearance, and she brushed an errant hair back behind her ear, as if that was the problem.

“Good, good. I got out too, you know. Teaching at UNLV now. But family’s still here, so I visit when I can.” He gestured vaguely toward the front of the store. “Are you back in town?”

“Yes,” Izzy said, keeping her answer short.

“Well, I’m sure I’ll see you around.” He smiled, wrinkling around the eyes. “Small town and all that.”

“Yeah, nice seeing you,” Izzy said, watching him wander away toward the checkout. He didn’t quite fit the mold for this town, but as he said, like her, he had gotten out. But I’m back, she thought as she wrangled her cart away.

More people filtered into the store. A hard-faced woman pushed her cart past, doing a double take that nearly gave her whiplash. Two men with thick beards who had to be twins stood in the chip aisle whispering and gesturing. Even the teenage stock boy stopped mid-shelf-stocking to stare.

Near the meat counter, three old-timers in worn John Deere caps huddled together, watching her like she was casing the joint instead of shopping for her grandfather. Their weathered faces carried the same suspicious glares she’d seen during investigations—except she wasn’t investigating anything.

A man in a straw cowboy hat leaned against the beer fridge, a piece of straw dangling from his lips like a prop in a bad Western. His eyes tracked her every move, hatred burning in them with an intensity that made her skin crawl. She recognized that look too—the same one suspects gave female agents, like they were personally offended by her existence.

Izzy’s neck prickled with awareness of all the eyes on her. The store felt smaller by the minute, the aisles closing in. She grabbed the last few items on her mental list and headed for the checkout, fighting the urge to run.

The cashier—Jem, according to her name tag—rang up the groceries with methodical slowness. Each beep of the scanner seemed to draw more attention. Izzy reached for her back pocket and froze. Her wallet. It wasn’t there.

She patted her other pockets, knowing it was futile. The wallet sat on Aitona’s kitchen counter where she’d set it down while checking his expired milk.

“I’m so sorry,” Izzy said, color filling her cheeks. “I left my wallet at home. I’ll put everything back.”

Jem’s penciled eyebrows rose toward her hairline as she studied Izzy like she was an exotic specimen in a museum display.

“Don’t worry about it.” Nate’s voice came from behind her. “I’ve got this.”

He stepped over from the exit, having already checked out, pulling out a sleek leather wallet.

Izzy started to protest, but thought of Aitona’s empty kitchen and swallowed her pride. “Thanks. I’ll pay you back.”

“I’m sure you’re good for it.” Nate smiled as he swiped his card. The machine beeped its approval.

“Goodnight,” he said, collecting his receipt and heading for the exit.

Izzy gathered her groceries, acutely aware that everyone in the store was watching her discomfort. She’d forgotten bags in her rush to escape, so she loaded the loose items into the Tesla’s trunk, trying to arrange them so nothing would roll around.

As she wheeled the empty cart to the return area, she spotted the man in the straw hat lounging against a rusted red pickup. He caught her eye and winked, his lips curling around the piece of straw in a way that made her stomach turn.

Izzy dropped her gaze and strode back to her car, her steps quick but measured. Some things about small-town men hadn’t changed at all. They still thought a wink and a swagger were God’s gift to women.

I saw her tonight. Twice. Lucky I guess. But she’s back, no doubt. Just like I knew she would be. And she’s quite something. Hotter than I thought, that’s for sure. That’s something to put in the memory bank. But also a complete mess, just as promised. Hopeless and lost and totally malleable.

They say you can’t take the girl out of the town, but they haven’t seen Special Agent Llewellyn. I can’t call her sheriff—that’s a joke. She’s as country as pavement. I got lucky the first time. She rolled right into the Gas & Go with that ridiculous car. Is she serious with that? Is she going to plug it into her hair dryer outlet?

She did look good, though. Tight jeans and all that. A bit thin in the face, but that’s to be expected. She’s been through a lot, and by the looks of things, she hasn’t handled it well. Which is perfect. Not for her, but certainly for me.

She’s going to mess this thing up big time. She couldn’t even buy groceries. That’s where I saw her the second time. At Donnelly’s. What a dumpster fire she is. And every face in that store was on her. They all saw. She didn’t even get shopping bags. She just dumped her stuff in the trunk of that car. She’s hopeless. They hate her, and she’s only been here an hour. The grapevine will be burning right now.

That’s works for me, too.

Chapter

Seven

Izzy woke to pale dawn light filtering through lace curtains. Her grandmother’s sewing room pressed in around her, crowded with a lifetime of craft supplies and half-finished projects. The single bed squeaked as she shifted, the fresh sheets she’d put on last night still crisp and unfamiliar.

Spools of thread lined the shelves in neat rows, arranged by color. Her grandmother’s ancient Singer sewing machine sat silent in the corner, its black metal frame dulled with age and a patina of dust. The room smelled of mothballs and fabric softener, preserved like a museum exhibit.

She pulled on sweats and padded to the kitchen. Joe sat at the table in his usual spot, newspaper spread before him, coffee cup empty.

“Morning, Aitona.” Izzy kissed his leathery cheek. The scent of his aftershave brought a rush of childhood memories.

She surveyed the kitchen. The groceries from last night sat in neat rows on the counter, waiting to be put away. She’d clean later. First, breakfast.

Her hands moved robotically through the motions—eggs cracked into a bowl, bread in the toaster, coffee measured into the filter. The routine felt like stepping back in time. How many mornings had she watched her grandmother do this same dance?

“Smells good,” Joe said as she slid a plate of eggs and toast in front of him. “Just like your amona used to make.”

Izzy paused, spatula hovering over the pan. She couldn’t read his tone—was that approval or criticism? Her grandmother’s cooking had been legendary in the county. Izzy’s attempts were serviceable at best.

She fixed her own plate and sat across from him, watching as he methodically worked through his breakfast. He didn’t start a conversation, so she remained silent. But he seemed to enjoy the food, so after what she’d gone through to get it, she felt better.

After breakfast, Izzy pulled out her phone and dialed the number for the board of supervisors’ office in the county seat of Harris, about fifty miles up the highway. The line rang twice before a crisp voice answered.

“Supervisor Preston’s office.”

“This is Izzy Llewellyn. I need to speak with Supervisor Preston.”

“One moment, please.”

Preston’s voice came through, smooth as honey. “Sheriff Llewellyn. I trust you’re settling in?”

“Yes, ma’am. I wanted to check in about next steps.”

“Excellent. Speak with Adrianne. She’s the receptionist at the station. She has everything you need to get started. And do come see me when you’re in Harris. We should discuss your vision for the department.”

The line went dead before Izzy could correct the supervisor that it was an office, not a station or a department.

Izzy dropped the phone on the counter and headed to the bedroom to change. Her suitcase lay open on the floor, clothes spilling out. She’d have to find an apartment soon. She couldn’t live in her grandmother’s sewing room forever.

She pulled on tactical khakis and a navy polo—as close to a uniform as she could manage until she was issued her official gear. The black L.L. Bean ultrawarm jacket was sleek and urban against the faded wallpaper. In the mirror over her grandmother’s dresser, the outfit looked wrong. A little too New York.

She studied her reflection. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her cheeks looked hollow. Grief had carved new lines around her mouth. She appeared older, harder. They said that laughter gave you the worst lines. They were wrong.

The woman in the mirror was a stranger—not quite FBI agent, not quite small-town sheriff. Just lost.

Izzy kissed her grandfather goodbye and stepped out onto the porch. That sent her fishing for her sunglasses. The place might have been called Darkness, but it was the brightest place Izzy had ever been. The sky was wide and open and unencumbered by buildings, and the mountains on either side of the valley served to focus the sun, piercing the atmosphere in a way she had never experienced anywhere else. The cloudless winter sky was a deep blue made deeper by her polarized shades.

She slid into the Tesla’s leather seat, already missing her FBI-issued Suburban. She pulled up the navigation on her phone, feeling foolish. She’d grown up here, but the new sheriff’s office might as well have been on Mars. Apparently, it was no longer in the building her father had worked in for years.

The Tesla’s screen showed seventeen percent battery remaining and gave an estimate of forty-six miles’ range. Range anxiety was a real thing, and she wasn’t a fan. The drive from Vegas had eaten more charge than expected, and she hadn’t found anywhere to plug in yet. She’d have to figure something out soon—maybe string together extension cords from Aitona’s garage outlet to the driveway. She made a mental note to stop in on a hardware store, if there was one.

Izzy glanced at the Tesla’s battery display again and decided against the town tour. She’d have to save that nostalgic drive for when she had more charge. The sheriff’s office was only minutes away, east of the highway where civilization gave way to desert scrub.

The facility rose from the landscape like the namesake mirage—all clean lines and modern materials that seemed at odds with the rugged terrain. Homeland Security money, Izzy thought. The two-story building gleamed with reflective windows, its facade a blend of rustic brick and sleek aluminum that caught the morning sun.

The parking lot stretched wide, fresh black asphalt unmarred by time or weather. Overhead, solar panels crowned covered parking spaces like technological umbrellas, their surfaces tilted to catch maximum sunlight. The whole setup screamed efficiency and forward-thinking—a stark contrast to the old station downtown where her father had worked.

Izzy pulled into a spot marked Visitor and killed the engine. From here, she could see her reflection fragmented across the building’s glass exterior. The American flag snapped in the wind above the entrance, its pole new enough that the metal still shone.

Inside, the atrium opened up like a small-town approximation of an FBI field office. A curved reception desk commanded the front, its wood veneer matching the earth tones of the walls. Behind security glass, the center space spread out like a hospital waiting room, complete with institutional furniture and potted plants that looked too perfect to be real. Glass-walled offices and interview rooms lined the back wall and right side, their blinds drawn against the morning sun. The left wall was almost entirely windows, flooding the space with natural light. Above, the second floor’s balcony of additional rooms wrapped around the atrium.

Behind the reception desk sat a plump woman in her fifties, her frizzy grey curls escaping a clip at her neck. She wore a rose-printed muumuu that seemed better suited to a Hawaiian vacation than a sheriff’s office. Her face lit up as she spotted Izzy.

“Oh my goodness!” The woman burst from behind the desk and through the security door with surprising speed. “Little Izar Llewellyn!”

Izzy found herself enveloped in a warm hug that smelled of vanilla and talcum powder.

“I’m Adrianne Borlais.” The woman pulled back, beaming. “I worked with your father for years. Such a wonderful man, just wonderful. We were all heartbroken when you folks moved away after . . . well.” Her smile dimmed briefly before brightening again. “But now you’re back! And as our new sheriff! This is exactly what this place needs.”

“Thank you.” Izzy managed a small smile. “Supervisor Preston mentioned you’d have some things to help get me started?”

“Oh, yes, yes!” Adrianne nodded enthusiastically. “I’ve got everything organized in your office. Why don’t we head up there now?”

Izzy glanced at the empty reception desk. “Should someone stay here?”

“Oh honey, we don’t get many walk-ins.” Adrianne waved dismissively. “Most folks call if they need something. There’s a buzzer system if anyone comes by. Rings right on my cell phone.” She patted her muumuu pocket where a phone presumably resided. “Now come on, let me show you your office.”

Adrianne led Izzy up the stairs to an office that dominated the second level. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across two walls, offering a commanding view across the valley. The Los Angeles aqueduct cut a stark line through the landscape, its concrete form stark against the eastern mountains that rose in the distance.

The desk caught Izzy’s eye immediately—a sleek expanse of polished wood and brushed metal that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the New York field office. Her fingers traced the smooth surface as she walked around it, taking in the ergonomic chair and built-in charging stations. The familiarity of the setup eased the tension in her shoulders.

A glass-topped meeting table occupied one corner, neat stacks of paperwork arranged precisely across its surface. Adrianne sat, spreading out documents in organized rows.

“I’ve prepared everything you’ll need to get started,” Adrianne said, gesturing to the papers. “Employment contracts, insurance forms, department protocols. All tabbed and highlighted where you need to sign.”

Izzy leafed through the stack, impressed by the meticulous organization. Each section was color-coded, with sticky notes marking important points.

“And of course, you’ll need transportation,” Adrianne continued. “We’ve got a Ford Explorer waiting in the motor pool. Tim, our mechanic, keeps everything in top shape. He’ll detail it weekly if you’d like.”

Izzy signed all the paperwork while Adrianne continued. “Now, about your uniform. We have full service khakis, top and bottom, but most deputies prefer the sheriff’s office polo with tactical vest when needed.” She paused, her cheerful expression faltering. “Though we might have a small issue with sizing. We don’t currently have any female deputies.”

“None?” Izzy’s eyebrows rose. “How many staff total?”

“Twenty-four sworn officers split about eighty-twenty between here and Harris, where they mostly handle corrections at the county jail,” Adrianne counted off on her fingers. “Then there’s me and my counterpart in Harris, Tim in the motor pool, and one or two other civilian roles part-time.”

Izzy tensed as she absorbed this information. All men. Perfect. They were going to love having her as their sheriff. She could already imagine the resistance, the subtle undermining, the not-so-subtle comments. It would be the FBI academy all over again, but worse—at least there she’d had other women in her class.

“Don’t worry about the uniforms though,” Adrianne continued, seemingly oblivious to Izzy’s tension. “I’ve already arranged with the workwear store in town to order in a selection of women’s trousers and shirts.” She beamed. “I can take you over to try some things on. You’re a little taller than your father was, but I think we can find something that works. And anything that isn’t quite right, I can adjust to fit. I’m pretty handy with alterations.”

They moved to the desk where Izzy scanned through screens of passwords and protocols as Adrianne guided her through the department’s computer system. The software was dated compared to what she’d used at the Bureau, but functional enough. At least she wouldn’t have to deal with paper files like her father had.

“That should do it for the basics,” Adrianne concluded, straightening a stack of forms. “You can access everything from here or any department computer. The login will work on the Explorer’s system too.”

Izzy leaned back in her chair, her mind already moving to the next challenge. “When can I meet the team?”

“Well, we always need coverage in Harris for the jail and courthouse.” Adrianne tapped her chin. “But most everyone’s here in Darkness. They should be in the squad room downstairs or within a short drive.”

“Can we get them all together?”

“Sure thing. I can send out an all-hands text. Give them about thirty minutes to wrap up what they’re doing and get here.” Adrianne pulled out her phone. “Want me to do that now?”

Izzy nodded. “Might as well see what we’re dealing with.”

Adrianne’s fingers flew across her phone screen. “Done. They’ll all be in the squad room at ten.” She paused at the door. “Anything else you need?”

“No, thank you. You’ve been incredibly helpful.”

Adrianne moved to the door, then stopped. “Sheriff Llewellyn?”

Izzy was looking at her new desk, and it took her a moment to register that Adrianne was talking to her. Sheriff Llewellyn was going to take some getting used to. She turned to the receptionist.

“It’s so great you’re here. This town needs you. This office needs you. You’ll win them over, don’t worry.”

“Thank you, Adrianne.”

“And anyone who doesn’t come around, you send them to me.”

Izzy smiled. “I’ll remember that. Oh, and Adrianne?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“What do they call you? Your job title, I mean.”

“I guess they call me the receptionist.”

Izzy frowned. “Who does?”

“The deputies. Everyone, I guess.”

“What do you call it? I’ve been here five minutes, and it looks a lot more than receiving visitors.”

“I suppose I’d say Office Administrator.”

“Office Administrator. Alright, that’s it then. Thank you, Adrianne.”

After Adrianne left, Izzy stood at the window, studying her reflection against the high desert landscape beyond. Twenty-four deputies, all male, all about to meet their new female sheriff. She’d faced poor odds at the Bureau, but this was next-level. Perceptions in Washington DC were not the same as those in rural America. Plus, many of these men had known her father. They’d have expectations, preconceptions. And she’d have to earn their respect while dealing with her own demons.

Her phone buzzed. The text from Adrianne confirmed the meeting was set.

Chapter

Eight

Izzy smoothed her polo shirt and headed downstairs to the squad room. She took deep breaths as she strode across the polished floor, each step measured. She’d done this before—walking into rooms full of men who doubted her. The FBI academy, her first field office, countless task force briefings. But this time felt different. This wasn’t just about proving herself—it was about living up to her father’s legacy.

The squad room doors were propped open. Inside, seventeen deputies occupied the rows of desks, their postures stiff and expectant. A man wearing grease-streaked coveralls lounged against the wall—no doubt Tim from the motor pool. An older man in a faded work shirt and Wranglers stood apart from the deputies, his chiseled face creased with crow’s feet. He carried himself with quiet authority, standing tall despite his years.

“Sheriff Llewellyn.” Adrianne stepped forward. “I’d like you to meet Judge Emmett Daniels.”

The judge extended his massive hand. His grip was firm, but not aggressive. “Welcome home, Sheriff. Your father would be proud to see you standing here.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” The warmth in his welcome surprised her.

“I trust you don’t mind me being here. We have business to attend to.”

“Not at all, sir. Thank you for taking the time to come and meet me.”

As she made her way to the podium at the front, the silence in the room grew heavier. Every eye tracked her movement. No whispers, no shuffling papers, just the weight of seventeen evaluating stares. She didn’t need their approval, but their cooperation would make her job a lot easier.

Izzy took her place behind the podium and took time to make eye contact with each and every person in the room. “Good morning. For those who don’t know me, I’m Izar Llewellyn. Most people call me Izzy.” She let her gaze sweep the room again. “I know some of you worked with my father. Others are new since then. Either way, I recognize that I’m walking into an established team.”

She paused, noting the crossed arms and blank expressions. “While I grew up in Darkness, I’m sure plenty has changed in the years I’ve been gone. My time with the FBI taught me valuable skills that I hope to share with you all. But you know this town, these people, in ways I’ll need to relearn. I’m counting on your experience and knowledge as we move forward.”

Movement at the back of the room caught Izzy’s attention. A deputy sauntered through the door, his uniform wrinkled and untucked. He dropped into an empty chair, sprawling with his legs stretched out into the aisle. Everything about his posture screamed defiance.

The deputy had to be pushing fifty, his salt-and-pepper crewcut and thick mustache showing his age. A substantial belly strained against his uniform shirt, undermining the tough-guy image he seemed to be cultivating. His eyes met hers with open disdain, lips curled in a smirk.

Izzy straightened behind the podium. “And you are?”

“Deputy Frank Denly.” He didn’t bother sitting up.

“Did you receive the text about this meeting, Deputy Denly?”

His smirk widened. “Sure did.”

“Then why are you late?”

“Had things to do.” He shrugged.

“I’m going to need you to leave.” Izzy’s voice cut through the room. “Find an interview room and wait there.”

Denly didn’t move. “Excuse me?”

“If you can’t respect your colleagues enough to be on time, you can let us conduct our business and be dealt with later.”

“That’s rich coming from someone who ain’t even wearing the uniform.” He gestured at her polo shirt. “Playing dress-up as sheriff in your fancy clothes?”

“Five seconds to leave this room, Deputy Denly, or you’re suspended.”

He barked out a laugh. “You ain’t even been sworn in yet.”

“You’re right. So I can’t arrest you.” Izzy’s tone remained level but she put her hands on her hips. “But I signed my contract this morning, which means I can fire you for insubordination. And if you’re still sitting here in four seconds, that is how this will play out.”

The silence stretched between them. Denly’s jaw worked as he considered his options.

“Denly,” said another man in uniform from the front row. His sandy brown hair was carefully combed to disguise a growing bald spot, and his uniform bore perfect creases. The polished belt buckle and expensive cowboy boots marked him as someone who cared about appearances. “You’ve been given an order.”

Deputy Denly looked from the front row to Izzy. Finally, he pushed himself up from the chair with exaggerated slowness. “Whatever you say, little lady.”

He headed for the door, his boots scuffing against the floor.

“And Deputy?” Izzy called after him. “Don’t leave the building.”

Izzy watched Denly’s back disappear through the doorway, then turned her attention to the assembled deputies. Their expressions had shifted—some looked impressed, others wary. A few seemed quietly amused. She’d made her point, but she couldn’t afford to dwell on it.

“As I was saying, I look forward to working with each of you. I know you have duties to attend to, so I won’t keep you much longer. Over the next few days, I’ll be scheduling individual meetings to learn more about your roles and responsibilities.”

She gathered her notes, ready to dismiss them, when Judge Daniels raised his hand from his position at the back. The gesture was almost professorial, oddly formal, yet fitting for his dignified bearing.

“Yes, Your Honor?”

“Pursuant to your earlier discussion,” he said, his resonant voice carrying easily across the room, “I believe we can address the matter of your swearing-in right now.” He patted the breast pocket of his work shirt. “I happen to have a copy of the state constitution with me, unless you’d prefer to use something else or handle this at another time.”

Izzy felt a flutter of nerves, but she pushed it down. This was what she’d come for, what she’d agreed to when she’d accepted Preston’s offer. “No time like the present, Your Honor.”

Judge Daniels nodded and withdrew a small, leather-bound book from his pocket. He moved to the front of the room with measured steps, his presence commanding attention without effort. “If you’ll raise your right hand, Sheriff.”

Izzy put one hand on the constitution and raised the other, conscious of every eye in the room fixed upon her. The LEDs overhead felt like spotlights, and somewhere in the building, a door closed with a distant thud.

“Repeat after me. I, Izar Llewellyn, solemnly swear that you will support and defend the Constitution of the United States and the Constitution of the State of California against all enemies, foreign and domestic . . .”

The judge’s voice rolled through the words. Izzy projected her voice as she repeated each phrase. This wasn’t just an oath—it was a covenant with the community her father had served, a promise to the people who had known her since childhood.

“. . . and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties upon which I am about to enter.”

“And that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties upon which I am about to enter.” Her voice came out clear and strong, carrying to every corner of the room.

“Congratulations, Sheriff Llewellyn.”

A scatter of applause broke out among the deputies, polite but not enthusiastic. It was a start, Izzy thought. They didn’t have to like her yet—they just had to work with her.

As the deputies filed out, some nodded to Izzy, while others avoided eye contact entirely. The man who had spoken up during the Denly incident approached. His uniform bore the three silver stars of an undersheriff on the collar.

“Sheriff Llewellyn.” He extended his hand. “Dale Hawkins. I serve as your undersheriff.”

Izzy shook his hand, noting his firm grip and direct gaze. “Thank you for being here, Undersheriff.”

“I hope I didn’t overstep earlier, with Denly.” Hawkins adjusted his belt, the oversized buckle catching the light. “Sometimes he needs a nudge in the right direction.”

A small part of Izzy bristled at his intervention—she’d had the situation under control. But starting a turf war with her second-in-command wouldn’t serve anyone. “Not at all. If we don’t back each other up, no one will.”

“Did you know I worked with your father?” Hawkins asked.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Good man, Hugh was. One of the best sheriffs this county’s seen.” He paused. “How’s your mother doing these days?”

“She’s well, thank you. Still living in Virginia.”

“Pass on my regards, would you?” Hawkins smoothed his carefully combed hair. “You know, it’s funny—when your father became sheriff, I was just starting out as a deputy. Now here I am, undersheriff.”

“You didn’t think to put in for the sheriff position yourself?” Izzy asked.

Hawkins’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly. “Oh, I did.”

Izzy kept her face neutral. “I see.”

“In the interest of full disclosure, Sheriff, I plan to run against you in the special election.” His tone remained professional, but there was steel beneath the courtesy.

“Special election?”

“Since sheriff is an elected position, there has to be a special election within twelve months of an appointment.” Hawkins watched her carefully. “Supervisor Preston didn’t mention that?”

Izzy’s mind raced. In her rush to accept the position, to find some purpose after Mark’s death, she’d completely forgotten about having to run for office. “Of course.”

“Well.” Hawkins straightened his already-perfect uniform. “Until then, anything you need, I am at your disposal, Sheriff.”

After Hawkins disappeared through the door with a couple of deputies trailing behind him, Izzy noticed one remained. He stood near the back of the room, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-one or twenty-two, with an earnest face that belonged in a college classroom rather than behind a badge. His dark hair was neatly trimmed, and his uniform—while pristine—seemed to hang a bit loose on his lean frame.

His hazel eyes met hers with a mix of respect and nervousness that made her want to smile. She’d seen that look before, usually on fresh academy graduates eager to prove themselves.

“Can I help you, Deputy?”

He snapped to attention and offered a crisp salute that seemed more suited to the military than a sheriff’s office. “Deputy Wahlberg, ma’am. Undersheriff Hawkins asked me to show you your vehicle.”

The salute was endearing, if unnecessary. “At ease, Deputy Wahlberg.”

His shoulders relaxed slightly. “Yes, Sheriff.”

Wahlberg led Izzy out of the squad room and into a corridor.

“How long have you been with the office, Deputy?”

“Just over a year, Sheriff. Joined right after getting my Associate’s in Criminal Justice.”

“What made you want to join?”

Wahlberg’s face lit up. “Growing up here, I always looked up to the deputies. They used to visit my elementary school, talk to us about safety and doing the right thing.”

“So you’re local?”

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry, Sheriff.”

“Either’s fine, Wahlberg. Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So, you have family here?”

Walberg stopped to open a secure door with a keycard. “Yes. My wife and I went to school together.”

“You’re married?”

“Yes. Last year. But we’ve been together forever.”

Izzy didn’t think he looked old enough to drive, let alone have a forever.

“My dad says he remembers your dad. Said he was a good man. Said it was a lot to live up to.” Wahlberg’s face went crimson. “Sorry, I didn’t mean⁠—”

“It’s fine.” Izzy pushed down the familiar ache that came with mentions of her father.

They emerged into the bright morning sun. Behind the main building stretched a large garage structure, its bay doors rolled up to reveal several patrol vehicles inside. The man in coveralls—Tim—worked under the hood of one, only his back visible.

“Tim?” Wahlberg called out. “Got the sheriff here for her vehicle.”

Tim straightened but didn’t turn around. He wiped his hands on a rag, reached into his pocket, and held out a set of keys. Wahlberg stepped forward to take them. Tim disappeared back under the hood.

Izzy raised her eyebrows.

“Don’t think anything of it,” Wahlberg said. “He’s like that with everyone.”

Wahlberg led Izzy to a gleaming white Ford Explorer parked under one of the solar panel canopies. The SUV’s paint reflected the morning sun, its gold sheriff’s star and department markings pristine against the white surface.

“This will be your ride, Sheriff.” Wahlberg ran his hand along the Explorer’s hood. “It’s been sitting here since Sheriff Trahan . . .” He trailed off, shifting his weight.

“Since he left?” Izzy suggested.

Wahlberg’s face tightened. “You could call it that, I suppose.”

“What else could you call it?”

“Since he died.”

Izzy’s jaw dropped. “The last sheriff died?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Wahlberg nodded.

Izzy’s mind raced through her conversations with Supervisor Preston. The woman had mentioned an opening, a need for new leadership, but never once indicated the position was vacant due to a death. “How did Sheriff Trahan die?”

“Car accident.” Wahlberg gestured at the Explorer. “Not this one. He was in his personal vehicle.”

Izzy studied the pristine patrol vehicle before them. “What happened?”

“Single-vehicle accident on 395, about twenty miles north of town.” Wahlberg’s voice took on a practiced tone, like he’d explained this before. “Late at night, he went off the road and rolled into a culvert.”

“Was he intoxicated?”

Wahlberg shook his head. “I don’t think so. Sheriff Trahan wasn’t much of a drinker, from what I knew of him.”

“What did the coroner’s report say?” When Wahlberg hesitated, she added, “The autopsy?”

“I never saw the coroner’s report.” Wahlberg’s eyes dropped to the pavement. “But I know there wasn’t an autopsy. It was ruled an accident. We had the funeral a few days later.”

Izzy studied Wahlberg’s downturned face. She didn’t want to overreact, especially on day one. But learning that her predecessor had died in a car crash raised all kinds of red flags. Why hadn’t Supervisor Preston mentioned that? Why was there no autopsy? There might be logical reasons, but thoughts of her father’s death hung over her.

“Who signed off on the death certificate?”

“The local doctor.”

“Take me back inside.”

Adrianne looked up from her computer as Izzy approached the front desk, Wahlberg trailing behind. “Sheriff? Is there a problem with the vehicle?”

“I need you to pull up Sheriff Trahan’s accident report.”

Adrianne’s fingers flew across the keyboard. “Let me see here . . .” She navigated through several screens. “Here we go. There’s not much here. I can tell you what happened. We all can. Single-vehicle accident, Highway 395.” Adrianne squinted at the screen.

“Coroner’s report?” asked Izzy.

“Nothing in the file.” Adrianne’s brow creased. “Pretty sure the doctor agreed with the determination of accidental death.”

“Where’s his office?”

Adrianne wrote the address on a sticky note. “But Sheriff⁠—”

Izzy was already heading for the door, leaving Wahlberg in her trail.

Back at the Explorer, Izzy yanked open the driver’s door. The seat was pushed all the way back, positioned for a good cleaning. She hit the adjustment lever, pulling herself forward until she could comfortably reach the pedals.

Dead sheriffs. The thought nagged at her as she punched the address into her phone. Her father had been killed in the line of duty—a fact everyone seemed eager to remind her of. But another one? Maybe it was just a tragic accident. But then why skip standard procedure? Why no autopsy for a high-ranking law enforcement officer?

It was the kind of corner-cutting that led to sloppy investigations and missed evidence. The exact thing she planned to eliminate from the sheriff’s office.

Izzy turned the key, and the Explorer rumbled to life. She would turn this place into a professional organization. And she would start with this doctor.

Chapter

Nine

Izzy followed her phone’s guidance, the layout of the town slowly coming back to her. She turned into the street she needed and felt a lump form in the pit of her stomach as she slowed near the end point. The familiar Queen-Anne-style building loomed ahead, its painted wood facade a stark contrast to Izzy’s memories. Gone were the heavy drapes that had shrouded the windows during its days as Truss’s Funeral Home. Bright sunlight now streamed through clear glass, and cheerful flower boxes hung beneath each sill. The front steps remained, but a wheelchair ramp now curved alongside them.

Izzy’s heart pounded as she climbed those steps. The last time she’d walked this path, she’d been sixteen, following her father’s casket. Now a brass plaque beside the door proclaimed Darkness Medical Clinic in modern script.

The interior hit her with another wave of cognitive dissonance. The dimly lit parlor where mourners had once gathered was transformed into a bright waiting room. Modern medical office furniture replaced the somber seating of her memories. Local artwork hung where funeral notices had once been posted.

Several patients looked up as she entered. An elderly man with an oxygen tank. A mother bouncing a fussy toddler on her knee. A teenager holding an ice pack to his wrist.

Behind the reception desk sat a young woman who couldn’t have been older than her mid-twenties. Her glossy black hair fell in perfect waves around her face, and a turquoise pendant gleamed at her throat. Despite her youth, she exuded calm professionalism as she typed on her computer.

“Can I help you?” The receptionist’s warm smile faltered as she took in Izzy’s determined expression.

“I’m Sheriff Llewellyn. I need to speak with the doctor.”

“I’m Serena. Let me see if Dr. Barrow is available.” She touched the headset she wore. “Dr. Barrow? The new sheriff is here to see you.” A pause. “No, she doesn’t have an appointment.”

Serena’s dark eyes flicked up to Izzy’s face, noting the set of her jaw and the tension in her shoulders. She spoke into the headset again: “No, I don’t think it can wait.”

Izzy paced the waiting room, her boots silent on the carpet that had replaced the old hardwood floors. Her mind raced. The idea of a dead sheriff changed things. Would she have even taken the job? Was that why Supervisor Preston had failed to mention it? Was she here under false pretenses? Izzy felt the pressure building in her temples. This and an antagonistic squad room. Not a single female deputy. So many faces watching and waiting for her to fail. Suddenly, she was struggling to breathe.

The surroundings didn’t help. Every corner of this building held memories of that terrible day. The day they’d laid her father to rest. She could almost smell the cloying sweetness of funeral flowers.

A teenage boy emerged from the exam room, his wrist wrapped in an elastic bandage.

Serena caught Izzy’s eye. “Dr. Barrow will see you now.”

Izzy marched down the hallway, past what had once been viewing salons. Now they were examination rooms with modern medical equipment. She reached the doctor’s office and froze in the doorway.

The man from the gas station looked up from his desk. His brown eyes crinkled with recognition as he offered that same easy smile she remembered from the night before. But instead of worn jeans and a baseball cap, he wore a crisp white coat with Dr. Cole Barrow embroidered on the pocket. A stethoscope hung around his neck, and his brown hair was neatly combed.

He stood, revealing his impressive height. “You’re the new sheriff?”

Izzy felt her eyebrows lower. “Yes.”

He nodded, and his smile widened. “Did you find a power outlet?”

That smile should have been irritating. Instead, it sent an unwelcome flutter through her stomach. He looked even better in professional attire than he had in his casual clothes, and that observation annoyed her more than his attempted humor.

Izzy forced her expression to remain neutral, refusing to be charmed by his reference to their chance encounter. “I’m here about Sheriff Trahan’s death.”

“Ah.” Cole settled back into his chair, gesturing for her to take a seat. “What about it?”

Izzy didn’t sit. “Why wasn’t there an autopsy?”

“Because it wasn’t necessary. I examined the body at the scene. Single-vehicle accident, consistent with loss of control at high speed.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “Though I have to say, you’re not quite what I expected when they said we were getting a new sheriff. Casual Friday already?”

Heat flushed through Izzy’s system. “It’s my first day. And we’re not here to discuss my wardrobe, Dr. Barrow. We’re here to discuss why proper procedure wasn’t followed for a law enforcement death.”

“I followed procedure. I examined the body, documented my findings, and determined cause of death.” His easy smile faded. “I don’t investigate. I write what I see, and I saw a man who had all the signs of having died in a car accident. The deputies on scene checked out the actual car. Everything was consistent.”

“That’s negligent.” The words shot out before she could stop them.

Cole’s expression hardened. “When you said it was your first day, I didn’t think you meant ever.”

Izzy’s eyes bore into the doctor as she put her hands on her hips and was suddenly aware that she wasn’t wearing a sidearm. “Where’s the coroner’s report?”

“I forwarded it to your office.” He sat back, studying her with those intense brown eyes. “If it’s not in your files, maybe you should look closer to home for incompetence.”

“I want a copy.”

“Serena can email it. Again.” He raised an eyebrow. “What’s your email address?”

The question caught her off guard. Adrianne had logged her into the office system, so she had no idea what her email address was.

“That’s what I thought.” Cole’s mouth quirked. “When you get your act together, let Serena know where to send it.”

“I’ll be speaking with the board of supervisors about your role as coroner.”

“I’m not the coroner.” His voice remained level, but something flickered in his eyes. “I’m the assistant coroner.”

“Then who’s the coroner?”

“Sheriff Trahan was.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “The job comes with the sheriff’s badge. So if you claim to be the sheriff now”—his gaze swept over her casual attire—"then I guess you’re the coroner."

Izzy clenched her fists. Her blood was pumping hard, and she knew that was when poor decisions were made. But this guy infuriated her. This town infuriated her. Whether by design or accident, everyone seemed to be withholding information from her. How could she run a law enforcement department when no one told her anything?

Dr. Barrow crossed his arms like he was having the time of his life, reveling in her discomfort. She needed to not be in this man’s presence.

“I’ll be in touch,” she said, pivoting and striding out of the office.

She heard him call down the hallway, “Can’t wait.”

Cole drummed his fingers on the manila folder, staring at Mrs. Halliday’s blood pressure readings without really seeing them, his mind drifting back to the confrontation with Sheriff Llewellyn.

She had a nerve, accusing him of negligence. She’d planted her hands on her hips with that mixture of authority and barely contained rage, not even in uniform but questioning his professionalism.

He shook his head, trying to focus on the chart. Three visits in two months for hypertension. He should be concerned about that, not replaying how the sheriff’s voice had carried that edge of steel when she’d demanded to know why he hadn’t ordered an autopsy.

The memory of her standing there, bristling with righteous indignation, sent an unexpected surge of heat through him. Even angry—especially angry—she’d been all raw energy and determination wrapped in a package that made his mouth go dry.

Cole pushed back from his desk with a frustrated sigh. This was ridiculous. She’d accused him of professional misconduct, and here he was getting worked up over her Wonder Woman pose.

The encounter at the gas station hadn’t been any better. She’d been just as prickly, dismissing his attempts to help with that infuriating mix of independence and disdain. He didn’t know what her story was, but there was no way she was going to fit into this little town.

Mrs. Halliday’s file slipped from his fingers, scattering papers across his desk. Cole stared at the mess, knowing he wouldn’t get any real work done until he got Sheriff Llewellyn out of his head.

A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. Serena poked her head in. “Dr. Barrow? Is there something wrong with your intercom? Your one o’clock is here.”

“No, sorry, Serena. I was miles away.” Cole gathered the scattered papers, shoving them into Mrs. Halliday’s folder.

“Exam one,” said Serena with a raised eyebrow.

Cole wove through the corridors to the examination room as Martha Cannon shuffled through the door, her arthritis clearly bothering her today. He pushed thoughts of the sheriff aside and focused on his elderly patient’s grimace. “Good morning, Mrs. Cannon. How are those knees treating you?”

“Like they’re full of broken glass.” She eased onto the exam table, the paper crinkling beneath her. “But what’s really bothering me is this cough.”

Cole went through the motions of the examination—listening to her lungs, checking her throat. But even as he pressed the stethoscope to Mrs. Cannon’s back, his mind kept drifting to the sheriff.

“Deep breath for me,” he instructed, moving the stethoscope.

The sheriff’s intensity reminded him of some of the Special Forces medics he’d worked with overseas—that same laser focus that tended to set people on edge but got excused because they got the job done. But where they’d been disciplined and methodical, she seemed to run on pure passion and instinct.

“And again.” He shifted the stethoscope once more.

How did someone like that function as a leader? The FBI must have required structure, procedure. Yet everything about her screamed the exact opposite. The way she’d stormed into his office without an appointment, the casual clothes instead of a uniform, even her confrontational style—none of it fit his image of a sheriff.

Mrs. Cannon’s rattling cough dragged him back to the present. She definitely had bronchitis developing.

After Mrs. Cannon left, Cole sat at his desk, updating her chart. His pen tapped against the paper, and he found himself clenching his teeth as his mind drifting back to the way the arrogant sheriff had⁠—

“Someone’s distracted today.” Serena leaned against his doorframe, arms crossed.

Cole’s pen slipped, leaving an ink blot on Mrs. Cannon’s chart. “Just trying to decide if we should adjust her medication.”

“Really?” Serena’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “Because you’ve been spacing out all day. Ever since a certain new sheriff stormed through here.”

“I haven’t been spacing out.” Cole reached for a fresh pen. “And I really don’t care about some new sheriff who looks like she’ll struggle to last a month.”

“Oh, no?” Serena’s eyebrows rose. “So that wasn’t her voice I heard echoing down the hall say she’d be in touch? Or you saying you couldn’t wait?”

“Sarcasm. I’ll be happy if I never lay eyes on that woman again.”

“Uh huh.” Serena’s smile widened. “Because the fact that she’s gorgeous has nothing to do with why you keep staring into space?”

“Don’t you have patients to check in?” Cole fixed her with what he hoped was a stern look.

“Fine, fine.” Serena pushed off the doorframe. “But for what it’s worth? I think she got under your skin. And maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

Cole shook his head as Serena disappeared down the hall. He leaned back in his chair, considering how wrong she was. He’d seen the sheriff twice now, and every piece of evidence suggested she was a walking disaster.

She clashed with everything he valued about Darkness. The quiet routine, the comfortable predictability. She reminded him of the adrenaline rush of his combat medic days, when every decision carried weight and nothing could be taken for granted. He had left that life behind for a reason.

A crackle on the intercom interrupted his thoughts. “Dr. Barrow? Ted Martinez is in exam two.”

Cole straightened his white coat and cleared his throat. “Be right there.”

Ted was sitting in the exam room when Cole knocked and entered. “Morning, Doc.”

“Good morning, Ted. How’s that wrist doing?”

As Ted flexed his hand and described his ongoing symptoms, Cole found his professional mask slipping into place.

That was one of the good things about a busy rural practice. There wasn’t a lot of downtime when his mind could wander. He had to focus. He could focus. And not on Sheriff Llewellyn and her Wonder Woman power pose.

Chapter

Ten

Izzy hung her new uniform pieces in the spare bedroom closet. The department-issue polos and winter jacket would do for now. Her fingers traced over the embroidered badge on the jacket’s chest—Mirage County Sheriff. The weight of those words settled heavy in her stomach.

She placed her empty duty belt on the hook behind the door. Adrianne had taken the button-up shirts and pants home for alterations, promising to have them ready soon. Until then, her own khaki pants would suffice.

The lockbox was next. Izzy entered the combination and lifted the lid, revealing her Glock 19. The weight of it in her hands brought both comfort and unease. She checked the magazine and action, muscle memory taking over. Satisfied, she returned it to the lockbox.

Her backup piece, the more compact Glock 26, went through the same inspection. Though she preferred not to carry it, protocol demanded a backup weapon. She considered leaving a lockbox with the 26 in her office once she got settled.

The metal boxes clicked shut with finality. Tomorrow she’d wear the badge for real. Tonight, she just needed to breathe.

Dinner prep relaxed her. Izzy stirred the pot of oxtail soup, inhaling the rich aroma that filled her grandfather’s kitchen. The recipe had been her grandmother’s, passed down through generations of Basque shepherds. Joe sat at the worn kitchen table, his weathered hands wrapped around a mug of coffee despite the hour.

“Smells like your amoma’s,” he said.

Izzy ladled the soup into bowls, placing one in front of Joe. Steam rose between them as they ate in comfortable silence. The flavors transported her back to simpler times.

After dinner, Joe settled into his worn leather recliner, remote in hand. Within minutes, his chin dropped to his chest, soft snores mixing with the TV news anchor’s voice.

Izzy’s mind drifted to her first day as sheriff. So many faces watching, waiting for her to stumble. The deputies who clearly resented her presence. That smug doctor with his perfect smile and knowing eyes⁠—

She shook her head. “Stop it,” she muttered. She scribbled a quick note for Joe and grabbed her jacket. The night air would clear her head.

The streets of Darkness were quiet, streetlights casting pools of yellow light on empty sidewalks. Her feet carried her down familiar paths until she found herself outside Coyote Flats Café. Through the windows, she could see the same worn booths, the same counter with its row of chrome-edged stools. And behind the counter, a face that made her heart catch.

Tamara. Her best friend since third grade, until that sudden move to Virginia had torn them apart. Twenty years of silence stretched between them now. Izzy had thought of Tam often through the years. She hoped, maybe, that Tam was the same. What she needed was a friendly face.

The bell above the door jangled as Izzy stepped inside. Tamara looked up from wiping the counter, her eyes widening in recognition.

“You bitch!” Tamara’s voice rang through the cafe as she charged around the counter. Izzy resisted the urge to put her hand to her hips for the sidearm that wasn’t there. “You’ve been here twenty-four hours and you’re only coming to see me now?”

Before Izzy could respond, Tamara crashed into her with a fierce hug that drove the breath from her lungs. The scent of coffee and vanilla wrapped around her as tightly as Tamara’s arms.

“I missed you too,” Izzy managed, returning the embrace.

“Sit.” Tamara dragged her to a booth. “Coffee? Of course, coffee. And pie. You need pie.”

The cafe hadn’t changed. The same local photos lined the walls, the same neon beer signs glowed in the windows. An elderly couple occupied a corner booth like they owned it, sharing a slice of apple pie. Two truckers nursed coffees at the counter while a teenager in a letterman jacket picked at a plate of fries.

“Still serving your dad’s chilaquiles?” Izzy asked as Tamara slid into the booth across from her.

“Every morning. And Mom’s pies are even better than you remember.” Tamara’s smile softened. “God, Iz. I can’t believe you’re really here.”

The old nickname unlocked something in Izzy. For the first time since arriving in Darkness, she felt like she could breathe. Here was someone who knew her when she was just Izzy, before she was Special Agent Llewellyn, before she was Mark’s widow.

“I heard about your husband,” Tamara said quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

Izzy wrapped her hands around her coffee mug. “Yeah.”

“And now you’re our new sheriff.” Tamara’s eyes sparkled. “Following in your dad’s footsteps, after all.”

“Some pretty big boots to fill.”

“You’ll do fine.” Tamara reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “And this time, you’re not allowed to disappear on me.”

The warmth of that touch, the easy acceptance in Tamara’s voice, felt like coming home in a way nothing else had since she’d returned to Darkness.

Tam slipped out of the booth to collect the pie, still warm, with two forks. The scent of cinnamon and apples transported Izzy back in time. Tamara hadn’t lost that infectious grin that made her eyes crinkle at the corners. If anything, the years had been kind to her—she’d grown into her features, carrying herself with an easy grace that made Izzy’s mind fill with memories of their shared youth.

“So, what have you been up to all these years?” Izzy asked, taking a bite of pie that tasted exactly like she remembered.

“Teaching third grade.” Tamara’s face lit up. “Eight years now at Darkness Elementary. It’s crazy—sometimes I look at my students and see us at that age.”

“You always said you would.” Izzy smiled, remembering how Tamara used to line up her stuffed animals for lessons.

“The kids keep me young. Well, that and hiking. There’s this great trail group that meets on weekends.” Tamara twisted her coffee cup. “Was seeing someone for a while. Jake. He worked over at the lumber yard in Harris.”

“Was?”

“Turned out we wanted different things.” Tamara shrugged.

The pie soured in Izzy’s mouth. She forced herself to swallow. “Yeah, that can happen.”

“Izzy!” Maria Ramos’s voice cut through the heaviness of the moment. Izzy turned to see Tamara’s mother emerging from the kitchen, her face glowing with delight. “Stand up. Let me look at you!”

Izzy slid out of the booth, allowing Maria to grasp her shoulders and turn her in a circle.

“Ay, que hermosa! Look how beautiful you’ve become.” Maria’s warm hands cupped Izzy’s face. “Your mother must be so proud.”

The compliment landed wrong. Izzy didn’t feel beautiful. She felt hollow, scraped raw, like she was barely keeping her head above water. But Maria’s eyes were so full of genuine affection that Izzy summoned a weak smile.

“And now you’re our new Sheriff Lew.” Maria beamed.

“I’ll never be my father,” Izzy said, the words escaping before she could stop them.

Maria’s expression softened. “No, mija. You can be better.” She squeezed Izzy’s shoulders. “Your father was a good man, but you? You are smart, you are pretty, you are determined. You will do him proud. You will do all of us proud.”

A bell dinged from the pass-through window, drawing Izzy’s attention. Jaime Ramos slid plates onto the stainless steel shelf, his profile silhouetted against the kitchen lights. He glanced up, his eyes crinkling as he spotted her. With a flourish, he blew her a kiss.

Izzy returned the gesture, warmth spreading through her at this small reminder of countless afternoons spent in his kitchen.

“Should I get those?” Tamara half-rose from the booth.

“No, no.” Maria waved her daughter back down. “You stay. Catch up with Izzy.” She pressed another kiss to Izzy’s cheek before whisking the plates away to a table across the café.

“Do you still work here ?” Izzy asked, turning back to Tamara.

“Sometimes. I fill in when they need help.” Tamara stirred her coffee. “It can be hard to find people. But I like being here, you know? It’s home.”

The door chime cut through their conversation. Izzy glanced over her shoulder as Nate Bolton walked in, his perfectly styled hair catching the overhead lights. He strode to the counter without noticing them, where Maria had already prepared takeout bags.

Izzy watched him pay and thank Maria, her fingers drumming against her coffee mug. As he turned, his eyes caught on their booth. His path altered, bringing him to a stop beside their table.

“Sheriff.” His smile carried that same confidence she remembered from the grocery store. “Settling in?”

“Getting there.” Izzy reached for her wallet, pulling out several bills. “Here—for last night. I really appreciate you covering me.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He waved off the money.

“Please.” Izzy held out the cash. “I insist.”

Nate accepted the bills with a slight bow. “Well, thank you.”

“No, thank you. You got me out of a pickle.”

“Listen, I’m heading to the Horseshoe later for a drink, if you’re interested?” His invitation carried a casual air that somehow made it harder to decline.

“Thanks, but I’m still spinning from being here.” Izzy offered a polite smile. “Rain check?”

“Another time then.” Nate’s eyes lingered on her face for a moment before he gathered his takeout bags. “Sure.”

Izzy watched him leave, the door chime marking his exit.

When Izzy looked back at Tamara, her friend’s expression had shifted to something knowing and speculative. Her dark eyes sparkled with amusement.

“What?” Izzy asked.

“Nothing.” Tamara’s lips curved. “Something you want to share?”

“Oh, that.” Izzy took another bite of pie. “I forgot my wallet at the grocery store last night. He covered my bill.”

Tamara’s grin widened. “A knight in shining armor.”

“He said we went to high school together, but I don’t remember him.”

“That’s because he was a year below us.” Tamara carved her fork into her pie. “And trust me, back then, he wasn’t that memorable. Went off to college and came back looking like that. Amazing what a few years away can do.”

“Have you dated him?”

“Me? No.” Tamara shook her head. “He moved to Vegas for college. Last I heard, he got married.”

“Married?” The word stuck in Izzy’s throat. “He’s married?”

“Well, I heard he got married.” Tamara shrugged. “But then again, so did you. Maybe he’s not anymore. His parents still live here, so he visits a lot, but I never see his wife when he comes through town. Could be they’re not together.” Tamara leaned forward, lowering her voice. “I wouldn’t hold it against you if you went to the bar with him. He is cute.”

“He is,” Izzy admitted. “But I wasn’t lying about having a day.” She got another forkful of pie but stopped halfway to her mouth. “Did you know there isn’t a single female deputy in the sheriff’s office?”

“Yeah, I know.” Tamara’s expression darkened. “We all know.”

“Who’s we all?”

“Every woman who wants to make a complaint. Who gets backhanded by a boyfriend or husband. Or assaulted. Or raped.”

Izzy slapped her fork down. “That happens a lot?”

“The rape bit, no, thank goodness. But that doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened.” Tamara’s fingers tightened around her fork. “I know girls who’ve never come forward because they’re afraid the deputies are buddies with whoever hurt them.”

Heat flooded Izzy’s face. “That’s—that’s unacceptable.”

“See?” Tamara reached across the table, squeezing her hand. “We need you here, Iz.”

“Are there things I should be following up on?”

“Just focus on you for now. Settle in.” Tamara’s voice softened. “Once you’re bedded down, we can put the word out, see if anyone wants to come forward.”

“I can’t believe there’s nowhere half the population feels safe to go.” Izzy picked up her fork and stuffed in an angry bite.

“Some go to the hospital in Harris.” Tamara shrugged. “Or there’s Doc Barrow.”

Izzy nearly choked on her pie. “Dr. Barrow? What does he do?”

“He cares. He listens.” A small smile touched Tamara’s lips. “He’s a good one. I’m sure you’ll meet him, eventually.”

“Had the pleasure.” Izzy stabbed at her pie. “And I wouldn’t exactly call him good. Obnoxious, maybe.”

Tamara’s eyebrows shot up, amusement dancing in her eyes. “He’s the brooding, quiet type for sure. But he’s a good six foot of yum, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask you.”

Chapter

Eleven

Izzy closed the personnel file on her desk and rubbed the bridge of her nose. The stack of folders had dwindled through the morning, each representing another deputy she’d interviewed. Frank Denly’s file sat apart from the others, a physical reminder of their contentious meeting.

He’d swaggered into her office like he owned it, boots scuffing across her floor. His sneer spoke volumes before he even opened his mouth. When she’d asked about his career goals, he’d laughed.

“Career goals? I aim to be sitting in a boat with a fishing rod and cooler full of beers.”

The rest of the conversation had deteriorated from there, with thinly veiled sexist comments and outright challenges to her authority. By the time he’d left, Izzy’s jaw ached from clenching her teeth.

But as the day progressed, the meetings improved. Deputy Wilson had been professional if cold, clearly waiting to see if she’d sink or swim. Martinez showed genuine interest in her FBI background, asking thoughtful questions about investigative techniques.

Thompson and Rodriguez had actually smiled, welcoming her perspective on modernizing some of their procedures. They’d shared concerns about equipment maintenance and training gaps that she’d noted for follow-up.

Then there was Elliot Wahlberg, a year into the job. His enthusiasm for community policing aligned with her own goals. When she’d mentioned wanting to establish better relationships with local schools, his eyes had lit up.

“We need that,” he’d said. “These kids only see us when something’s wrong. How are they supposed to trust us?”

Izzy picked up Denly’s file again, studying his service record. Twenty-five years in the department, no major disciplinary actions, but no commendations either. Just skating by, doing the minimum. He’d be her biggest challenge—she could feel it in her gut.

She was rubbing her temples when Adrianne’s voice crackled through the intercom. “Dr. Barrow is here to see you.”

“Great.” The word dripped with sarcasm. She glanced around the office, still bare except for the files scattered across her desk. The last thing she wanted was the good doctor’s presence invading this space, marking it with his scent.

Where had that thought come from? She shook her head, annoyed at herself.

“I’ll be right down,” she told Adrianne.

Dr. Barrow stood by the reception desk, his height making the space feel smaller. He wasn’t in his doctor costume. She recalled the tan jacket and jeans from the gas station and had to sigh the thought away.

His eyes tracked her descent down the stairs and across the lobby, that insufferable grin notably absent. His upright posture made her shoulders tense for a fight.

“Dr. Barrow.” She kept her tone professional. “Did you bring the coroner’s report?”

“I never did get your email address.” His voice carried an edge. “But I didn’t want to overtax you on day one.”

Izzy caught Adrianne’s smile from the corner of her eye. The office administrator seemed far too entertained by their exchange.

“You could have brought a paper copy,” said Izzy.

“I did.” He nodded toward Adrianne, who waved a document with exaggerated cheerfulness.

“Is that all?”

“No.” Dr. Barrow shifted his weight. “That’s not why I’m here. I’m worried about something. It might be nothing, or it might not be your responsibility.”

“What is it?”

“I treated a kid with severe symptoms—nausea, stomach cramps, elevated liver enzymes. Could be cryptosporidiosis or giardia, maybe even heavy metal poisoning. Tests are inconclusive so far.”

The medical terms meant little to her, but the concern in his voice caught her attention. “You’re right. That’s not my jurisdiction. Sounds like something for the health department.”

“The symptoms could be other things, but it’s not the flu.” Dr. Barrow’s eyes locked onto hers. “I think they might be getting poisoned.”

The word poisoned got her full attention. “What do you want me to do?”

“I’m heading to see the kid now. I think you need to take a look.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Meet some people.”

“Fine. We’ll take my car.” Izzy lifted her chin, daring him to object.

His lips twitched. “You found a power outlet?”

“My work vehicle.”

Dr. Barrow grabbed his medical bag from his pickup and then followed her to the staff parking lot, his long stride matching hers easily. The department-issued Ford Explorer gleamed in the afternoon sun, its gold star emblazoned on the door. Izzy slid behind the wheel while the doctor folded his frame into the passenger seat.

His presence filled the cabin, his scent a mix of coffee and something woodsy she couldn’t place. He ran his finger along the pristine dashboard, checking for dust.

“Tim does good work,” he said.

“He clearly takes pride in the fleet.” Izzy pulled toward the highway. “Where are we headed?”

“South.” He settled back in his seat, his knee brushing the center console. “About twenty minutes out.”

The road stretched before them, a ribbon of asphalt cutting through the valley floor. The Sierra Nevadas rose sharp and imposing to the west, their peaks dusted with early season snow. To the east, the White Mountains formed a gentler barrier, their slopes dotted with Joshua trees and sage.

“You settling into town okay?” Dr. Barrow asked.

“I grew up here.” Izzy checked her mirrors, more from habit than necessity on the empty highway.

“Really?” He turned to study her profile. “I didn’t know that.”

“I thought everyone was talking about me.”

“I don’t much go in for gossip.”

She glanced at him, catching the sincerity in his expression. “When did you arrive?”

“Three years ago.” Dr. Barrow watched the landscape roll past. “I like it here. People are nice. Small town has its pluses and minuses, but it suits me.”

Izzy found herself wanting to ask about a wife or girlfriend, but decided it wasn’t appropriate. In fact, she didn’t really want to know. That was what it was.

“Tell me about this sick kid,” Izzy said, keeping her eyes on the road.

“Actually, it’s three so far.” Dr. Barrow shifted in his seat. “All kids between ten and twelve. Same symptoms—severe stomach pain, vomiting, elevated liver enzymes. First case was two weeks ago.”

“And you think it’s poison?”

“The blood work shows similar patterns. Not food poisoning. This is something else. Could be environmental exposure.”

“What kind of exposure?”

“That’s where it gets interesting.” Dr. Barrow turned toward her. “All three families live on farming operations. Different farms, but similar crop patterns—mostly alfalfa and hay.”

“You think they’re using illegal pesticides?”

“Could be. The symptoms match organophosphate poisoning. But the EPA-approved pesticides shouldn’t cause this level of reaction, not with proper application and safety protocols.”

“Unless they’re using something they shouldn’t be,” Izzy said.

“Exactly. Black market pesticides are cheaper, more concentrated. But they’re banned for a reason.”

“Have you reported this to anyone else?”

“Called the state agricultural board yesterday. They said they’d look into it, but . . .” Dr. Barrow shook his head. “These kids are getting sicker. I can’t wait for bureaucrats to shuffle papers.”

The urgency in his voice matched the knot forming in Izzy’s stomach. If farmers were using illegal chemicals, that wasn’t just an EPA violation—it was criminal endangerment.

“How close are these farms to water sources?” she asked.

“That’s the other problem,” Dr. Barrow said. “Two of them border the river, and all three are close to the Los Angeles aqueduct. If these chemicals are leaching into the groundwater . . .”

The Explorer’s brakes whined as they pulled up to the modest farmhouse. Dormant alfalfa fields stretched toward the horizon, the remains of the last cutting wilting in the late autumn sunlight. A wooden sign read “Markram Family Farm” in faded red paint.

Two horses lifted their heads from grazing to watch them park. The larger one, a dappled grey, nickered softly before returning to its meal. The sound triggered a memory of Izzy’s own childhood visits to farms like this one, back when her father worked these same roads.

Dr. Barrow grabbed his medical bag from the back seat. “Sally Markram, the mom, called this morning. Robbie’s getting worse.”

The screen door creaked open, and a woman in her thirties hurried down the porch steps. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her brown hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail. She wrung her hands in the fabric of her worn flannel shirt.

“Dr. Barrow, thank God.” Her gaze shifted to Izzy, uncertainty crossing her features.

“Mrs. Markram, this is Sheriff Llewellyn,” Dr. Barrow said. “She’s helping me look into these cases.”

Sally’s eyes widened. “Cases? There are others?”

“Let’s check on Robbie first,” Dr. Barrow redirected smoothly. “How’s he doing?”

They followed Sally inside. The house smelled of chicken soup and Pine-Sol. Family photos lined the hallway—Sally and a man Izzy assumed was her husband, both beaming at their wedding. A young boy on a horse proudly displaying a blue ribbon.

Robbie lay on the living room sofa, wrapped in a quilt. His face was pale and drawn, dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. A half-empty glass of water sat on the coffee table beside a box of crackers.

“Hey, buddy.” Dr. Barrow’s voice softened as he set his bag down. “Not feeling any better?”

Robbie shook his head weakly. “My stomach really hurts.”

Dr. Barrow perched on the edge of the coffee table, his movements gentle and unhurried. “Can you show me where?”

The boy pointed to his upper abdomen.

Dr. Barrow pulled on latex gloves and carefully pressed different spots, watching the boy’s reactions. “Still throwing up?”

“Not since this morning,” Sally answered. “But he won’t eat anything.”

Dr. Barrow pulled out a thermometer and various instruments from his bag. His examination was thorough but tender, explaining each step to Robbie in simple terms. When the boy winced during the abdominal exam, Dr. Barrow distracted him with questions about the horses Izzy had seen outside.

“Which one’s yours?” Dr. Barrow asked, listening through his stethoscope.

“The grey one. His name’s Thunder.”

“Good name. Take a deep breath for me?”

Robbie complied, then asked, “Can I ride him today?”

“Not just yet, champion.” Dr. Barrow’s voice carried a warmth Izzy hadn’t heard before. “Let’s get you feeling better first.”

He drew blood, keeping Robbie engaged in conversation about Thunder. The boy barely noticed the needle.

“Mrs. Markram, could we talk outside for a moment?” Dr. Barrow packed away his supplies. “Robbie, the sheriff here used to ride horses when she was your age. Maybe she could tell you about it while I talk to your mom?”

Izzy shot him a look but moved closer to Robbie’s sofa. How did he know she rode horses? “I had a paint horse named Cookie. She was stubborn as they come.”

Sally followed Dr. Barrow to the kitchen. Through the doorway, Izzy caught fragments of their conversation—mentions of liver function, possible contamination sources, the need for further tests. His tone remained steady and professional, but concern threaded through his words.

“Did Cookie ever win any ribbons?” Robbie’s quiet voice drew her attention back.

“Third place at the county fair.” Izzy smiled at the memory. “She refused to canter during our pattern. Just trotted around like she owned the place.”

Robbie’s weak laugh turned into a grimace. He curled onto his side, arms wrapped around his middle.

Dr. Barrow appeared beside them, resting a hand on Robbie’s shoulder. “Hang in there, bud. We’re going to figure this out.”

The tenderness in his expression caught Izzy off guard. This wasn’t the smug doctor from their previous encounters. This was someone else entirely—someone who genuinely cared about his patient’s pain.

Izzy watched Dr. Barrow check Robbie’s temperature one last time while Sally hovered nearby, twisting her hands in her shirt.

“Would anyone like coffee?” Sally asked. “I just made a fresh pot. And there’s chocolate cake.”

“That sounds wonderful.” Dr. Barrow glanced at Izzy.

“I need to call in to base first.” Izzy stood from where she’d been perched on the arm of a worn recliner. “Just need to check in. Won’t take a minute.”

“Oh, the reception out here isn’t great.” Sally gestured vaguely. “You might need to walk around a bit to find a good spot.”

“Thanks for the heads up.”

The screen door creaked as Izzy stepped onto the porch. Instead of pulling out her phone, she surveyed the property. A large equipment barn dominated the eastern edge, its metal sides reflecting the afternoon sun. Two smaller outbuildings flanked it—one appeared to be a workshop, the other a storage shed with a heavy padlock securing its door.

Izzy circled the workshop first. Through its windows, she spotted standard farm equipment: a workbench covered in tools, spare parts for machinery, coils of rope and wire. Nothing unusual.

The equipment barn’s sliding door stood partially open. Inside, the air smelled of diesel and hay. A tractor sat beside stacks of irrigation pipes. Hanging from a nail high on one of the support beams, a ring of keys caught her eye.

Izzy glanced toward the house before grabbing a nearby stepladder. She positioned it under the keys and climbed up, stretching to reach them. The metal was cold in her palm as she studied each key, memorizing their arrangement on the ring.

At the locked shed, she tried three keys before finding the right one. The padlock opened with a solid click. Inside, shelves lined the walls, stocked with various agricultural chemicals. She recognized common herbicides and pesticides, all bearing well-known brand names and EPA registration numbers. Nothing jumped out as illegal or suspicious.

After replacing the padlock, Izzy returned the keys to their high perch in the equipment barn. She brushed the dust from her hands and headed back toward the house.

As she approached, Izzy spotted Dr. Barrow and Sally emerging through the screen door. She quickened her pace to meet them on the porch.

“Any luck with reception?” Sally asked.

“Got through eventually.” The lie came easy. “Sorry I missed the cake.”

“I’ll wrap you a piece to take home.” Izzy didn’t need cake, but Sally’s smile reminded her of countless visits with her father—coffee and cake offered at every stop, the hospitality of farm families.

The rumble of an engine drew their attention. A mud-splattered utility task vehicle rounded the corner of the barn, its rider equally coated in dirt and grime. He cut the engine and dismounted, revealing worn work boots and stained overalls. His tanned face bore deep lines from years under the harsh valley sun.

“Jeb.” Sally gestured toward Izzy. “This is Sheriff Llewellyn. And you know Dr. Barrow.”

Jeb pulled off his work gloves and extended a calloused hand. “Sheriff.” His grip was firm, but not challenging. “How’s our boy?” he asked Dr. Barrow.

“His fever’s down slightly, but the abdominal pain is worse. I’m running more blood work.” Dr. Barrow’s tone remained measured. “We need to monitor him closely.”

Jeb nodded, his jaw tight. “Doc, since you’re here—got time to look at something out on the farm?”

“What is it?”

“My sheep.” Jeb shifted his weight. “Never seen anything like it in my life.”

“That’s not really my area.” Dr. Barrow’s shoulders tensed. “You should call Clint.”

“I will, but you’re here now.” Jeb’s expression darkened. “Won’t take long.”

Izzy watched Dr. Barrow hesitate, clearly torn between doing the right thing and staying inside his comfort zone. She stepped forward. “Sure, Mr. Markram. Let’s go take a look at your sheep.”

Izzy climbed into the UTV beside Jeb, gripping the metal frame as Dr. Barrow settled on the flatbed with a bale of hay. The engine roared to life, and they set off across the fields, leaving the house behind. The alfalfa stretched out in neat rows, the silver-green leaves turning brown at the edges as winter approached.

The irrigation pipes gleamed in the afternoon sun, water trickling onto the thirsty soil. They passed the last of the cultivated fields, heading into the scrubland where scattered sagebrush dotted the landscape. A wire fence appeared ahead, marking the sheep paddock.

Jeb cut the engine. The silence felt heavy after the UTV’s rumble. They walked toward the fence line, boots crunching on the dry earth. A small flock of sheep grazed in the distance, their wool dingy from the dusty soil.

But one sheep stood apart from the others. Izzy spotted it immediately—a young one, probably less than a year old. Its head connected with the fence post with a sickening thud. Blood matted the wool around its face, dripping onto the rusted pole. The sheep staggered back, shook its head, then charged forward again. The impact echoed across the paddock.

Izzy’s stomach clenched as the animal staggered in a tight circle, its movements jerky and unnatural. When it completed the circuit, it launched itself at the post again, connecting with another solid thud.

“Been doing this for hours,” Jeb said quietly. “Takes a rest and then goes at it again.”

Dr. Barrow pulled out his phone and started recording. His usual confidence had vanished, replaced by a deep frown. “How long has this behavior been going on?”

“Noticed it yesterday afternoon.” Jeb crossed his arms. “That look normal to you, Doc?”

“No.” Dr. Barrow lowered his phone. “I’ll send this to Clint. He needs to see it right away.”

They watched the sheep complete another circle before Jeb turned back toward the UTV. The ride to the house was silent, the weight of what they’d witnessed hanging over them.

Sally met them on the porch with a covered plate. “Here’s that cake, Sheriff. My grandmother’s recipe.”

“Thank you.” Izzy accepted the plate, already knowing the deputies would devour it. The gesture would require another visit to return the plate—though as her gaze swept over the fields and buildings, she suspected she’d be back, regardless.

Jeb waved them goodbye and roared away on his four-wheeler, and Sally walked them back to the Explorer, hugging herself against a nonexistent chill. “Thank you both for coming. Dr. Barrow, when will the test results come in?”

“I’ll call as soon as I know anything.” Dr. Barrow squeezed her arm. “Keep pushing fluids. Try the anti-nausea medication if he needs it. Call me if anything changes.”

They drove in silence until the farm disappeared behind them. Dr. Barrow stared at his notepad, jaw tight with tension.

“Same symptoms as the others?” Izzy asked.

“Worse.” He ran a hand through his hair.

The worry in his voice matched the knot forming in Izzy’s stomach. She thought of Robbie’s pale face, of Sally’s frightened eyes. Whatever was happening here, they needed to stop it fast.

Cole watched the sheriff navigate the dirt road back toward the highway, her hands light on the wheel. Long fingers, elegant and strong—pianist’s fingers.

He forced his mind back to the medical puzzle at hand. “Find anything concerning at the farm?”

“You mean did I snoop?” Her lips quirked. “Nothing alarming. Some pesticides and chemicals, but normal quantities, all properly stored and locked up. Whatever’s making Robbie sick, I don’t think it’s coming from there.”

“The sheep bothers me more.” Cole rubbed his jaw, remembering the disturbing sight of the animal repeatedly ramming its head against the fence post.

“But it’s not your area.”

“No.”

“You have a theory, though.” Her eyes flicked to him briefly before returning to the road.

“Neurological, most likely. But how and why?” He frowned, running through possibilities again. “Nothing adds up.”

“You have a nice bedside manner.”

Cole raised an eyebrow, watching the color rise in her cheeks. This flustered version of the sheriff was different from the bristling woman who’d confronted him in his office or snapped at him at the gas station.

“With the kids, I mean,” she clarified. “They respond well to you.”

“Simple, really. I don’t treat them like morons.” Cole shifted in his seat. “Kids have brains, fears, opinions. What they lack is agency. They don’t get much say in what happens to them. You don’t treat them like adults because they’re not, but including them in the process helps. I explain what’s happening in terms they understand. If something’s going to hurt, I don’t lie. I’m honest about it, and I tell them what I think will help get them through. They get that. I would have appreciated the same when I was their age.”

Izzy nodded, a gentle smile playing at her lips. The expression softened her whole face, transforming her from intimidating law officer to something far more approachable. “So you say there’re more kids like Robbie?”

Cole nodded. “At least two I know of. I need to check on one of them after my afternoon appointments.”

“I should come along,” she said, not taking her eyes off the road.

Cole felt his shoulders sag. “I have other things to do after.”

“I won’t get in the way.”

Cole glanced at her. She already was.

“If you must.”

Chapter

Twelve

Izzy sat at her desk, staring at the coroner’s report on Sheriff Trahan’s death. She’d read it three times now, searching for something to justify her earlier hostility toward Dr. Barrow. But the document was thorough, professional, exactly what it should be. He’d documented the injuries consistent with the crash, noted the absence of any underlying medical conditions, and run the standard toxicology panel. No alcohol, no drugs, just traces of caffeine in the blood. No abnormal CBC or levels of troponin or D-dimer which might have indicated a heart attack or stroke.

She readjusted her ponytail as she read. Clear, precise observations without speculation or overreach. He hadn’t played detective or made assumptions beyond his medical expertise. The man had simply done his job.

Then she recalled her accusatory tone in his office. She’d been raw from the all-hands meeting, defensive about her position, and she’d taken it out on him. That wasn’t fair. It wasn’t professional.

But something still nagged at her. Maybe it was memories of her father’s death clouding her judgment, making her see shadows where none existed. Or maybe it was the fact that she’d spent the last five years learning the hard way that obvious answers weren’t always correct ones.

The image of Mark’s eyes closing that final time flashed through her mind. She slammed the report shut.

“Why did he leave the road?” she muttered, but the words rang hollow in her empty office.

Izzy grabbed her coat from the rack. She needed to settle this, one way or another. A few questions answered, a few loose ends tied up. Then she could close this chapter and focus on the office’s future.

She wasn’t chasing ghosts. She was being thorough. There was a difference. At least, that was what she told herself as she headed for the door.

Izzy headed down the stairs. Deputy Wahlberg sat in the otherwise empty lobby, fork hovering over a piece of chocolate cake.

He froze mid-bite when he spotted her. “Sheriff, I was just⁠—”

“Mrs. Markram’s grandmother’s recipe,” Izzy said. “What are you working on?”

“Um, nothing.” He glanced around the room like he wanted to make a quick getaway. “Quick snack before I do paperwork.”

“Want to ride along? I need to check something out.”

She didn’t expect him to say no. Junior deputies didn’t do that. But she also didn’t expect his face to light up like a kid on Christmas morning. “Really? I mean, yes, ma’am. Absolutely.”

They walked to her Explorer, Wahlberg practically bouncing with each step. Once inside, he settled into the passenger seat, straightening his uniform. “Ma’am, I⁠—”

“Just Sheriff is fine, Deputy.”

“Yes, ma’am, I mean, Sheriff.” He stumbled over the word, his cheeks flushing.

“You know, when I was with the Bureau, I once had a supervisor with this impossible Icelandic name.” Izzy pulled out of the parking lot. “No one could pronounce it. We just called him boss, and everyone was happy.”

“Boss.” Wahlberg nodded, relief washing over his face. “I can do that.”

Izzy eased through town, eyes of the townspeople they passed either following the movement of her marked vehicle or focusing on the ground. She pulled up to a modest ranch-style house with well-maintained flowerbeds and fresh paint. A moving truck sat in the driveway, its rear door open to reveal stacks of boxes. Two men carried a dining room table down the concrete path.

“Did you know Sheriff Trahan?” Izzy asked Wahlberg as they walked up to the front door.

“Not really. He was tough on the newer deputies.” Wahlberg’s usual enthusiasm dimmed. “Kept his distance.”

A woman in her late forties opened the door before they could knock. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a clip, and she wore jeans and a faded USC sweatshirt.

“Mrs. Trahan?” Izzy clasped her hands together. “I’m Sheriff Llewellyn. This is Deputy Wahlberg.”

“Ah. The replacement.” Mrs. Trahan didn’t smile. “Come in, if you can find a place to stand. Everything’s chaos right now.”

The living room was a maze of cardboard boxes labeled in black marker. Empty picture hooks dotted the walls, and rectangular patches of unfaded paint marked where frames had hung. The air smelled of packing tape and dust.

“Can I get you coffee? Tea?” Mrs. Trahan gestured vaguely toward what must have been the kitchen, though Izzy couldn’t see it through the stacks of boxes.

“No, thank you. We won’t take much of your time.”

“Good, because time’s all I’ve got left to pack.” Mrs. Trahan perched on an arm of the sofa, the only furniture remaining in the room. “I’m going back to Riverside. Nothing for me in this damned town anymore.”

The bitterness in her voice struck a chord. Izzy remembered her mother packing up their house after her father died, the way she’d thrown things into boxes like they burned her fingers to touch.

“Mrs. Trahan, was your husband worried about anything before the accident? Any concerns at work?”

“He was worried, all right.” She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. “Someone in the department was up to something. He never said who or what exactly, but it kept him up at night. He’d pace around, muttering about cleaning house.”

“Did he mention any names?”

“No. Said the less I knew, the better.” Mrs. Trahan’s laugh held no humor. “Fat lot of good that did either of us.”

Izzy shifted her weight, aware of Wahlberg listening intently beside her. “The accident report says he drove off a straight section of road he’d driven a hundred times.”

“That’s what they tell me.” Mrs. Trahan’s eyes hardened. “Funny how that works, isn’t it?”

“I’d like to examine the vehicle⁠—”

“Can’t help you there. Insurance company wrote it off. No idea where it ended up.”

“Who handled the claim?”

“Ryan Kessic. Has an office right here in town.” Mrs. Trahan stood, clearly done with the conversation. “If there’s nothing else?”

Izzy moved toward the door, Wahlberg following close behind. “Thank you for your time. Again, I’m sorry for your loss. Good luck with the move.”

Mrs. Trahan’s hand caught Izzy’s arm as she passed. “You’ll need it more than me, Sheriff. This town . . .” She shook her head. “Just watch your back.”

The Explorer’s engine hummed as Izzy pulled back onto the main road. She glanced at Wahlberg, who sat quietly processing Mrs. Trahan’s words.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“About Mrs. Trahan?” Wahlberg straightened in his seat. “She seemed angry.”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“Yes, but—” He paused, appearing to choose his words carefully. “It felt like more than grief.”

Izzy nodded, impressed by his observation. The strip mall appeared ahead, a long stretch of red brick facing the highway. The insurance office sat between a nail salon and a tax preparation service, its window decorated with faded posters advertising various coverage options.

A bell chimed as they entered. The office smelled of artificial pine air freshener. A small man with pale skin looked up from behind a desk cluttered with papers and family photos.

“Can I help you?” His voice was higher than Izzy expected. “Ah, Elliot.”

Deputy Wahlberg shook hands with the insurance man. “Ryan, this is Sheriff Llewellyn.”

“Of course, Sheriff.” Kessic’s thin lips curved into what might have been a smile. “Welcome to Darkness. Well, welcome back, I guess. What brings you to my humble establishment?”

“The Trahan accident. I understand you handled the insurance claim.”

“Ah, yes.” He shuffled through some papers on his desk. “Tragic business, that.”

“The vehicle was written off?”

Kessic nodded. “That’s correct.”

“So, the truck was beyond repair?”

“Beyond repair is a nebulous concept, Sheriff. Sometimes a vehicle isn’t completely destroyed, but we write it off when repair costs exceed its value.”

Izzy hooked her fingers into her belt. “How bad was the damage?”

“Most panels were dented, windows blown out.” Kessic ticked off the points on his fingers. “The frame looked compromised. It wasn’t a new truck, Sheriff. Not worth the money or the bother.”

“Where did it end up?”

“Sent it to the wrecking yard in Harris.” Kessic’s eyes darted between Izzy and Wahlberg. “Standard procedure for total loss claims.”

Izzy accepted the business card from Kessic, her eyes scanning the glossy surface with its bold red letters.

“Feel free to call with any insurance needs.” Kessic smiled without showing his teeth. “Special pricing for military and law enforcement.”

Outside, the afternoon sun cast long shadows across the highway. Izzy tucked the card into her pocket.

“How do you know Kessic?” she asked Wahlberg as they walked to the Explorer.

“There are only two insurance people in town.” Wahlberg shrugged. “They split it about fifty-fifty. Ryan does the insurance for my home and cars.”

“People don’t just do it online?”

“Some do.” Wahlberg settled into the passenger seat. “But around here, people like to do business with someone they can meet. They don’t really trust you if they can’t see the whites of your eyes.”

The engine rumbled to life. Izzy drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, considering their next move.

“What now, boss?” asked Wahlberg.

“If this was your investigation, what would you do?”

Wahlberg’s forehead creased as he thought. “I’d want to see the truck. I’d go to the wrecking yard.”

A smile tugged at Izzy’s lips. Maybe there was hope for this kid after all. “Yes.”

“Are we doing that now?” Enthusiasm crept into his voice.

“No.” Izzy checked her watch. “Maybe tomorrow. Right now, I have somewhere else to be.”

Chapter

Thirteen

Izzy dropped Wahlberg at the station and drove through the quiet back streets. The late afternoon sun glinted off the windows of the clinic as she parked her Explorer. She took a deep breath as she pushed through the front door, the bell’s chime announcing her arrival.

Serena looked up from her computer, a warm smile spreading across her face. “Sheriff Lew.” She wore a knowing expression, and Izzy replayed her last visit and felt a wave of shame.

“Dr. Barrow still with patients?”

“Just finishing up his last appointment. Can I get you some coffee while you wait?”

“No, thanks.” Izzy settled into one of the waiting room chairs.

“How’s the new job treating you?” Serena’s fingers flew across her keyboard as she spoke.

“Like a rodeo bull on a bad day.”

Serena laughed, the sound bright in the quiet office. “You’ll get the hang of it. Mom says your father always policed this town with a firm hand and a kind heart.”

“You knew my father?”

“Not me. I was little when you left. But Mom says everyone knew the first Sheriff Lew.” Serena’s voice softened. “He gave my older brother a second chance when he could have thrown the book at him. Changed his life.”

The door to the exam room opened, and an elderly woman shuffled out, Dr. Barrow following behind. His white coat gave him a completely different look as he made notes on a chart. Izzy watched him gesture toward the door.

“See you next month, Mrs. G.” Dr. Barrow’s voice carried that gentle authority she’d noticed at the farm. He disappeared into his office, emerging moments later without the coat. His blue button-down shirt fit him well, the sleeves rolled to his elbows revealing strong tanned forearms.

“Give me five minutes to change?” He caught her staring, and that little half-smile appeared.

Izzy nodded, fighting the flushed feeling that was creeping in. He walked down the hallway, his confident stride making her too aware of her own disheveled state. Her uniform carried traces of farm dust and that distinct sheep smell that seemed to cling to everything it touched.

Cole returned wearing the same casual clothes from that morning, tan jacket and jeans. Everything about him appeared fresh and put-together, while she felt like she’d been dragged through a barn. Which, in a fashion, she had.

“Ready?” He gestured toward the door. “I’ll drive.”

“I have my patrol vehicle.”

“That won’t do.”

He marched to his truck, and Izzy rushed to follow. Izzy recalled the pickup from the Gas & Go and tensed at the memory of her snapping at him. Inside, it was far cleaner than most working trucks in the county. When he opened the passenger door, she caught the scent of leather and a mix of something distinctly masculine yet canine.

They drove a short distance on surface streets. Izzy’s brow furrowed as Dr. Barrow turned off the road onto a narrow track that led to the Darkness airfield. They drove across the tarmac, where a handful of light aircraft sat tied down in neat rows. Her confusion deepened as he drove past the planes toward a lone helicopter at the far end of the field.

The chopper perched on its skids like a dragonfly, its glass bubble cockpit reflecting the late afternoon sun. Small and sleek, it looked more like a toy than a serious mode of transportation.

“You’re not serious.” Izzy stepped out of the truck, her boots slapping the tarmac.

Dr. Burrows grabbed his medical bag from behind the seat. “Something wrong?”

“That thing looks like it came from a hobby shop.”

“Robinson R22. Perfect for house calls.” He strode toward the helicopter. “Coming?”

Izzy put her hands on her hips. “Where exactly is this patient?”

“Out of town.” Dr. Burrows set his bag down and began a methodical walk-around of the aircraft. “Faster to fly.”

“And you know how to do that?”

He paused his inspection to flash that infuriating half-smile. “I hope so.”

Izzy crossed her arms and watched as he checked every inch of the helicopter. His movements were methodical and confident as he examined the rotor blades, checked fluid levels, and tested various components. The casual doctor from the clinic had vanished, replaced by someone who clearly knew his way around aircraft.

He removed tie-downs from the skids and rotors, coiling the straps before stowing them inside. The whole process spoke of countless repetitions, like a dance he’d performed a thousand times.

Dr. Burrows disappeared into a nearby hangar and returned with a small cooler that he secured in a cargo space below one of the seats in the cockpit. Izzy assumed it contained medical supplies, which brought her thoughts to the patient they were going to see.

He stowed his medical bag under the second seat and then gestured like a chauffeur. “Your chariot awaits.” Izzy headed around to the right side, and Dr. Barrow stopped her. “You’re on the left.”

“You think I’m flying?”

He smiled. Again. It really was too much. “In this bird, the pilot’s on the right.”

Once they were strapped in, Dr. Burrows handed her a pair of noise-canceling headphones with a microphone. There was a large hand bar in between the seats that formed a T-bar.

“Quick safety briefing.” His voice came clear through the headset, all business now. “In case of engine failure, I’ll autorotate to the nearest safe landing zone. If we go down hard, wait for the blades to stop before exiting. Fire extinguisher’s behind your seat, first aid kit behind mine. Questions?”

Izzy had never paid such close attention to a safety briefing in her life. The casual tone of commercial flights felt worlds away from this intimate cockpit where every word carried weight. “How often do you need to autorotate?”

“In an emergency, never have.” He flipped switches on the console. “But I practice it twice a month. Ready?”

The engine whined to life, and the rotor blades began their slow rotation above them. The sound built gradually as Dr. Barrow continued his pre-flight checks, calling out readings that meant nothing to Izzy. She gripped the edge of her seat, her knuckles white against the leather.

He reached between their seats and grabbed a lever. The helicopter lurched upward, her stomach dropping as they left the ground. The sensation was entirely different from any airplane she’d flown in. More immediate, more visceral. They hovered for a moment, then Dr. Barrow pushed the control stick forward, and they began moving across the airfield.

The valley spread out below them like a painting. Darkness sat nestled between the mountains, smaller and more vulnerable from this aspect. The sun caught the river’s surface, turning it to liquid gold as it wound through the landscape. Fields stretched out in a patchwork of greens and browns, dotted with the white specks of grazing sheep.

“Want to know how she works?” Dr. Barrow asked.

“Yes, actually.” Izzy was surprised that he’d asked instead of launching into a lecture. Too many men in her life had assumed she wanted to hear everything they knew about everything.

“This lever between us is the collective.” He patted the control he’d used to lift them off. “Up increases power to the rotor, down decreases it. Simple as that.” He gestured to the T-bar in front of him. “This is the cyclic. Think of it like a joystick—it tilts the rotor disk to move us in any direction. This particular chopper has this unusual T-bar setup, which makes it popular for training. It means either of us can fly the craft easily.”

“No, thank you.” Izzy leaned forward, fascinated by the elegant simplicity of the controls. “And there are pedals?”

“They control the tail rotor, which counteracts the torque from the main rotor. Without them, we’d spin in circles.”

She nodded, watching his hands move across the controls. The mechanics made sense, each element working together in a precise dance.

“And the iPad?” Izzy pointed to the device mounted on the pilot’s side.

“Upgraded navigation system. Better than paper maps. But don’t worry, I know my way around this valley, with or without.”

“And where are we going?”

“There.” Dr. Barrow pointed toward a farmhouse that sat close to the river’s edge. The helicopter banked gently as they began their descent, the ground rising up to meet them.

The helicopter touched down in a field that was grassy from the seepage of the nearby river, the rotor wash creating waves in the grass. A battered pickup truck bounced across the uneven ground toward them, dust billowing behind it. As the blades slowed, Dr. Barrow helped Izzy remove her headset.

“The Rossettis,” he said, gathering his medical bag. “Good people.”

The truck stopped nearby, and a stocky man in his fifties climbed out. His tanned face and calloused hands spoke of years working the land.

“Doc.” The farmer nodded.

“Mr. Rossetti, this is Sheriff Llewellyn.” Dr. Barrow gestured to Izzy.

Rossetti gave her a grunt of acknowledgment before turning back to Dr. Barrow. “Girl’s inside with her mama.”

Rosetti drove them back to a weatherbeaten two-story farmhouse. Inside, Mrs. Rossetti hovered near a young girl curled up in a small bed. The child’s face was pale, her dark hair damp with sweat.

Dr. Barrow knelt beside the bed, his voice gentle as he spoke to the girl whose name was Mirella. He checked her temperature, listened to her breathing, and palpated her abdomen with the same careful attention he’d shown Robbie.

“Mr. Rossetti.” Izzy kept her voice low. “Do you use many chemicals on your farm?”

“Not much.” He shook his head. “Mostly run livestock these days. Keeps things simple.”

“Mind if I take a look at your storage?”

Rossetti led her to a barn that smelled of hay and animal feed. He unlocked a metal cabinet in the corner, revealing a few dusty containers of herbicide and some basic cleaning supplies.

“That’s all we got.” He closed the cabinet. “Haven’t needed much else since we switched to mostly sheep and goats.”

Back inside, Dr. Barrow held up a needle, showing it to the girl.

“Now, this one’s a little thicker because we need to capture some blood,” he explained. “But it will only sting for a second. The best thing to do is to let out a long breath, like you’re blowing out birthday candles. Want to practice with me?”

Mirella nodded, demonstrating a long exhale in sync with the doctor.

“Perfect.” Dr. Barrow smiled. “Try it one more time.”

They both blew out loudly, then the girl nodded.

“I’m ready,” Mirella said firmly.

“Are you sure?”

She pursed her lips but said, “Yep.”

Dr. Barrow held up the collection tube filled with blood. “Already done.”

Mirella’s eyes widened in surprise. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.” Dr. Barrow pressed a cotton ball to her arm. “You did great.”

He packed up his supplies and addressed the parents. “Keep her hydrated and resting. The sheriff and I are going to figure this out.”

Mrs. Rossetti wrung her hands. “Won’t you stay for supper? I’ve got sauce simmering.”

“Thank you, but we have another appointment.”

Izzy found herself frowning. It might have been the first time she had heard the doctor tell a lie.

Dr. Barrow picked up his bag. “I’ll call as soon as I have the test results.”

Back in the helicopter, Izzy waited until the rotors were spinning before speaking through the headset. “You have another patient to see?”

“No, why?”

“You told Mrs. Rosetti you had another appointment.”

“I did.” Dr. Barrow checked his gauges as the rotors shook the small helicopter. “Actually, you know what? Forget it. We’ll just go back.”

“If you have something you have to do, I don’t mind. I can wait in the chopper if you want.”

He glanced at her and rubbed his chin like he was making a life-or-death decision. “Fine.”

He lifted them up and banked the helicopter gently to the right without another word.

Cole banked the Robinson east, the late afternoon sun warming the cockpit. The mountains rose before them, ancient peaks carved by the earth over eons. He felt the thermals buffeting the small craft and adjusted his grip on the controls, keeping their ascent steady.

Beside him, Sheriff Llewellyn fell silent. Her earlier questions about the sick sheep and blood samples died away. This was something he preferred to do alone, or at least with someone other than her. But he appreciated that she seemed to know when to speak and when to let the pilot concentrate.

The peaks glowed golden in the fading light as Cole guided them toward the mountain plateau he’d discovered during one of his first solo flights in the area. The clearing wasn’t large, but it was enough. He brought the helicopter down with precision, the skids settling onto the rocky ground with a gentle touch.

The engine whine faded as he pulled off his headset. When he turned, the sheriff was staring at him, her brow furrowed in confusion.

“What are we doing on top of a mountain?”

“Preventative medicine.”

Her frown deepened. “Why?”

“Peace. You can come or you can stay. Your call.”

She held her hand over her eyes to peer through the cockpit, but the glare gave her nothing. “I don’t understand.”

“You might have grown up here,” Cole said, “but I bet you never saw this.”

He climbed out, and after a moment’s hesitation, she followed. The wind caught her ponytail as she stepped clear of the rotor disc, and then she stopped dead.

The valley sprawled before them in every direction, a patchwork of shadows and light. The Sierra Nevadas dominated the western horizon, their peaks catching the sun’s rays like divine fire. Every fold and crease in the landscape told a story of geological time, painted in alternating bands of brilliance and shade.

Cole watched her face as she took it all in. Her usual mask of careful control had slipped, replaced by pure wonder. Her eyes were wide, delicate lips parted in awe. For a moment, he caught a glimpse of the girl she must have been, before life taught her to guard herself so carefully.

He left her to her amazement and returned to the helicopter. Reaching beneath the pilot’s seat, he retrieved the cooler and blanket he’d stashed there earlier. The blanket he spread in half on the ground.

“Have a seat,” he said softly.

She sank down without argument, still captivated by the view. Cole flipped the remaining half of the blanket over her lap before settling onto the dirt beside her.

They sat in companionable silence as the sun continued its descent. Cole observed the shadow line creep down the mountains and onto the valley floor, swallowing his cabin’s location before marching steadily eastward. The sheriff remained still beside him, her presence finally peaceful and undemanding.

When the moment felt right, he reached into the cooler and pulled out two Cokes. He opened one and offered it to her. She studied him for a long moment, that analytical gaze he was coming to know, before accepting the soda. He opened his own, and they clinked bottles in a wordless toast before drinking.

The sheriff rolled her bottle between her fingers, condensation catching the dying light. “This is the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.” She shook her head slowly. “And like you said, I grew up here. I never knew it was so . . .”

Cole noticed the play of colors across her face, then glanced back at the valley. “Beautiful,” he finished quietly.

They sipped on their drinks for a while, then Cole reached into the cooler and pulled out two wrapped sandwiches. “Ham or turkey? You do eat meat?”

The sheriff looked from him to the sandwiches, then back again. “Ham,” Izzy said, accepting the package.

The wax paper crinkled as they unwrapped their meals. Cole had prepared them that morning—thick-cut bread from the bakery in town, loaded with fresh vegetables and a touch of mustard. Simple fare that somehow tasted better at altitude.

The sun painted the clouds in deep purples and oranges, nature’s own light show as they ate and sipped their sodas. The wind had died down, leaving them in peaceful silence, broken only by the occasional cry of a hawk riding the thermals below.

“Do you come here often?” Izzy asked, brushing crumbs from her lap.

“About once a month since I found it.” Cole took another pull from his beer. “Was doing a visit to one of the outlying ranches a couple of years back. Spotted this clearing, marked the coordinates.” He gestured at the sweeping vista. “It’s like a sanctuary up here. A cathedral.”

“Mmm.” Izzy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You bring all your girls here?”

Cole turned to face her, caught off guard by the question. “You’re one of my girls now?”

She didn’t blush or look away. Her gaze held steady, like this was more than casual conversation. Like his answer mattered.

“No,” he said quietly. “Never brought another person here.”

“Really? Black hairs on the seat in the cockpit don’t belong to you.”

Cole couldn’t help but smile. “That’s fur, Sheriff. Belongs to my dog.”

“Your dog?” Amusement crept into her voice. “You bring your dog up here?”

“Sure. He loves it.”

“In the helicopter?”

He nodded as he took a pull on his soda.

“But not today?”

“No,” Cole said. “You took his seat.”

“Sorry I deprived him of all this.” Izzy’s eyes swept across the panorama once more, drinking in the majesty of the landscape.

“He’ll be fine,” Cole said. “I’ll bribe him with some leftover sirloin tips.”

Cole watched Izzy take another bite of her sandwich. She chewed with a focus he had observed once before. He wondered what had been on her mind when he had seen her at the Gas & Go.

“How long has it been since you left Darkness?” he asked.

She swallowed, dabbing at her mouth with a knuckle. “Nearly twenty years.”

The length of time surprised him. He tried to picture her as a teenager, walking these mountain roads, but the image wouldn’t form. “Why come back now? Were you sheriff somewhere else?”

Izzy’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. “How do you not know? I’m the talk of the town.”

“I told you before—I don’t do gossip.” Cole shrugged.

She studied him for a long moment, like she was weighing the truth of his words. Finally, her shoulders relaxed slightly.

“I was FBI,” she said. Her fingers tightened around the soda bottle. “There was an incident. My husband was also an agent. He was killed.”

The weight of her words settled between them. Cole felt a heaviness at the pain in her voice.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“You’ll learn it soon enough.” Izzy’s laugh held no humor. “Small towns and all. Whether you listen to gossip or not, it’s hard to avoid.” She took another sip of her drink. “I needed a fresh start. Leave some baggage behind.”

Cole nodded, understanding flooding through him. He’d made similar choices. But he’d learned the hard way that baggage had a way of following you, no matter how far you ran.

Izzy finished her soda, the empty bottle clinking as she set it down.

Cole reached into the cooler. “Another? Or I’ve got beer if you prefer.”

“Beer sounds good.” She glanced at him. “Will you join me?”

“No can do.” Cole pulled out a bottle and handed it to her. “Flying and alcohol is a no-no, Sheriff.”

A soft smile touched her lips. “Call me Izzy.”

“Izzy,” he said. He liked the sound of it on his lips.

“Then I’ll take another soda. Thank you, Dr. Barrow.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “My friends call me Cole.”

Cole retrieved a soda from the cooler, condensation beading on the glass as he handed it to her and took back the beer. The question he’d been dreading materialized in her eyes before she spoke.

“What about you?”

He’d felt it coming since they’d settled onto the blanket. It had felt natural asking about her life, but now that the tables were turned . . .

“So you said you’d been here three years?” Izzy prompted. “What did you do before that?”

Cole took a deliberate bite of his sandwich, buying time. “I was in the army.”

“How long?”

“Twelve years, all up.”

Her eyebrows rose. “And then you became a doctor?” She studied his face. “Are you Dorian Gray? You look too good to be that old.”

Her eyes went wide at her own comment, and she quickly raised her bottle to her lips, taking a long drink.

“No,” Cole said, fighting back a smile. “I was a doctor in the army. Did my undergrad at the University of Chicago. My parents wanted—demanded—that I go to med school. I kind of rebelliously did, at USUHS.”

“USUHS?”

“Uniformed Services University of Health Sciences. The military’s version of med school. Free board and tuition in return for seven years of service.” He shrugged. “I stayed eight, as it turns out.”

“Military doctor feels like an oxymoron.” Izzy winced. “Sorry, that was⁠—”

“You’re not all wrong,” Cole said. “But I felt like I did a lot of good. Patching up injured servicemen and women in battle or training accidents was worthwhile, but I really found my calling in Afghanistan. A lot of that was a PR exercise, trying to win over the locals, so we did outreach clinics and so on. I got to treat people who often had never seen a doctor. Men, women, kids. It was worthwhile work, I think.”

“That does sound worthwhile.” Izzy’s voice softened. “Did you have to carry a gun? Are doctors allowed?”

“We are, for the defense of our patients only. And sometimes I did. I was trained and expert at the range, but I didn’t carry in non-combat situations. But when we did fieldwork with the locals, I had to carry a sidearm under orders. Not everyone could be trusted. But I never used it, not once. Not sure if I could fire on another person, to be honest. I mean, I know we were the army, and that’s what we do, but that was someone else’s job. I was there to save lives, not end them.”

“But we left Afghanistan, didn’t we?”

Cole nodded, his eyes downcast. “Yes. We left a lot of people behind who needed help.”

“How’d you end up in Darkness?”

“When I returned to the States, I kind of didn’t have the drive anymore. They were offering voluntary separation⁠—”

He caught Izzy’s flinch at those words, filing it away. Something in her FBI story, perhaps.

“So I took it. Tried to find something to fill the hole. Then I saw a listing for a practice for sale. The old guy was retiring, and I came to have a look.” Cole gestured at the panorama before them. “I saw this, and I knew. I knew it was time to stop defending some nebulous concept of America and start helping actual Americans. People who needed me, like they had in Afghanistan.”

Cole watched her face as he spoke, surprised by how easy the words came. He’d never shared this story with anyone in Darkness. His past was a wound he kept bandaged and hidden, but something about Izzy’s presence made him want to open up.

“You have family here?” Izzy asked, her tone careful. Cole heard the real question beneath: was there someone waiting for him at home?

“No.”

The sun chose that moment to offer one final burst of glory as it slipped behind the peaks. Their side of the valley plunged into shadow, and they sat in silence, watching the Sierras backlit by the last of the sun.

“We should head back,” Cole said. He gathered their trash and tucked it into the cooler while Izzy folded the blanket into a neat square.

“Can we fly in the dark?” she asked, handing it to him.

“Yes. This bird’s an old flight school trainer, upgraded for night visual flight rules.” He secured the cooler. “I wouldn’t want to come up here after dark—mountains make for pretty solid obstacles—but going down is easy.”

Their hands brushed as she passed him the blanket. The contact sent a jolt through Cole’s system, like touching a live wire. He caught her eyes in the fading light, wondering if she’d felt it too.

The temperature was plummeting along with the sun, but Cole felt flushed, so he took off his jacket and folded it onto his seat, then used it as a cushion. He didn’t cool off when she sat beside him, and he rolled his sleeves up and started the engine.

The flight back was peaceful, the town’s lights glowing like a constellation beneath them. Cole concentrated on his instruments, hyper-aware of Izzy’s presence beside him. After landing and securing the Robinson, he grabbed his jacket and bag while Izzy carried the cooler to his truck.

“Can I give you a ride home?” he asked.

“My car’s at your clinic.”

Cole found himself unnervingly disappointed as he drove her back to her vehicle. He pulled up beside her Explorer, killing the engine.

“Let me know about those sick kids?” she asked.

“I will.” Cole turned toward her. “What happened to the electric car?”

“It’s in my grandfather’s driveway. I need to get rid of it—I’m still paying for it. Just need to find time to buy an extension cord so I can charge it up enough to get back to Avis in Vegas.”

“There’s a fast charging point at your office.”

Her head snapped toward him. “Are you serious?”

“Pretty sure. Homeland Security money at its best.” Cole smiled. “And there’s an Avis in Harris. You could probably drop it there.”

“I’ll remember that.”

Cole searched for something else to say, but the words wouldn’t come.

“Thank you for a wonderful afternoon,” Izzy said. She reached out and touched his hand resting on the console, then opened the door and stepped out into the night.

Cole drove home on autopilot. The traffic was light—it was always light, except for the semitrailers along the highway—which helped, because his mind was everywhere but on task.

The headlights played across his front porch as he pulled to a stop. He forgot his cooler and even his jacket, and his dress shoes were back at the office, so his routine was as shot to hell as his mind. Nanook was waiting in the mudroom for a head rub and some chow.

Cole took Nanook out the back for a quick run, but he couldn’t get his mind off her touching him. Glancing blows, meaningless in the scheme of things. Meaningless to her, maybe. He could still feel her fingers on his hand as she gave him the blanket. That might have been an accident. But in his truck? She had reached out to touch him. Reached out. He felt helium-light at the thought of her long, delicate fingers on his. How had he gone from being accused of professional incompetence to his thoughts swirling around like this?

Nanook stuck his nose in Cole’s crotch. Nothing brought a man back to the real world in quite the same way. The dog was hungry, so Cole made him a dinner that included the promised sirloin tips.

Then the two of them flopped together on the sofa. The dog let out a contented harrumph. Cole rubbed the malamute’s head, glancing at the novel that held no attraction. He took in the dimly lit room, the place he had settled and become content. His retreat and his refuge. His best friend with his head on Cole’s lap. Suddenly, none of it felt quite right.

Cole shook his head. “Shit.”

Chapter

Fourteen

Izzy’s fingers tapped against the Tesla’s steering wheel as she followed Wahlberg’s patrol vehicle up Highway 395. The electric car hummed quietly, a stark contrast to her racing thoughts. The charging station at the sheriff’s office had replenished the battery in short order and was exactly where Cole said it would be.

Cole.

Again.

The sunrise painted the mountains in shades of amber and rose, reminiscent of last night’s spectacular view from the mountaintop. Sitting under that blanket with him on the dirt beside her, the valley spread before them like a gift. The way his voice had softened when he spoke about Afghanistan. The genuine interest in his eyes as he listened to her, never interrupting or trying to fix her problems.

“Stop it,” she muttered to herself, forcing her attention on Wahlberg’s tailgate ahead. She couldn’t indulge these thoughts. Couldn’t let herself feel this pull toward someone she barely knew. She’d thought she knew Mark completely. And look how that had turned out.

The Tesla’s dash showed another forty miles to Harris. Forty miles to get her head straight and focus on what mattered. She had a dead sheriff, an accident that didn’t sit right, and a department full of men who didn’t want her there. She couldn’t afford distractions, couldn’t risk letting her guard down. Not even for a doctor with kind eyes and gentle hands who made her feel primal things she’d thought were dead inside her.

They were twenty miles out of Darkness when Wahlberg’s brake lights flashed red, and he pulled onto the shoulder. Izzy followed, positioning her car behind his patrol vehicle.

Her deputy climbed out and walked back to her window. “This is where Sheriff Trahan had his accident. Thought you might want to take a look.”

Izzy killed the engine. “Good thinking, Wahlberg.”

The morning chill hit her as she stepped out, so she flipped up her jacket collar against the bite of the wind.

They stood at a crossroads where a dirt service track intersected the highway. Wahlberg gestured south, tracing an invisible line along the asphalt. “Sheriff would’ve been coming from Darkness, heading north. He crashed right here.”

Izzy followed his pointing finger to just short of the crossing. An irrigation channel passed beneath the highway through a concrete pipe about three feet in diameter. The culvert ran parallel to the highway on both sides, creating deep ditches that stretched for several hundred yards in either direction.

“Truck rolled and landed upside down there.” Wahlberg indicated the eastern culvert. “Driver’s airbag deployed, but that’s all. By the time anyone found him . . .”

Izzy walked to the edge of the pavement, studying the terrain. The service track followed the irrigation channel toward the mountains both ways, disappearing into the distance. Despite the elaborate drainage system, the channel lay bone-dry. Typical government planning—build for floods, then divert all the water elsewhere.

She paced the width of the intersection. The highway stretched straight and true in both directions, offering clear sight lines for miles. No curves, no blind spots, nothing to suggest a reason for losing control.

Izzy crouched at the edge of the culvert, looking down into the trench dug into the harsh terrain. “How long before someone found him?”

“Couple hours, maybe?”

Izzy nodded. That had been Cole’s estimate in his report. Cole? She meant Dr. Barrow.

Whatever.

“Who found him?”

“Frank Denly was first on scene. He called it in. Sheriff often worked late, according to his wife. Nobody thought much about him not coming home.”

“What was Denly doing out here?”

“He’d been on court duty in Harris. We all have to do it.”

Izzy looked up at him.

“Well, not you, boss.”

The wind whistled through the drainage pipe, a hollow, mournful sound. Izzy stood, brushing dirt from her hands as she surveyed the empty landscape. A man who’d driven this road countless times somehow veered off at this exact spot, rolled his truck, and died before help arrived. No witnesses, no autopsy—just a tragic accident that removed him from whatever he was worried about in his office.

And damned unlucky.

Izzy walked to the middle of the highway and looked toward the north horizon. Then she turned and looked all the way south. The culvert stretched a couple hundred yards in either direction before tapering off into natural desert terrain. Beyond that point, the landscape flattened into endless scrubland dotted with hardy desert plants, and the highway became divided in both directions with scrub in between the oncoming lanes.

She’d seen enough accidents to know what typically happened when vehicles left the road out here. They’d plow through some brush, maybe take out a cactus or two, then come to rest in the dirt. Drunk drivers did it all the time—their vehicles might need a tow, but they usually walked away with nothing worse than a hangover and a hefty fine.

But Sheriff Trahan hadn’t driven off into forgiving desert scrub. His truck had somehow found this precise stretch of road—barely four hundred yards total—where the road was undivided and a six-foot deep drainage channel waited to catch any vehicle that strayed. The odds seemed astronomical.

The wind whipped her ponytail as she stared down into the culvert again. Of all the places along this twenty-mile stretch to lose control, Trahan had managed to crash in exactly the spot that could kill him.

“Damned unlucky,” she muttered, her voice carried away by the wind.

Izzy turned to head back to her car when something caught her eye on the highway behind them. She squinted against the morning glare, focusing on a dark shape wavering in the distance. A vehicle sat motionless on the horizon, nothing more than a silhouette against the pale desert sky.

She raised her hand to shield her eyes, trying to get a better look. The shape remained stationary, like a sentinel watching their investigation. Or maybe it was just a mirage.

“What is it, boss?”

“You see that?” Izzy pointed toward the shape.

Wahlberg peered in the direction she indicated, then shook his head. “Just desert shimmer, I think.”

“Shimmer? It’s only fifty degrees out.”

“After a cool night, the morning sun heats the black asphalt faster than it heats the surrounding air, causing shimmer.”

Izzy cocked her head at her deputy. He was a fount of information.

She stared harder at the horizon, but the shape seemed to waver and blur the longer she looked. The rising sun cast strange shadows across the landscape, making it impossible to be certain of anything she saw.

Izzy dropped her hand. “Alright, Wahlberg. Let’s get out of here.”

Chapter

Fifteen

The Tesla cruised like a ninja as Izzy followed Wahlberg into Harris. The town sprawled across the valley floor, its buildings clustered around the central plaza like barnacles on a ship’s hull. At three thousand residents—double that if she included local communities and farms—Harris dwarfed Darkness, but it was still just a dot on the map compared to places like Reno or Mammoth.

They passed a metal sign pockmarked by buckshot: Welcome to Harris—County Seat of Mirage County sign. The morning sun glinted off the windows of the courthouse, its sandstone facade dominating the town square. Local shops and cafes lined the streets radiating from the plaza, places that catered to ranchers and farmers rather than tourists.

A farmers' market occupied one corner of the square, pickup trucks loaded with produce and livestock feed parked in neat rows. The smell of fresh coffee wafted from Mae’s Diner, where stooped men in work clothes gathered for their morning ritual of caffeine and gossip.

Izzy noted the mix of old and new as they drove past, historic buildings in need of a paint sitting alongside 70s-era strip malls. Unlike Darkness, which felt frozen in time, Harris showed signs of growth and change, however anemic. New housing developments pushed at the town’s edges, and solar panels dotted more than a few rooftops.

But beneath the veneer of progress, Harris retained the wary nature of a small farming community. Locals paused their conversations to watch the strange Tesla roll past, their expressions guarded. A town big enough to have secrets, but small enough for everyone to know them.

Wahlberg’s patrol car turned onto a side street and stopped outside a rental car agency that consisted of an office the size of a porta-potty and a holding lot large enough for ten cars but which actually held two.

Izzy gave the keys to a disinterested agent who took until she asked for a receipt to notice her uniform, upon which he waived the one-way charge. Izzy thanked him for his Herculean efforts and got into Wahlberg’s SUV.

The wrecking yard sprawled across two acres of sun-bleached desert, a maze of rusting metal and broken dreams. Wahlberg maneuvered through narrow lanes formed by walls of junked cars. The sun glinted off shattered windshields and chrome bumpers, creating a disorienting kaleidoscope of reflections.

A pack of German Shepherds announced their arrival, barking and running alongside a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. The dogs followed them to a rusted office trailer, their barks echoing across the yard.

An ancient bell clanged as Izzy pushed open the door. The office smelled of motor oil and cigarettes. A pot-bellied man in grease-stained coveralls looked up from behind a cluttered desk.

“Help you?” His voice was as gravelly as the yard outside.

“Sheriff Llewellyn. Looking for information about a vehicle brought in a few weeks ago. Sheriff Trahan’s pickup.”

The man scratched his stubbled chin. “Yeah, I remember that one. Got the paperwork somewhere.” He shuffled through stacks of papers and dog-eared folders but seemed to give up.

“Your name, sir?”

“Ed.”

Izzy thought he looked like an Ed. “The truck still here?”

“What’s left of it. Follow me.”

Outside, Ed whistled sharply, and the dogs fell silent. He led Izzy and Wahlberg deeper into the yard, past mountains of stripped engines and transmission cases. The ground was dark with decades of oil stains.

They rounded a corner and found the remains of Trahan’s truck. The frame sat on concrete blocks, stripped nearly bare. The passenger side retained most of its panels, though dented and scratched. But the driver’s side was completely gone—doors, fenders, quarter panels, all removed.

“Engine’s gone too,” Ed said, lighting a cigarette. “Went to a place up in Eugene. Good motor, that one. Barely hundred thousand miles on it.”

“What about the driver’s side panels?” Izzy ran her hand along the exposed frame rails.

“Sold those to a yard in the Bay Area.”

“They were damaged in the rollover, weren’t they?”

Ed shrugged. “Yep.”

“So why would anyone want damaged panels?”

“People want all kinds of things for all kinds of reasons.” He took a long drag on his cigarette. “Sometimes they’re looking for specific parts. Sometimes they just need scrap metal.”

“Mind if I see the paperwork on those sales?”

Ed led them back to the office and pulled out a battered receipt book. He flipped through carbon-copy pages until he found what he was looking for.

“Here you go. Bay Area yard that bought the panels.” He tapped a line of cramped handwriting with a nicotine-stained finger.

Wahlberg copied down the information. Izzy studied the receipt, noting the date was just three days after Trahan’s death.

“That all you need?” Ed asked.

Izzy nodded. “For now. Thanks for your help.”

“Anytime, Sheriff Lew.”

Outside the wrecking yard, Izzy squinted against the sun’s glare and slipped on her shades.

“Wahlberg.” She kept her voice low. “See that pickup?”

A black Ford F-150 Raptor sat half a block away, its dark-tinted windows concealing the driver.

He followed her gaze. “Yeah, boss.”

“I don’t know if that’s what we saw in the desert shimmer, but I do know it followed us close enough to see for the last five miles into Harris. Cross the street, work your way behind it. I’ll approach from the front.”

Wahlberg nodded and moved casually toward the corner, then crossed at an angle that would bring him up behind the truck.

Izzy walked straight down the sidewalk, her hand resting near her holster. Then she stepped onto the road and angled toward the pickup. The truck’s engine rumbled to life. She quickened her pace.

The F-150’s tires squealed against asphalt as it lurched forward. Izzy sprinted into the street, waving her arms. “Sheriff’s Office! Stop the vehicle!”

The truck accelerated straight at her. Izzy dove to the side, rolling across the pavement as the massive grille missed her by inches. The acrid stench of burning rubber filled her nose as the truck fishtailed around the corner and roared away.

“Boss!” Wahlberg’s boots pounded the pavement. “You okay?”

Izzy pushed herself up, brushing gravel from her palms. “I’m fine. You get the plate?”

“Yep.” Wahlberg pulled out his notebook. “And I’m pretty sure I recognized him.”

“Who was it?”

“Hector Reeves.” Wahlberg shook his head. “But that truck must be stolen.”

“Why?”

“No way he could afford a new Raptor. Those things run north of seventy grand.”

Izzy stared in the direction the truck had disappeared. She brushed her hands on her hips and noted the tingling sensation in her stomach. This one had nothing to do with mysterious handsome doctors. This was the feeling she got when she was a Special Agent, and she knew she was on the right track.

Chapter

Sixteen

The F-150’s dust trail had barely settled when Izzy climbed back into Wahlberg’s patrol vehicle. Her palms stung from the pavement, but her mind raced with possibilities.

They drove through Harris’s back streets until they reached a squat white building tucked away from the town square. City Hall shared space with the local sheriff’s office, both relegated to this hidden corner as if the town’s founders had wanted to forget the necessity of government. The courthouse and library commanded prime real estate overlooking the plaza, but this felt like an afterthought.

“I always thought this was a strange setup,” Izzy said as they parked. “County seat, courthouse, jail—but the main sheriff’s office is down in Darkness.”

“Politics.” Wahlberg killed the engine. “County spread the jobs around. The county is the biggest employer. Darkness might be a ghost town if we didn’t have the sheriff’s office and a couple of other county departments.”

The building’s facade needed paint, and weeds pushed through cracks in the concrete steps. Inside, they made their way to the sheriff’s section. The worn linoleum floors and institutional green walls spoke of decades of tight budgets.

Deputies milled around the small squad room, some at desks, others gathered near a coffee maker that looked older than Wahlberg. Conversations died as Izzy entered. She recognized the wariness in their eyes—the same look she’d gotten from the deputies back in Darkness.

“Sheriff Llewellyn.” A heavyset sergeant with jet-black hair approached. “Heard you were coming by. I’m Sergeant Mills.”

Izzy shook his hand. “Just checking in. Getting to know all our facilities.”

Mills nodded toward a cluster of deputies. “Boys, come meet the sheriff.”

They introduced themselves, and Izzy caught the skepticism in their handshakes. But the vibe felt less openly hostile, and Izzy was willing to take any small win.

She spoke to the team and told them she would get around to meeting them all in due course, but if they had any problems in the meantime, they had her number. She thanked Mills for his time and approached Deputy Wahlberg, who was chatting with a colleague by the coffeepot.

“I need to handle something in City Hall,” she told Wahlberg. “Won’t be long.”

The administrative wing occupied the building’s other half. Here, the building still felt old, but the floors gleamed, and crown molding adorned the walls. Landscape paintings hung in gilded frames, and the air smelled of furniture polish rather than stale coffee. The county’s power brokers clearly kept their own space well-maintained. It was the same everywhere.

The board of supervisors' office occupied the prime corner space, its oak door emblazoned with gold lettering. The assistant, a woman with steel-rimmed glasses, looked up from her computer.

“Sheriff Llewellyn to see Supervisor Preston.”

“One moment.” The assistant pressed an intercom button. “Sheriff Llewellyn is here.”

The voice that replied sounded like it was coming from the bottom of the ocean. “Send her in.”

The office beyond matched the building’s vintage, with dark wood paneling and heavy crown molding. Leather-bound books lined built-in shelves, and a massive desk dominated the space.

Elaine Preston rose from behind it, her steel-gray hair styled in an elegant updo that spoke of regular salon visits. Her navy sheath dress and pearl necklace projected an image of old money, though Izzy knew the county’s ranching fortunes had faded decades ago.

“Sheriff, please sit.” Preston’s thin lips curved into what might have been a smile. “How are you settling in?”

“Fine.” Izzy remained standing. “Though it would have been easier with all the information up front.”

Preston’s pale blue eyes narrowed behind designer frames. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“You didn’t mention Sheriff Trahan was dead when you offered me the job.”

“Oh, that.” Preston waved a manicured hand. “An oversight. There was so much to discuss.”

But Izzy caught the calculation in Preston’s eyes. The omission had been deliberate—a way to get Izzy in place before she could ask too many questions about her predecessor’s demise.

“Of course, we’re thrilled to have you.” Preston settled back in her chair. “Carrying on your father’s legacy. I understand about legacies—my family’s been here five generations. Ranching’s in our blood, just like law enforcement’s in yours. Speaking of which, we need to get you sworn in.”

“Judge Daniels took care of it.”

“Excellent.” Preston smiled, but the effort wasn’t worthy of the result. “Then you’re good to go.”

The dismissal was clear. Izzy felt the weight of the moment—her future in this woman’s perfectly manicured hands. The board of supervisors controlled not just her budget, but whether she kept this job at all.

She left without another word, closing the heavy door behind her.

Back at the sheriff’s office, Izzy headed for the break room. Her hands still stung from diving away from the F-150, and she needed coffee to settle her nerves. She found Sergeant Mills pouring himself a cup from the ancient machine.

“Sheriff.” Mills grabbed a second cup. “Got a minute?”

“Sure.” She accepted the coffee he offered.

“Did you get a chance to look at the corrections department budget I sent over?”

“Where is it?”

Mills frowned. “I emailed it last week.”

“To who?”

Understanding dawned on Mills' face. “Sheriff Trahan. I sent it to Sheriff Trahan’s email.” He shifted his weight. “You don’t have access to his account?”

“No.” Izzy took a sip of coffee. “But I’m sure Adrianne can get into it.”

“Don’t worry about it—my mistake.” Mills shook his head. “I’ll call Adrianne, get your email address, and resend everything.”

“I’d appreciate that. Thank you, Sergeant.”

Izzy watched him leave. Everyone made mistakes, herself included. Maybe herself especially. But she liked people who owned their mistakes when they made them.

She found Wahlberg at a computer terminal, scribbling something down in a notepad. “Ready to head back?”

“Yeah, boss.” He looked up from the screen. “But I think we should make a stop first. I ran the plate on that truck that nearly ran you down.” He swiveled the monitor toward her. “It’s not stolen. It’s registered to Hector Reeves.”

I don’t like what I see. She’s doing the job. I was promised something different. I paid for something different. Bumbling around Darkness is one thing, but being in Harris? Going to the wrecking yard? What does she think she’s doing?

She’s trying to make friends and influence people. Like this is her county. As if this sob story about her daddy counts for shit. It doesn’t. She doesn’t. I influence this county. I own Darkness. And I rent Harris. And I will for as long as I want. Not forever, not even close. But for now, most definitely.

This problem should have taken care of itself. She was a mess; I saw it for myself. Now she looks like she might cause trouble. Now I will have to get proactive. It’s distracting from the main game, but I suppose it might be fun. She might be fun.

After all, she does owe me.

Chapter

Seventeen

Wahlberg steered the patrol car through Harris’s north side, where cracked sidewalks gave way to gravel shoulders. The houses grew smaller, the yards larger, but unkempt. Chain-link fences wrapped properties in rusty embrace, and dead cars dotted brown grass like mechanical graveyards.

“That’s the place.” Wahlberg pulled up across from a single-story ranch house with flaking yellow paint.

The F-150 that had nearly run Izzy down sat in the cracked concrete driveway, its glossy black paint and chrome wheels a stark contrast to the property’s decay. Izzy studied the pristine truck. No dents, no scratches, recently washed. The only thing of value visible on the entire lot.

Behind a crooked mailbox, straggly weeds had overtaken what might have once been a lawn. Empty beer bottles glinted among the tall grass. A broken screen door hung askew from its hinges, and lichen clung to the stringers on the wooden front steps in thick green patches.

At the end of the weed-choked drive stood a detached garage, its boards gray with age.

“Hector Reeves.” Wahlberg checked his notes. “Local guy. Always been trouble, but petty stuff mostly. Assault, drunk and disorderly. Never could hold down a job.”

“That’s quite a truck for someone who can’t keep steady work.”

“Yeah.” Wahlberg frowned. “Last I heard, he was doing odd jobs at the Blackwood Ranch. Doesn’t explain that ride, though.”

Izzy followed Wahlberg up steps. The wood creaked beneath their boots as Wahlberg pounded on the door hard enough to rattle the frame.

No answer.

He knocked again, the impacts echoing through the house. “Sheriff’s office. Open up.”

A shuffle of movement came from inside. The door cracked open, revealing a sliver of Hector Reeves' face. His pupils were blown wide, dark holes in bloodshot eyes. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool air, and a sour smell wafted through the gap.

“What?” Hector’s words slurred.

“Need to talk to you.” Wahlberg wedged his boot in the doorway. “About that nice truck of yours.”

“Got it legal.” Hector tried to close the door, but Wahlberg held firm.

“Then you won’t mind showing us the paperwork.”

Hector’s gaze darted between them before he stepped back, letting the door swing wide. The stench of unwashed clothes and rotting food hit Izzy like a wall.

Inside, pizza boxes and takeout containers covered every surface. Empty liquor bottles—high-end vodka and whiskey brands—lined the mantle like trophies. A massive flat-screen TV dominated one wall, while a new gaming console sat beneath it, still wrapped in plastic.

Hector collapsed onto a stained sofa, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. His skin had the waxy sheen of someone riding a chemical high.

“I can’t afford a truck like that,” said Wahlberg. “How do you manage it, Hector?”

“Working oil rigs,” he said, unfocused. “Good money. Lots of time off.”

Wahlberg remained standing. “Which company?”

“Santa Barbara. SLO sometimes.”

“Name of the company?”

Hector’s leg bounced. His fingers twitched against his thigh. “Can’t remember right now. But it’s good work.”

While Wahlberg questioned him, Izzy moved through the space. Fast food bags spilled across the kitchen counter. More expensive liquor bottles. A drawer hung open, revealing a baggie of crystalline shards—methamphetamine. Not much, but enough to explain Hector’s current state.

“Deputy.” She gestured Wahlberg over and pointed to the drugs.

Wahlberg nodded, then returned to the sofa. “Mr. Reeves, you’re under arrest.”

Hector’s head snapped up, panic flashing across his face. “That ain’t mine.”

Izzy pulled on nitrile gloves and sealed the baggie in an evidence pouch.

Wahlberg continued, “Stand up slowly and put your hands behind your back.”

As Wahlberg cuffed him, Izzy examined the room. Despite the chaos, signs of recent wealth were everywhere. The liquor alone would have cost hundreds. The TV had to be worth thousands. Not the typical possessions of someone barely scraping by on odd jobs. And the oil rig story was paper-thin. The Santa Barbara field was offshore, on rigs out near the channel islands. The San Luis Obispo fields were inland and run by different companies. The chances of this meth head working both fields were close to zero. The likelihood he even worked one of them was pretty much the same.

They led Hector to the patrol car. He babbled the whole way about his oil rig job, his story growing more confused with each telling. By the time they reached the county lockup, he was practically vibrating with nervous energy.

“Book him for possession and dangerous driving,” Izzy told Wahlberg as they escorted Hector inside. “He can spend the night. We’ll interview him tomorrow once he comes down.”

After processing the arrestee, Wahlberg navigated the patrol car through Harris’s streets. Izzy leaned back in the passenger seat, her mind churning over Hector’s story. Was he high on meth when he nearly hit her, or had he waited for his high at home, which made his attempt to run her down a deliberate act? And why was he following them, or was his presence a coincidence? Izzy didn’t like it when coincidences started to stack up.

A black pickup rolled past in the opposite direction. Through the windshield, Izzy caught a glimpse of someone in what looked like a white coat. Her pulse quickened. Cole? She twisted in her seat, but the truck had already turned onto a side street.

“Everything okay, boss?”

“Yeah, just thought I saw someone I knew.” She felt that warmth in her neck that was becoming both familiar and annoying. She didn’t want to think about Cole right now. Not when she had a case to focus on. Not when she needed her mind sharp and clear.

Chapter

Eighteen

The sun hung behind a veil of clouds, casting an otherworldly glow across the landscape as Wahlberg drove them back toward Darkness. The mountains loomed dark against the filtered light, their jagged peaks cutting into the hazy sky. The valley went on into the endless distance like a lunar landscape.

“Pull over here,” Izzy said as they again approached the site of Sheriff Trahan’s accident.

She stepped out of the patrol car. The wind whipped her ponytail as she surveyed the scene once more. Mountains rose like sentinels to the east and west while the valley stretched endlessly north and south, empty and vast. The loneliness of the place settled into her bones.

“What was Sheriff Trahan doing out here?” The question escaped her lips, more to herself than her deputy.

“That bit never made sense.” Wahlberg kicked at a stone. “They said he was headed home. After dark. But the truck ended up facing north in the ditch, not south toward Darkness.”

Izzy turned to him. “Did you bring that up?”

“They said the truck spun before it rolled.” Wahlberg shrugged. “Theory was he wouldn’t have been going to Harris since everything would’ve been closed by then.”

Something flickered across Wahlberg’s face—doubt, maybe concern. Izzy stepped closer. “What are you thinking?”

He hesitated, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Izzy saw him weighing how much to say.

“Deputy Wahlberg.”

“It’s just . . .” He drew a deep breath. “Deputy Denly found the truck. Said he was on his way home from covering bailiff duty at the courthouse because the regular guy was sick. But after the call went out about Sheriff Trahan, everyone showed up. I mean everyone. You could’ve robbed the whole county blind—every deputy was here at some point.”

“Small town. People care.”

“That’s what I thought too. Didn’t question it until you started digging. But here’s the thing. When I say everyone was here, I mean it. Everyone, even the sick bailiff, showed up. Too ill to work, but he looked fine to me.”

Izzy absorbed this detail. Not impossible, but curious.

“And Frank Denly,” Wahlberg continued. “If he left court after five, he should’ve been here by five-thirty, five-forty-five latest. But he didn’t report the accident until seven.”

A pit formed in Izzy’s stomach. Denly could’ve stopped for drinks in Harris—he was exactly the type to have a few beers in uniform then drive. But it was another detail that didn’t feel right.

Izzy walked to the center of the road, studying the asphalt. “What do you see?”

Wahlberg scanned the area. “Nothing. Open road.”

“Look closer. On the pavement.”

“Nothing.”

“Exactly.” Izzy gestured at the unmarked surface. “If a southbound vehicle lost control, spun, and rolled to end up facing north—wouldn’t you expect skid marks?”

She turned in a slow circle, taking in the empty landscape. If Trahan hadn’t skidded, he must have been headed north. But with the courthouse and city offices closed, where was he going? Her gaze fell on the dirt access road that crossed the highway right at the crash site, disappearing into the distance.

“Get in the car,” she told Wahlberg.

Wahlberg steered the patrol car east, following the dirt track that crossed the aqueduct. Dust billowed behind them as they drove deeper into the valley. The track was well-worn but rough, forcing them to crawl along at a cautious pace. The mountains grew more defined as they approached, their rolling faces glowing in the late sun.

The track led them to a shallow crossing at the river. Water that would flow freely when the snowpack melted now trickled between worn rocks, barely enough flow to reach the tire wells.

“Think we can make it?” Wahlberg asked.

“Only one way to find out.”

He eased the patrol car into the crossing. Water splashed against the undercarriage as they forded the meager stream. The opposite bank proved no challenge, and soon they were climbing toward the foothills.

The landscape transformed around them. Massive boulders dotted the slopes like scattered marbles from some giant’s game. Deep crevices cut between jagged crags, creating a maze of shadow and stone. The setting reminded Izzy of the Western films her father used to watch—all that was missing were the cowboys and cattle rustlers. She remembered hearing stories about movie productions that had filmed out here decades ago, though she couldn’t recall exactly where.

The track ended abruptly at the base of a pebble-strewn incline. Wahlberg killed the engine, and silence settled over them. Izzy stepped out, shading her eyes. Tire marks of all widths crisscrossed the packed earth, but they could have been days or decades old, preserved in the dry desert air.

The sun dipped behind the western peaks, and darkness crept across the valley floor like spilled ink. Unlike her dinner with Cole on the mountain peak, where the sunset had painted the sky in vibrant colors, the shadows here felt oppressive. They swallowed the landscape whole, turning familiar shapes alien and threatening.

Izzy surveyed the desolate scene but found nothing to explain why anyone would drive out here, let alone the sheriff. No structures, no equipment, not even an old cattle fence. Just emptiness and encroaching night.

“Dead end,” she said, her voice swallowed by the surrounding vastness.

Someone’s talking. There can’t be another reason why she’s out in the middle of nowhere, right where the last sheriff ended up once, but not twice. My investors were clear about how close he could get, and when he got there, something had to happen. Now she’s in the same place, and it took her a lot less time than it took him.

I can see her through my binoculars. She’s standing there with her hands on her hips like that’s her thinking position. Her jacket hides those hips, and that’s a disappointment. I like what’s between them, too, or at least I’m sure I would. She clearly keeps herself in good condition, despite everything that’s happened. The jacket is zipped up tight, which is disappointing, too. When I saw it unzipped, I liked what I saw beneath. Those breasts pushing at her polo shirt, beckoning me.

That’s what she does. That’s what they all do. Flashing their parts around, distracting me from my work. But I can multitask.

Based on the intel, I thought I might have weeks. When I saw what a mess she was, I thought it might be months. And months would be enough. But now she’s out there, getting back in Deputy Dum-Dum’s car and driving away.

My investors have been clear on how close she can get. They have experience in these things. I’m not sure two dead cops in a month is a smart play, but she might not have to die. Not immediately, not for a while.

Not until I’m done.

Chapter

Nineteen

Wahlberg pulled up to the sheriff’s office, the headlights cutting through the evening darkness. He stopped in a slot around the back, and they got out. Wahlberg gathered his things, his movements slow after the long drive.

“Get home to your wife,” said Izzy. “You did good work today.”

“Thanks, boss.” He took a step toward his personal vehicle, then turned. “I can stay. Look into things a bit more.”

“Tomorrow. Family first.”

Wahlberg left in his truck—even people who never hauled anything more than a new flatscreen had a truck—then she moved toward her Explorer.

The drive to Joe’s took less than ten minutes. Izzy’s boots echoed on the porch steps as she approached the front door. The house was dark except for the blue glow of the TV through the living room window.

Inside, her aitona dozed in his recliner, chin tucked to his chest. An empty microwave dinner tray balanced on the arm of the chair. The TV droned quietly, some cooking competition show he claimed to hate but secretly loved.

Izzy sighed heavily. She had bought groceries, but then failed to follow through. The investigation had pulled her away again. Maybe she wasn’t cut out to look after other people. She wasn’t sure she could look after herself.

She gathered the empty tray and dirty fork, carrying them to the kitchen. Dishes from breakfast still sat in the sink. Bills and paperwork cluttered the counter where Aitona sorted his mail.

If she couldn’t even manage dinner with her grandfather, how was she supposed to run an entire sheriff’s office? Take care of a whole county?

Mark used to tell her she tried too hard to carry everything alone. But carrying it with others meant risking their disappointment when she inevitably dropped the load. Or they dropped it for her.

She filled a glass of water and set it on the table beside Joe’s chair. His breathing remained steady, peaceful. She draped the old afghan from the sofa over his legs, careful not to wake him.

“Lo siento, Aitona,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Izzy left her grandfather asleep and stepped out for a walk to clear her head. A few cars cruised by on the highway, but otherwise, someone had rolled up the sidewalks for the night. The neon sign at Coyote Flats cast a warm glow across the empty parking lot. Izzy’s stomach growled as she pushed through the glass door. The bell chimed above her head, and the scent of garlic and grilled onions enveloped her.

Maria looked up from wiping down the counter. “Sheriff Lew! Sit anywhere you like, honey.”

Izzy slid into a booth near the window. The vinyl cushion squeaked beneath her. In New York, she would have been watching the street life pass by. Here there was nothing but the reflection of a distant traffic light. She rubbed her eyes, exhaustion setting in like a tenant.

“You look like you need my chicken soup.” Maria appeared beside the table with a glass of water and silverware wrapped in a paper napkin. “And maybe some cornbread?”

“That sounds perfect.” The thought of actual home cooking made Izzy’s mouth water.

Maria hustled to the kitchen, and Izzy stared out the window at the empty street. The reflection of headlights swept across the glass as a car pulled into the lot.

The bell chimed again. Nate Bolton stepped inside, looking like a dollar in a ten-cent town. His gaze found her immediately.

“Sheriff Llewellyn.” He approached her booth with an easy smile. “Mind if I join you?”

Izzy’s shoulders tensed. She wanted nothing more than to eat in peace, but small towns had their own rules of engagement.

“Sure, why not?” She gestured to the empty bench across from her.

Nate slid into the booth as Maria returned with Izzy’s soup and cornbread.

“I’ll have what she’s having.” He glanced at Izzy. “And coffee for both of us?”

Izzy nodded, and Maria hurried off to fetch the coffee pot.

“So.” Nate leaned back, making himself comfortable. “How is it being back?”

“Different. Same.” Izzy broke off a piece of cornbread. “How about you? How’s life treating you?”

“Can’t complain. UNLV’s been good to me. Went there for college, stuck around for grad school, and now I teach chemistry.”

“I heard you got married.” The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Nate’s expression shifted, a flicker of something raw crossing his features before he masked it with a wan smile. “Small towns. No secrets, right?”

“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.” Izzy focused on her soup, wishing she could take back the question.

“No, it’s okay.” He wrapped his hands around the coffee cup Maria had placed in front of him. “Was married. Getting divorced now. Not easy, but you do what you have to do to get by, right?”

Izzy thought about Mark, about the FBI, about all the ways life could pull the rug out from under you. “That’s true.”

“Has much changed around here, do you think?” Nate asked, clearly eager to change the subject.

“Not really. Though Harris seems bigger.”

“Oh, you’ve been up there already?” He nodded. “Yeah, they’re putting in new housing developments. Pay LA prices to live on a quarter-acre block in the middle of nowhere. Makes no sense to me.”

“You live in Vegas still?” she asked.

“Yeah, sort of. My wife has the house, so I stay in an apartment. That’s part of the reason I’ve been coming here lately. Mom and Dad are still here, and the walls close in on you in a tiny apartment.”

Izzy thought her New York place. “Got that right.” She sipped some soup. It was so good. Like a superfood, only tasty. “You thinking of coming back?”

“Hell, no,” he said. Then he put his hand to his mouth. “Sorry. I meant no disrespect. We each have our own path.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She ate a little soup. “If you had said a year ago I would be here, I’d have laughed for weeks.”

“Life is funny like that.”

Izzy gave a rueful smile. The bell of the door dinged, and her smile spread further across her face than she wanted it to.

Cole walked in. He wore his trademark tan jacket and his trademark jeans and his trademark smile. Or perhaps the button-up and the white coat and the focus were the trademark, and this was . . . She didn’t know what this was.

He moved into the room, casually glancing around at empty tables as he did. When his eyes hit the booth and saw Izzy, they stopped. She thought she saw the corners of his mouth lift, but just as quickly, it was gone, as he laid eyes on her impromptu dinner companion.

Cole strode to the counter, where Maria greeted him with a plastic bag of takeout. “Dr. Burrows,” she cooed. “My special chicken soup, and I threw in a turkey patty for the beautiful Nanook.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Ramos.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, you can call me Maria.”

“At least one more time, Mrs. Ramos.”

He shot her the smile that Izzy wanted him to give her, then he turned around and set to walk out.

“Dr. Barrow,” she said. She cocked her head and smiled. She wasn’t sure why, and it felt stupid once she’d done it.

Cole stopped by the booth. “Evening, Sheriff.” He nodded but nothing more, then he looked at Nate and nodded once more, before walking out the door.

Izzy watched him through the windows as he opened his truck’s door. The interior light came on, and she saw the manic movement of a dog in the backseat. Cole got in and drove away.

“Friend of yours?” asked Nate.

“Huh?” Izzy’s attention snapped back. “Oh, yeah. No. He’s the local doctor.”

“Is he?”

Izzy dragged her eyes away from the cafe’s window. “You don’t go to Dr. Barrow?”

“No. I have a PCP in Vegas.”

“Of course.”

Izzy refocused on her soup, but her mind was whirring. What the hell just happened? Was that the cold shoulder or just the professional facade one wore in a small town? Sure, she really needed to focus and to not have this distraction in her life, but here he was anyway, popping in unannounced and making her feel . . . what, exactly? Sad? Mildly annoyed? Indifferent? And after their evening on the mountaintop, when she had felt good. Really good. The inconsistency was giving her vertigo.

Izzy forced her attention back on Nate, pushing thoughts of Cole aside. Here was someone actually making an effort to connect, to talk.

“So what took you up to Harris?” Nate asked, stirring cream into his coffee.

“I have an office up there, and the correctional facility is part of my responsibility.”

“Really? I didn’t know the sheriff ran the jail.”

“Technically, yeah. I expect it’s the same in Las Vegas.” She picked up her coffee mug and then put it down without drinking. “Clark County, right? You vote for the position, so you should be educated on it.”

“You’re right. I’ve just never been in jail, so I guess I never thought about it. It sounds like a lot of paperwork. For you, I mean.”

“It has its moments. I actually had to make an arrest while I was there. Some guy following me around in his truck.”

“Seriously?” Nate’s eyebrows rose.

“Yeah. Now he’s spending some quality time in county lockup.”

“Can you just arrest someone for following you?”

“I can when we find illegal substances in his possession.” Izzy waved her hand in the air. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be talking out of school about this. Ongoing investigations and all.” She spooned up more soup. Then she leaned her chin on her hands and pointed the spoon at Nate. “Speaking of which, you ever see anything like that when we were in school? Drugs? Meth maybe?”

Nate shook his head. “Nothing that hard. Some guys took uppers during finals week, but that was about as wild as it got.” He gave a self-deprecating smile. “These days I stick to beer in front of the game, maybe an Old Fashioned if I’m feeling fancy.”

“Living the high life,” Izzy said.

“What happens in Vegas . . .” Nate smiled and sipped his coffee.

Izzy finished her soup and asked Maria for the check.

“Let me,” said Nate.

“No. Thanks anyway. You saved me once.”

“I’m happy to save you again. Anytime.”

Izzy smiled. “Not a good look for the sheriff to be currying favor with free meals. But thanks. I appreciate the thought.”

“You bet.”

Izzy stood, and Nate tossed some twenties on the table for his meal. Coffee and soup. The guy was a good tipper. There was something nice about that.

Izzy said goodbye to Maria and waved to Jaime in the kitchen, and Nate held the door as she stepped outside.

“I’m down this way,” he said.

“I’m this way.”

“I’m going back to Vegas for a few days tomorrow. Maybe we could catch up when I’m back. Hang out.”

“Hang out?”

“Yeah. Isn’t that what people do these days? Hang out?” He grinned like he’d said something foolish, but Izzy liked the vulnerability she saw in his smile.

“Sure, why not? We could hang out. You know where to find me.”

“I do.” Nate nodded. “Goodnight then.”

Izzy watched him walk down the street, thankful there hadn’t been an awkward attempt at a goodnight kiss. Not that she didn’t like a good kiss. But she wasn’t in any hurry to kiss anybody. Not Nate, and sure as hell not Doctor Coldshoulder.

Izzy huffed a visible cloud in front of her face, then she tucked her hands deep in her pockets and walked back toward Aitona’s.

Cole slumped deeper into his sofa, the leather creaking beneath his weight. The kitchen counter behind him held the remnants of his abandoned dinner—soup gone cold in its bowl, scattered dishes he couldn’t summon the energy to clean. His half-empty beer had lost its chill on the side table.

Johnny Carson’s monologue filled the room with canned laughter that felt hollow and distant. Nanook lay stretched across the hardwood floor, his chin resting on Cole’s foot.

But Cole’s mind kept drifting back to the cafe, to Izzy’s smile. Not the reserved, professional one she wore like armor. This was different—warm, genuine, lighting up her whole face. And it wasn’t directed at him.

He hadn’t stopped thinking about their evening on the mountaintop. The way she’d sat beside him in comfortable silence, both of them taking in the sweep of the valley below. How the tension had melted from her shoulders as the sun painted the sky in streaks of gold and purple. He’d opened up to her about Afghanistan, about things he’d never voiced to another soul in Darkness.

Cole picked up his tepid beer and put it back down. “What do you think, buddy?”

Nanook’s ears perked up, those deep brown eyes fixed on Cole’s face. Soulful like Izzy’s, he realized with a pang.

“Yeah, I know. I’m being pathetic.”

The man at the cafe had that polished city look—expensive haircut, designer clothes that probably cost more than Cole’s entire wardrobe. The kind of guy who belonged in New York. Like Izzy.

Because that was what this was really about, wasn’t it? Izzy didn’t want to be here. Everything about her screamed temporary. She was marking time until she could escape back to the life she’d left behind.

While Cole . . . He had chosen this. The quiet. The space to breathe. The ability to make a real difference in people’s lives. He’d built something here, carved out a place that felt like home.

Carson cracked another joke that fell flat across the decades. Cole grabbed the remote and clicked off the TV, plunging the room into silence.

“Come on.” He patted his thigh, and Nanook bounded up, tail wagging. “At least I can depend you.”

Chapter

Twenty

Izzy pulled into her parking spot, the Explorer’s tires squelching on the wet concrete. Two freshly detailed patrol SUVs dried off in the weak sun. Her eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep. Every time she’d closed them last night, her mind had wandered—to that lonely stretch of road where her predecessor died, to Cole’s silhouette against the mountain sunset, to the way he’d barely acknowledged her at the cafe.

She grabbed her coffee tumbler and marched toward the office, forcing herself to focus on the day ahead. Two deputies passed her in the lot, offering curt nods.

Inside, Adrianne looked up from her desk. “Morning, Sheriff.”

“Morning, Adrianne. Deputy Wahlberg in?”

“Yes, ma’am. Break room.”

Izzy headed down the hallway, the high-efficiency lighting coloring her as blue as she felt. The smell of burnt coffee grew stronger as she approached the break room. Wahlberg sat at one of the metal tables, papers spread before him, his own coffee going cold.

He straightened in his chair. “Morning, boss.”

“Morning, Elliot. Is your vehicle one of the ones that just took a shower?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. We need to go back to Harris.”

Wahlberg tapped his papers together. “We’re going to talk with Mr. Reeves?”

“Exactly. Will he be in the office lockup or the main jail?”

“Sergeant Mills will know. You want me to call him?”

Izzy turned to leave. “No, I’ve got it. Let me get through a few things, and I’ll buzz you when I’m ready.”

“Yes, boss.”

Izzy settled behind her desk, sorting through the stack of reports from the night shift. Nothing major—a domestic dispute that resolved itself before deputies arrived, two drunk drivers safely taken home, and a noise complaint about dogs barking. She sipped her coffee and picked up her desk phone to call the Harris office.

“Sergeant Mills.” The voice was gruff but professional.

“Morning, Sergeant. Sheriff Llewellyn. I’m calling about Hector Reeves, brought in yesterday on possession charges. I need to question him this morning. Where is he?”

“Oh.” Mills cleared his throat. “Judge Daniels already processed him with the morning drunk tank cases. OR release due to his community ties.”

The coffee turned bitter in Izzy’s mouth. She set the cup down with deliberate care, her exhaustion burning away under a surge of anger. “He was processed through court before I could question him? When did this happen?”

“Judge does his regular clearance at 9 a.m. Standard procedure.”

“Standard procedure?” Izzy’s voice went flat. “He was arrested on drug charges, not jaywalking.”

“Sheriff, I didn’t have any paperwork telling me to hold him. Judge likes to clear the cells when he can. We don’t have that much room for guests here.”

Izzy pressed her fingers to her temple. “Walk me through this protocol, Sergeant. You’re saying the judge handles drunk tank cases every morning?”

“Yes, ma’am. Usually it’s drunk and disorderly, bar fights, that kind of thing. Including a possession case isn’t unusual. We get more driving high than we used to. We can send the court paperwork to keep someone, but if we don’t, and they have ties to the community, he’ll typically release them pending a court date.”

“Did Reeves leave on his own? His vehicle was at home.”

“No, someone picked him up. Didn’t come inside though—I saw them from the window.”

“Description?”

“Tall guy, broad shoulders. Wearing a blue baseball cap pulled low. Driving a newer model silver pickup.”

“Anything else distinctive about either the man or the vehicle?”

Mills shook his head. “Sorry, Sheriff. That’s all I noticed. Look, I apologize for any confusion, but I don’t make the rules. Judge Daniels does.”

The urge to tear into Mills rose in her throat, but she swallowed it back. This wasn’t his fault—she should have known the local procedures better. “Thanks for explaining the process, Sergeant. I’ll make sure we handle things differently next time.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Izzy hung up and stared at her computer screen, frustration coiling in her chest. One step forward, two steps back. Welcome to small-town justice.

Izzy pulled up the release documents on her computer, her fingers drumming an irritated rhythm on the desk. The paperwork showed exactly what she’d feared. Reeves' charge had been reduced to misdemeanor possession, making him eligible for the mass release program. The evidence log listed 0.75 grams of crystal meth seized.

“Three quarters of a gram.” She leaned back in her chair, the springs creaking. Just under the one-gram threshold that would have made it a felony. The rest had been coursing through his veins when they’d arrested him.

She snatched up her phone again and dialed Harris.

“Sergeant Mills.”

“Mills, can you send a deputy to check Reeves' residence?”

“Yes, ma’am. You want them to roust him?”

“No, just confirm if he’s there before I come up.” Her gut told her Reeves was long gone, along with that mysterious silver pickup.

“I’ll send someone right now.”

Izzy hung up and pulled up the arrest report from yesterday. Everything was properly documented—the attempted traffic stop, the search, the discovery of drugs. She and Wahlberg had done everything by the book. But bureaucracy had seen Reeves slip through their fingers, anyway.

Her phone rang twenty minutes later.

“Sheriff? It’s Mills. Deputy checked the residence. Reeves' truck is in the driveway, house is all locked up. No response at the door.”

“Did they look in the windows?”

“Yeah. Place is dark. Deputy said Reeves might be sleeping it off, but his money’s on the house being empty.”

“Thanks, Mills.”

Izzy set the phone down with exaggerated care. Her one lead into whatever was happening in Mirage County had just vanished into thin air. She’d been so sure Reeves would give them something useful under questioning. Now she was back at square one, with nothing but questions and a growing certainty that something was very wrong in her hometown.

I am waiting, and I don’t like waiting. A yellow circle of lamplight creates a ring around my position, and I focus on the edge of the halo to kill time. I stand motionless, listening to the steady drip of water and the distant drone of mariachi. I hate mariachi music, but it is a small concession to productivity. My fingers trace the contours of cold steel in my jacket pocket, a tool that has become necessary to my profession, but one with which I remain indifferent. It gives me no sense of power. It is a tool to be used, nothing more.

A screech of a rusted hinge is swallowed by the space, snapping my attention toward the sound.

Footsteps follow. Two sets moving with different rhythms. I am waiting.

Hector Reeves emerges first, tattoos stark against his skin even in this dim light. A second figure trails behind him, wearing a blue baseball cap pulled low. I call him Dodger. I don’t recall his real name, and he never shows a preference about being called Dodger. Reeves struts forward like he owns the place, all swagger and misplaced confidence.

“That cop bitch is causing problems,” Reeves spits, gesturing wildly. “Thinks she can come in here and start poking around where she don’t belong. Someone needs to teach her⁠—”

“Sheriff,” I correct him, my voice cutting through his rant like a blade. “Her title is Sheriff.”

Reeves stops mid-stride, his mouth hanging open. The bravado drains from his posture as my words sink in. Like the weapon in my jacket, he is a tool. A broken tool.

“I . . . yeah, whatever,” he mumbles, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Sheriff, cop, same difference.”

I don’t move. I watch him step into my halo, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard.

“We have a problem, Hector.”

“Damn right. We need to finish that bitch. Like the last guy.”

“Perhaps. But the more immediate problem is you, Hector.”

He creases his brow like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. I find the assumption of stupidity offensive.

“You’ve been skimming. Taking product for yourself.” My voice drops to barely above a whisper. “Did you think we wouldn’t notice?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His fingers twitch at his sides.

“One gram.” I lean in closer. “That’s what they found on you. But we both know there was more, don’t we? The amount you’ve been taking adds up.”

“That wasn’t—I mean, I bought that.” Sweat beads on his upper lip despite the chill.

“From who?” I cock my head. “Because our distribution network is quite precise. Every gram accounted for. Except what keeps disappearing under your watch.”

Hector’s face drains of color, leaving his tattoos stark against ashen skin. His shoulders hunch forward as he takes an unconscious step back. “Look, I can explain⁠—”

“Your arrest report makes for interesting reading,” I cut him off. “You were supposed to watch her, not run her down.”

“She was getting close. Like the last guy.”

“So you steal, and you bring attention to our operation.”

“You don’t understand.” His voice cracks. “I just needed a little something to get through. The hours are long, and⁠—”

I raise my left palm to silence him. It does. I like that feeling, but it’s diminished by the thought that I am dealing with the intellect of a Labrador. I stare at him, letting the silence stretch until he squirms. His emancipated face shows real fear now, eyes darting between me and the exit like a trapped animal.

“Please.” He raises his hands. “I can make it right. Whatever you think I took, I’ll pay it back double.”

My patience snaps like a dry twig.

I draw my weapon in one fluid motion, squeezing the trigger before Hector can process what’s happening. The report fills the space for but a moment before being devoured by the planet.

Hector’s body folds in on itself, dropping to the floor like a marionette with cut strings. Blood spreads across his dirty tank top in an expanding circle, soaking into the fabric. His eyes stare at nothing, mouth frozen in that final plea.

I slip my weapon back into my pocket, the weight pulling my collar out of place. Dodger hasn’t moved an inch, standing at ease while Hector’s blood fills my halo.

I study him, the way he maintains perfect composure despite the body at our feet. His organization vouched for his discretion, but standing here on the periphery of my circle of light, I question the wisdom of having a witness. Even a professional one.

The math is simple. Eliminate him now, tie up the loose end. But that creates more problems than it solves. His people would come looking, and I need their distribution network intact. For now.

I weigh the variables, factoring in Dodger’s reported loyalty against the inherent risk of trusting anyone. The calculation settles into place like tumblers in a lock.

He stays breathing. For now.

My thoughts turn to the sheriff. I know what she’s doing, almost before she does. Almost, but not quite. She’s becoming unpredictable. I’ll need to accelerate my contingency plans. No one will notice Hector’s absence in the world, not for a while. But eventually someone will ask a question. Even a Labrador with a postal address gets junk mail that piles up.

I give Dodger a slight nod of dismissal. He melts away into the shadows without a word, his footsteps barely audible as he disappears. Smart man. He understands his role. But he’s not on my side. It’s a situation of convenience. I’ll need to bring in one of mine, off the bench, as it were.

Alone now with Hector’s body, I know my partners will hear about this mess by morning. They’ll question my methods, my control over the situation. They’ll want a say. I know what their say will be.

The mariachi music drones on, somehow louder now. As long as it plays, my plans move ever forward. But it’s like Captain Hook’s ticking clock, a constant reminder that time is short.

I step out of the circle of light and head for the exit. I don’t need light to get there. I know the way. I have counted the steps exactly. But as my sight is consumed by the dark, it is filled by a vision. A vision that haunts my dreams and now encroaches on my waking day.

A vision of her.

Izzy rubbed the bridge of her nose as she stared at the budget spreadsheet on her computer screen. Numbers blurred together, her mind wandering to the stack of reports she still needed to review. A knock at her door broke her concentration, and she realized the sun was long gone and her office reflected back at her off the windows.

“Sheriff.” Hawkins stood in the doorway, a folder in his hand. “Got the Thanksgiving schedule worked up.”

“Come in.” Izzy leaned back in her chair, grateful for the interruption.

He placed the folder on her desk, and she flipped it open, scanning the carefully organized shifts. Everything looked balanced, coverage maintained despite the holiday requests.

“Looks good.” She signed the bottom and handed it back. “You’ve got a knack for this.”

“Been doing it a while.” He tucked the folder under his arm.

“The deputies call you ‘Dab’,” she said. “I’ve been wondering about that.”

A hint of a smile crossed his face. “Family nickname. Don’t even remember where it came from anymore.”

“Mind if I use it?”

His expression remained neutral. “Everyone does.”

Izzy nodded, then decided to push forward while she had him here. “Take a seat. I wanted to ask you about the night Sheriff Trahan died. The accident report seems thin.”

Hawkins eased himself into a chair. “How so?”

“No full report. No photos. No crime scene documentation. Just basic details and assumptions.”

Hawkins’ posture stiffened slightly. “We were all in shock. If some things didn’t make it into the system, it was an oversight.”

“An oversight under your watch,” Izzy pointed out. “You were in charge after Trahan went down.”

His eyes narrowed. “Is that what this is about? Planning to use this against me in the election?”

“What? No.” Izzy straightened in her chair. “I hadn’t even thought about the election. If you run, and I decide to run, it’ll be about why I’m the best choice. Not about tearing anyone down. I’m not a politician.”

“Those tactics rarely work,” he said.

“I don’t care about tactics. I care about sloppy work.”

Hawkins exhaled slowly. “Alright. Here’s what happened. Denly called it in. I was at the office and responded immediately with two other units. Paramedics were right behind us. Found the truck in the culvert. Sheriff was already gone. Dr. Barrow came out, pronounced him in the ambulance. Drew blood. They transported the sheriff to Doc Barrow’s office, where he did the external exam. He completed the coroner’s report, since technically the sheriff was the coroner. That’s you now, by the way.”

“I know. What about the highway patrol?”

Hawkins rolled his shoulders. “CHP attended from Harris. They knew Sheriff Trahan pretty good, so they were in shock, too. But before you ask, they concurred with everything I’ve said.”

Izzy leaned on her desk. “Why don’t we have their report?”

“Like I say, oversight. They made one, though. The accident happened on a state highway. But where a fatality is concerned, it usually flips back to us because we have the coroner.”

“Were scene photos taken?”

Hawkins smoothed his mustache with his thumb. “I took some on my phone. Didn’t think to attach them to the report.”

“We have department cameras, don’t we?”

“Of course. But there wasn’t much to see in the dark.”

“What about the next day?”

“Denly went out to photograph the scene.”

Izzy frowned. “Why Denly?”

“He was first on scene. Made it his case.” Hawkins shrugged. “He probably volunteered to go back out when no one else did. This isn’t the LASD.”

“No,” Izzy said quietly. “It’s not.” She leaned back. “Everyone seems to think Trahan was heading home, but he was pointed north.”

“That’s just guys theorizing. Nothing official. But that time of day, heading home would make sense. His wife always had dinner on the table at six sharp.” Hawkins crossed his arms. “Work out here long enough, you see vehicles do all sorts of things. Once we got the tox screen, it was pretty clear what happened. Takes your eyes off the road for a second and . . .”

“I’d like to see those photos.”

“I’ll get them to you ASAP.” Hawkins stood and left her office.

Twenty minutes later, an email appeared in her inbox. Izzy clicked through the images—standard accident scene documentation. The truck lay on its side in the culvert, emergency lights casting harsh shadows across the wreckage. Later shots showed it loaded onto a flatbed, dents visible on all sides, though the strobing lights made details hard to make out. The next-day photos showed only the crossing itself. No skid marks visible on the asphalt.

Izzy exhaled. It was sloppy, but it was also understandable. While with the FBI, Izzy had seen agents go down, and people reacted in a myriad of ways, but they were still people, and shock was often part of the equation.

It was a train of thought she wished she didn’t have, because she ended up at Mark, dying in her lap. Yes, there had been shock. About his death and so many other things. She needed to cut these guys a little slack.

Chapter

Twenty-One

Izzy’s office felt like a second home during Thanksgiving week. She’d volunteered for extra shifts, giving the deputies with families more time off. She felt guilty about not spending more time with Aitona, but Joe had better things to do in the form of poker at the Masonic hall. They played for matchsticks, or so everybody claimed.

The constant stream of incident reports kept her mind occupied: three DUIs before midnight on Tuesday alone, two bar fights that same night, and a domestic dispute that required removing a man from his sister’s house before the turkey was even thawed.

Hawkins had organized the schedule with military precision. Extra patrols during peak travel times working in conjunction with the California Highway Patrol, increased presence around bars and hotels, coordinated coverage with Harris. But even with the careful planning, calls kept coming.

“Another accident out on the highway.” Adrianne reported. “Single vehicle, no injuries.”

Izzy grabbed her jacket. “Tourist?”

“Family from Oregon. Hit black ice. CHP has it.”

Between calls, Izzy sent daily patrols to Reeves' home and went once herself. Nothing changed—his truck remained parked in the driveway, and mail filled the letterbox. She’d sent deputies to check local motels, but there was no sign of him or the mysterious man in the blue baseball cap.

Wednesday morning, while reviewing bodycam footage from a contentious traffic stop, a knock interrupted her concentration. Adrianne handed her a cream-colored envelope. Inside, elegant script invited her to “Doctor Cole Barrow’s Annual Holiday Gathering” that night.

Izzy tossed the invitation aside, but it nagged at her throughout the afternoon. Small towns ran on appearances and expectations. Skipping the party would feed into the whispers that she thought herself above the locals. Even if it was last-minute. Clearly, she was an afterthought.

That afternoon, alone in her grandfather’s house, she found herself standing in front of her closet. The black cocktail dress hung like a reminder of another life. Too formal, too city. But her other options felt too casual for a doctor’s party.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, shoving hangers aside with more force than she intended. She didn’t need to impress anyone—least of all Cole Barrow. Who still hadn’t called about those sick kids from the farm, despite promising test results days ago.

Izzy pulled the invitation from her bag. Maybe she should go, if only to corner him about those results. It would be professionally responsible to follow up. The fact that she’d caught herself wondering if his eyes were more brown or hazel was completely irrelevant.

She glanced at the dress again and sighed.

She drove the short distance through town, rolling by stores busy serving last-minute needs. She saw a truck approaching and recognized the driver. Nate slowed and she stopped so they were side by side, right in the middle of the highway, in the way that country people did all the time but in New York would bring a cacophony of horns. The both took a moment to roll down their windows.

“Evening, Sheriff,” he said, smiling easily.

Izzy leaned her elbow on the window ledge. “Nate. Happy Thanksgiving. Spending it with your parents?”

He shrugged. “Family, you know it. Gotta head back Friday. What are you up to?”

“The usual.”

“Working?”

“A bit. There’ll be time for turkey.”

“Glad to hear it. All work and no play and all that.”

Izzy noticed a car ease up behind Nate and she gestured at it. “Right, well, have a nice time tomorrow.”

“You, too.” Nate pointed at her. “We should catch up when I’m back next.”

Izzy nodded. “Happy Thanksgiving, Nate.”

When Izzy arrived at the doctor’s office, she was glad she had opted for her formal sheriff’s uniform and not the little black dress. Pretty much every guest was over the age of seventy. A tiny amount of makeup had been her only concession.

She was greeted with the now expected mix of familiarity and distrust. With an orange juice in hand, she moved around the waiting area and chatted with people that she now realized would vote on her employment future at some point. She smiled and shook hands and offered tidings for the holidays, but the whole time she was looking for Cole.

She found him near the reception station with his assistant, Serena, who gave her a hug.

“You came,” she said.

Cole shot her a look as if the invitation was news to him.

“Seemed rude not to. Happy holidays.”

“And to you,” Serena said with a hip bump to the doctor.

“Yes,” said Cole. “Happy holidays.”

“What are you doing for the holidays?” Izzy asked Serena.

“With the family. The usual. Oh, excuse me. I need to speak with Mrs. Whats-her-pickle.” Serena dashed away in no particular direction, and Izzy watched her go before turning back to Cole.

Izzy ran her hair along her ponytail. “And what about you, Cole?”

“I’m on call.”

“You must have a thousand invites for Thanksgiving dinner.”

He shuffled his feet. “There aren’t a thousand people in this town.”

“No. Well, since I’ve got you, I wanted to ask what happened with the tests for those kids?”

He seemed to visibly relax as the topic turned to work. “I’m still not sure. Waiting for some further tests from a lab in San Francisco, but it takes a while. But what we could do in Harris shows liver problems.”

“Both of them?”

“Three of them.”

“You saw another one?” The unsaid without me hung in the air.

“Yeah. I flew out on the weekend.”

“You flew? Did you go to the mountain?” The question came out before Izzy engaged her brain.

“I did, actually.”

Izzy nodded and tried not to show disappointment. Then, she tried not to feel disappointment.

“With Nanook,” he added. “He loves it up there.”

“I remember.” She recalled everything about that evening in vivid color. “So, how are the kids?”

“Not good. Robbie may have to be hospitalized if he doesn’t improve.”

“That’s terrible. What can we do?”

Cole’s face crumpled in frustration. Izzy could see his eyes flickering, searching for answers even as they spoke. “I don’t know.”

She put her hand on his arm and felt him stiffen at her touch, so she snapped it away as if it were a hot pan.

“What about you?” he asked, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Thanksgiving with the family?”

“My grandfather goes to a neighbor’s for lunch, and I’ll be at work, but we plan to have a little turkey for dinner.”

“Not doing anything with your friend Nathan?”

“Who? You mean Nate Bolton?”

“I don’t know. I was told you’d been seen about town.”

Izzy’s eyebrows lowered as far as they would go. This was a guy who didn’t do gossip, and he was using phrases like seen about town. Then she thought about Cole coming into Coyote Flats Café when she was sitting with Nate.

“We went to high school together,” said Izzy. “Nothing more. Like you said the other day, meeting the locals.”

Now it was his turn to frown, but his eyes weren’t angry. If anything, she would have guessed he looked confused.

So, you’ll be in the office all day, too?" she asked, moving on from Nate.

“Thanksgiving is often house calls. Lots of carving knives and hot baking trays out there.”

“Yeah.”

“Dr. Barrow!” A woman with blue rinse and a string of pearls waved him over to her group.

“Duty calls,” he said.

“Of course.” As he moved away, Izzy rested her hand on his forearm. “If you want to join Grandpa and I for a late bite tomorrow, we have an extra plate.”

“I have to get back to Nanook. I’ll have been out all day.”

“Bring him. I’d love to meet him.”

“He’s not really great with people.”

“Me, either.” She leaned in closer. “Bring him, Cole. Any time after seven.”

They stood in the reception of his clinic with her hand on his arm until the woman with the pearls called him again.

“I’ll try,” he said.

Izzy dropped her hand, and he walked away. She left her drink on the reception counter and glanced around the room, planning her getaway. Her eyes fell on Cole’s assistant Serena, who appeared to have found Mrs. Whats-her-pickle but remained watching Izzy and Cole. She wore a curious grin. Then she winked.

Izzy gave her a polite nod and headed into the rear of the clinic toward the bathroom, but continued right out the back door and into the cold night.

Cole pulled his truck into the Hamiltons’ driveway, medical bag ready beside him. Thanksgiving meant fewer emergencies, but illness didn’t take holidays. He’d already seen three patients since dawn—two with food poisoning from an early celebration, one with chest pain that turned out to be indigestion.

Through the Hamiltons’ kitchen window, he spotted Mrs. Hamilton stirring something on the stove while her husband entertained their grandkids in the living room. A patrol car cruised past on the main road, and Cole craned his neck to watch it drive on. He shook his head, grabbed his bag, and headed for the door.

Two hours and three more house calls later, Cole drove home to his cabin. Nanook bounded to greet him, tail wagging.

“Hey, buddy.” Cole scratched behind the dog’s ears. “We have to go out for dinner. Think you can behave yourself?”

Nanook tilted his head, ears perked.

“Yeah, I know. I can’t be bothered either. But she’s the sheriff, and it would be rude to cancel now. Probably feels sorry for us with no family around.” He changed into fresh clothes—dark jeans and a blue button-down shirt. “Try to play nice, okay?”

The drive to Joe’s place took fifteen minutes. Cole pulled up to the weathered one-story ranch house, noting loose shingles and lifting porch boards, but warm light came from every window, creating an inviting glow that spilled across some patio furniture that sat in the yard.

Izzy opened the door before he could knock. “You made it!” Her smile lit up her whole face.

Cole held up a bottle of wine. “Thanks for having me.”

Joe appeared behind her, walking stick in hand but moving steadily. “Dr. Barrow! Come in, come in.”

“Where’s your shadow?” Izzy peered past him toward the truck.

“In the truck. I wasn’t sure. Is your backyard fenced?” Cole asked.

“It is, but he can’t spend Thanksgiving in the yard. Bring him in.”

Cole walked back to his truck, heart beating faster than it should. “Best behavior,” he whispered to Nanook. “No growling.”

But the moment they entered, Nanook’s tail started wagging. Izzy dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around him. “Oh my gosh, you’re gorgeous!”

Nanook responded by covering her face with enthusiastic kisses.

Izzy led the dog back into the dining where her aitona sat. The old man ruffled the dog’s fur as Nanook dropped his chin onto Joe’s lap. Cole stood in the corner and watched Izzy move around the kitchen, his offer to help having been rebuffed. She wore faded jeans and a cream-colored sweater that softened her usual sharp edges. Her movements were different here—fluid and natural, like she’d shed the weight of her badge.

“Go sit with Aitona,” she said. “Dinner will be just a moment.”

Joe poured something pale golden into three glasses at the dining table. “Txakoli,” he explained, pronouncing it chacolí. “From my homeland. The perfect marriage—Basque wine, American turkey.” His eyes crinkled. “That’s what I love about this country. Old traditions meet new ones, create something better.”

Nanook settled at Cole’s feet as they sat down to eat. The table glowed with candlelight, reflecting off Izzy’s face as she carved the turkey. Cole felt a tension he hadn’t even known he was carrying melt away. Earlier, he’d video-called his family in Chicago—chaos and drama about cooking times and who brought what dish, and who had done what to whom. But here, watching Izzy and Joe’s easy rapport, he felt something he hadn’t experienced in ages: peace.

Cole studied the family photos lining the walls while Izzy cleared the dinner plates. Black and white images captured moments spanning decades—Joe and his wife’s wedding day, their children growing up, grandchildren arriving. In one, a young Izzy grinned gap-toothed at the camera, her dark hair in pigtails.

“Sixty years,” Joe said, following Cole’s gaze. “Ane and I were married in Getaria. She worked at the general store. I was just a sheepherder then. We came to this country together, to Bakersfield.” His aged hands traced the edge of his empty plate. “People say time heals all wounds, but I still expect to hear her humming in the kitchen every morning.”

Joe slipped another piece of turkey under the table. Nanook’s tail thumped against the floor as he delicately accepted the offering.

“You’re spoiling him,” Cole said.

“Bah.” Joe waved his hand. “Dogs understand love better than people. They know when a house holds good memories.”

Izzy returned carrying a ceramic dish. “Intxaursalsa,” she announced. “My grandmother’s walnut cream.” She served Cole a portion of the dessert, watching expectantly as he took his first bite.

The cream melted on his tongue, rich with ground walnuts and honey. “This is incredible.”

“Amona would be pleased.”

As they finished dessert, Joe pushed back from the table and moved to an old record player in the corner. The scratch of needle on vinyl filled the room before Tony Bennett’s smooth voice poured out.

Joe extended his hand to Izzy. “Dance with your aitona?”

She stepped into his arms, and they swayed together, Joe leading with surprising grace despite his cane resting against the wall. Cole watched them move, seeing the echoes of the young sheepherder in Joe’s posture.

Halfway through “The Way You Look Tonight,” Joe stepped back. “These old bones need a rest.” He guided Izzy’s hand into Cole’s. “Your turn, Doctor.”

Cole took her hand and put his other in the middle of her back with six inches between them, like he was dancing with his sister. As the song continued, Bennett’s crooning brought them together like magnets, his one hand settling on her shoulder, the other on the small of her back. Her fingers were warm against his neck. They moved together easily, as if they’d done this a hundred times before. The calculating edge he usually saw in her eyes had softened, replaced by something warmer.

When the song ended, they stayed in place, looking into each other’s eyes. Then a snort caught their attention, and they turned to Joe asleep in his recliner, soft snores rising above the music.

“Want to sit outside?” Izzy whispered. “It’s a beautiful night.”

She grabbed a blanket and two glasses of bourbon while Cole called Nanook into the rear yard. The porch swing creaked as they settled onto it, Izzy spreading the blanket across their laps. Their thighs touched, and Cole felt a warmth inside that had nothing to do with the bourbon.

Nanook bounded through the yard, nose to the ground, discovering new territory with unbridled joy.

“Is Izzy short for Isabella?” Cole asked, watching the moonlight play across her face.

“Izar,” she corrected. “It means ‘star’ in Basque. My mother chose it.” She took a sip of bourbon. “What about you? Is Cole short for something?”

“Colton. No special meaning, just a family name.”

She shivered and shifted closer under the blanket, and Cole was acutely aware of every point where their bodies touched. The swing rocked gently, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this kind of quiet contentment, or this specific type of tension—like electricity buzzing just beneath his skin.

The wooden porch swing creaked softly as Cole and Izzy swayed in the crisp evening air. The bourbon hummed through her veins, mixing with an ease she hadn’t experienced in years. Her old life had been fueled by adrenaline rushes—raids, arrests, constant vigilance, the incessant buzz of the Big Apple. This felt different, even if she couldn’t quite put a label on it.

“I don’t remember seeing your family at your grandmother’s funeral,” Cole said, breaking the comfortable silence. “I think I would have remembered you.”

“We weren’t there.” Izzy traced the rim of her glass. “I was tied up with work in New York. Mom hasn’t been back since we left. Too many ghosts here for her.”

Cole shifted beside her, his arm tensing against the back of the swing. She sensed his discomfort at potentially crossing a line.

“I’m sure you’ve heard my father was sheriff here,” she said, the words flowing easier than expected. “He was killed in the line of duty. They never caught who did it.” She took another sip of bourbon. “Mom’s solution was to run. Packed up me and my sister Maya, moved us to Virginia.”

“But your grandparents stayed?”

“They’d only moved here from Bakersfield when they retired. Aitona was too stubborn to leave, and Mom was too stubborn to come back.” Izzy straightened, not wanting to dwell on those memories. “What about you? Why aren’t you in Chicago stuffing yourself with turkey?”

“Chicago’s not home. It’s where I grew up.” Cole shrugged. “Going back is always tense. Everyone tries so hard to make it perfect that they forget to enjoy it. Besides, people here need me.”

The simple conviction in his voice reminded Izzy of her father, and the warmth of the bourbon spread through her. “And you said you had no family out here?”

Cole went still and traced his finger around the rim of his glass. “I was married once. Found out during my second deployment that she was having an affair. She wanted a divorce.”

“I’m sorry.” Izzy’s voice softened. “That’s horrible to do to someone fighting for our country.”

Cole shook his head. “No, the fault was mine. It wasn’t what she signed up for. I abandoned her emotionally.”

“But you were serving your country.”

“And neglecting my wife.” Cole stared out at the darkening valley. “It’s easy to get caught up in the big-picture stuff and forget that life happens on the ground, at the micro level. Day to day.” He exhaled slowly. “I learned that in Afghanistan, but I learned it too late. Now I’m here, and I’m, you know, comfortable.”

Izzy snuggled into the blanket. Maybe that was the word she was searching for. Comfortable. It was a sensation she struggled to recall.

Nanook was done marking territory, so he wandered over, his black and white coat like an apparition, and plopped down on Izzy’s boots. She would welcome the warm body on her cold feet anytime, but right now, her toes were remarkably warm despite the near freezing temperature. She lay her head on Cole’s shoulder and felt his arm slip from the back of the rocker onto her shoulders.

Izzy’s body was so relaxed that she felt like she was drifting, as if the gravity of earth had been centered on her for too long, and now the weight was being shared by someone else.

She looked up at the clear sky, the stars bright above the glow of snow-capped peaks. She was named after them, but she didn’t often feel she wore the honorific well. Up there, they were one of billions. Down here, she was one of one.

As she took in the western sky, her eyes closed in on the brightest star. It outshone all the others. Izzy wasn’t sure if it was Vega, which she recalled was often low in the sky and set a few hours after the sun. Whatever it was, it stood out, and she wondered how it felt about that. Always being looked at, noticed, judged. Did that nameless star wonder if its shine was never enough?

“Venus,” said Cole, as if reading her mind. “They call it the evening star, but of course it’s not just your regular old star. It’s so much more.”

Izzy turned to look up at Cole and found him gazing down at her, their faces only inches apart. She lifted her head slightly, and he took the invitation, easing his lips down onto hers. He tasted like smoky bourbon, and she felt his grip close around her shoulder as he pulled her into him.

His mouth was soft, but his chin was rough, and she felt the evening swirl around her as their embrace took her up into the constellations, all thoughts purged from her busy mind. There was only the two of them, everything else a smudge in her consciousness. Izzy pushed into him harder. Her tongue probed his mouth and urgently tangled with his. She needed to breathe but considered it an afterthought, not wanting to lose the moment as she cupped his head with her hand, running her fingers deep into his hair.

And then it was done. He broke the embrace, and she sucked in air and stared into his eyes, wide and wondering, and now she noticed, slightly almond-shaped. He looked serious, as if he were studying her face for a flaw. She felt the warmth that was in her belly rush to her cheeks as she considered how many flaws there were to see.

Then he kissed her again. This time soft and light, lips and nothing more. Cole ran his fingers along her jawline until they reached her chin, and he lingered there as he pulled away again. The studious expression was gone, replaced by a lifting of the end of his mouth, a small dimple appearing.

Cole sat back against the rocker and set it in motion with his legs, returning his gaze to the stars. She nestled her head against his shoulder and rested her palm over his chest, where his pulse thundered in time with her own racing beat. As his heart gradually steadied, she melted into him and turned her eyes toward the sky full of stars and one that shone brighter than the rest.

Chapter

Twenty-Two

Cole sat in an Adirondack chair on his back deck, bourbon in hand. The glass caught the moonlight as he swirled the amber liquid, releasing its rich aroma. Nanook trotted through patches of snow, marking his territory with dedicated precision.

The bourbon’s scent transported Cole back to Joe’s porch, to Izzy’s lips pressed against his. The taste of her lingered—sweet and smoky like the whiskey, but with an intoxicating warmth all her own.

They’d sat wrapped in that blanket for what felt like hours, sharing a comfortable silence broken only by the creak of the porch swing and Nanook’s occasional snuffling. When she’d finally shivered, reality had crept back in. The responsible thing was to head inside, though every fiber of his being had screamed to stay.

Inside Joe’s house, the old man still dozed peacefully in his recliner, Tony Bennett having fallen silent. Cole asked if Izzy needed help with Joe, but she said not to worry, so he had helped her gather the bourbon glasses while she’d wrapped leftovers for him. Such a domestic moment, yet charged with electricity. Their fingers had brushed as she’d handed him the plate and asked him to return it at his leisure, sending sparks through his whole body.

Then came that goodbye kiss. His hands had found her waist, pulling her close as if to memorize the feel of her. She’d melted into him, fingers curling in his shirt. It took all his willpower to step back, to call Nanook from growling at the dark by the front fence and into the truck.

Now Cole watched his dog complete his nightly routine, nose working overtime at new scents in the snow. The bourbon’s aroma wafted up, and with it came Izzy’s taste again. Sleep would be impossible tonight, his mind too full of her—the way she fit against him, how her eyes had softened in the moonlight, the small breathy sounds she’d made when he’d kissed her.

He took another sniff of the drink, not wanting the alcohol but craving the scent. The night air bit at his face, but he couldn’t bring himself to go inside yet. Out here, the evening still felt real. Inside waited his empty bed and the knowledge that tomorrow he’d have to face her as the sheriff again, professional and proper.

Nanook finished his business and bounded up onto the deck, settling at Cole’s feet with a contented sigh. Cole reached down to scratch behind the dog’s ears.

“What do you think, buddy? Did we just make the biggest mistake of our lives?”

Nanook’s tail thumped against the deck boards, and Cole couldn’t help but smile. The dog had taken to Izzy instantly, something that had rarely happened before. Maybe Nanook knew something he didn’t.

It’s cold, and I don’t like being this cold. We can’t run the heat because that would make our presence known, and that won’t do.

I expected her to be alone, her and the old man. But when we arrived, there was a strange truck in the driveway. That changed things some. My partners have sent a guy. The kind of guy who handles these things. They agree we can’t have a second dead sheriff in town. That would bring attention. State attention, federal attention.

But my partners’ guy isn’t too bright. He’s a blunt tool, not a super spy. This isn’t a movie. The smart guys don’t do the dirty work. His plan is to kick the door in and shoot anyone he finds inside. I have to explain how suspicious that will look. I have to explain my plan again.

She needs to be gone and not be found. Not for a good while. But she needs to be gone in a way that won’t make anyone look for a suspect. They need to look squarely at her.

She’s found her feet quickly, I have to admit. But she was still a mess when she arrived, and that is to my advantage. People saw. People know. And they’ll learn the backstory, now that we know it. It’s juicy. It makes me want her more.

I wrote the note myself. Then I had it printed it on the printer in her office. How it was all too much, how she hasn’t recovered from her previous trauma, how her father’s legacy has proven too hard to bear, how she isn’t really up to the job. Blah, blah, blah.

She’s sorry, but she needs to leave this town like her mother did and never come back.

Once they learn the backstory, the letter sells itself.

But there can be no blood, no bullets, no collateral damage. She needs to leave alive, but not necessarily under her own steam. My partner’s man prefers a broken neck and a fireman’s carry. I prefer unconscious, but not dead. There is some business to attend to that will be better if she is alive. Things I want to do because I can.

So we wait in the cold. The truck stays. For a while, I think we need to come back another time. But there won’t be another time as good. We know exactly where she is, and we have ensured that law enforcement staffing is light. Plus, the population is in a turkey coma or drunk. Possible witnesses are few.

Finally, the door opens, and she comes out with a man and a dog. She’s in a white sweater and looks like candy. Good enough to eat. The man passes through the porch light, and I recognize him. I’ve seen him before. Dr. Barrow, the local quack.

But my eyes are on the damned dog. It runs to the fence and growls in our direction. I don’t know if it senses us or if there’s wildlife nearby, but I put my finger on the start button just in case.

No one is paying attention. The doctor is by his truck, and he wraps his meaty paws around her and sticks his tongue down her damned throat. So, not a house call. I want to retch. It’s unpleasant to watch, but it gives me a sense of what she likes.

I think the guy is never going to leave, but he eventually calls his dog back and gets in the truck. I watch her watch him go. Then she’s inside, and within twenty minutes, the porch light goes off.

We wait for another hour. I am cold. I don’t like being cold. But as my partners’ man slips from the truck, I think about what I am going to do to her, and I get warm all over.

Izzy stared at the ceiling of her grandmother’s sewing room, tracing the water stains with her eyes for the hundredth time. Her FBI Academy sweatshirt and thick socks couldn’t ward off the November chill, but that wasn’t why she couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt Cole’s lips on hers, his hands on her hips, the solid warmth of his chest under her palm.

The twin bed creaked as she shifted position. The mattress held memories of her teenage years, but her adult body found no comfort in its narrow confines. She pulled the quilt tighter, remembering how it felt to be wrapped in the blanket on the porch swing, Cole’s arm around her shoulders.

What was she doing? Getting involved with anyone was the last thing she needed right now. She had an office to run, an election to win, and a dead sheriff whose case file grew more suspicious by the day. She was a mess. She wasn’t ready.

And yet.

Izzy kicked off the covers and sat up. Sleep wasn’t happening. Her feet hit the cold hardwood floor as she stood, adjusting her trackpants, and folded back the covers to keep the bed as warm as possible. The house settled around her with the old creaks and groans as she made her way to the kitchen.

The bourbon glasses still sat in the sink where Cole left them. She picked one up, inhaling the lingering scent of oak and spice that reminded her of the taste of him. Such a simple thing, two glasses in a sink, yet they represented something that terrified and thrilled her in equal measure.

She set the glass down with a quiet clink. What kind of future could she even offer? A twin bed in her grandfather’s house wasn’t exactly romantic. She had more baggage than an airline, and her job consumed every waking moment. Plus, there was the election looming, and if she lost that . . .

The front door creaked.

Izzy froze, every muscle tensing. That sound was unmistakable. Old wood in a climate that shifted a hundred degrees during the year. Her gun was in its lockbox in her closet, following proper protocol. Stupid, stupid protocol.

She held her breath to listen. It would work for only a short time before the blood pumping would mask any external sounds. The floorboards betrayed movement. But which way? Toward Aitona’s bedroom or hers? She heard a subtle creak to her right and knew whoever was there had chosen to head toward door number two. Her room.

Izzy slid across the linoleum on her toes and stopped at the arch through to the dining room. Years of teenage experience told her to stay close to the edge of the room where the floors gave up fewer of their secrets, and she moved on her toes toward the soft clink of metal as the intruder moved across the living room.

She saw the silhouette slip past the living room window. A man, maybe five-eight, five-nine. He carried something in his hand. A fire poker. The man tiptoed toward the Izzy’s bedroom and disappeared through the door.

Izzy moved quickly, but quietly. It wasn’t going to take long for him to figure out she wasn’t in the tiny room. Izzy slid across the boards to the fireplace and grabbed the ash shovel and turned back toward her room. She stayed on her toes but cut straight to the door, creaking floors be damned.

The man was beside the bed as she got to the doorway. He lifted the poker high, not like he was chopping wood or swinging a golf club, but enough to hit the pillow with a solid thud.

“Huh?” he grunted.

“Foul ball,” said Izzy.

As she moved, she wished three things. The first was that she had her service weapon, but it was closer to the intruder than to her. The second was that she had shoes on. The third was that the man would take half a second to register what was happening.

She didn’t get any of her wishes. As she rushed him, the man flicked his wrist and brought the poker around in an arc so that it came down toward Izzy’s head. She flashed her shovel up to block the parry with a hard metallic thwang. For a fraction of a second, Izzy took in the delighted snarl on the man’s face, as if he preferred doing this the hard way.

He took one hand off the poker and swung a punch at Izzy’s head. She jinked, and his fist glanced off her shoulder, sending a shard of pain down her arm. She wasn’t beating this guy in a fist fight.

Izzy swung her weapon down hard, smashing the edge of the shovel into the guy’s shin. He grunted in pain but didn’t howl, but the action bent him forward, so Izzy spun away from him like a ballerina at a woodchopping contest, the long shovel swinging around in a wide arc. She had to take her eye off him for a moment, but as she spun back, he was only now raising his poker.

She used the centripetal force and put her shoulders right into it, driving the shovel down into the backs of the man’s knees. Izzy was taller that most women but smaller than the average male FBI agent, and that meant opponents were usually out of her weight class. But an instructor at Quantico had taught a valuable lesson: no matter the opponent’s size, knees, ankles, and elbows were fundamentally the same. And once a larger opponent was on the ground, their size was now to their detriment.

The guy folded like a camp chair and collapsed onto his back, flailing his weapon in the dark room. Now Izzy lifted her shovel like a golf club, high above her head, then she swung through the full arc and drove the head into the man’s crotch.

He hadn’t howled at his shins being hit, but he did now. It was a guttural cry that curled him into the fetal position. It was clear from his reaction that Izzy had done some real harm down there, but she wasn’t done. She stomped on his wrist so he dropped the poker, then she drove the shovel in under his chin and pushed him back.

“You bitch!” he screamed. “I’m gonna kill you.”

Izzy pushed the shovel into his throat. “Not today, pal. Now get on your stomach.”

“My balls!”

“You can do an inventory later. Stomach, now, or I put my weight into this thing and removed your head.”

The guy half rolled onto his stomach while Izzy patted him down and removed a six-shooter from his jacket pocket. Then she moved to her wardrobe and pulled a flex cuff from her bag and bound the guy’s hands behind his back.

Izzy took her phone from the bedside table and called the office. The on-duty deputy said he would be there directly. Izzy asked if he could call the paramedics. The perp might require attention.

“I’ll have to wake someone,” the deputy replied. “There’s no one there at this hour.”

“Who’s on call?”

“Silvers, I think.”

“Does he have a family?”

“If you count five kids.”

Izzy sighed. She was happy to let the intruder lie there in pain, but a court would not look kindly on her conduct, and she wanted the full book thrown at this dirtbag. “Do you have an emergency number for Dr. Barrow?”

“I do.”

“Call him, then get over here.”

I can hear the sirens from the other side of the highway. I know it has gone wrong, but I can’t imagine how. Then the porch light comes on, and the living room lights, too. I am waiting, but my partners’man doesn’t come out.

I bite my lower lip so hard it bleeds. It tastes like iron. The sting wakes me, and I start my truck, keeping the lights off. I wait to see her, but she doesn’t come out. I wonder where my partner’s man found her. I wonder what she was wearing.

I am waiting when I see the flashing lights in my rearview. I see them get larger in the mirror. There’s nothing I can do today. I ease onto the accelerator and roll away, careful not to touch the brakes. By the time the flashing lights reach her house, I am gone into the darkness.

Chapter

Twenty-Three

Cole’s truck fishtailed as he took the corner onto Joe’s street too fast. His headlights swept across two sheriff’s SUVs and a paramedic van, their emergency lights painting the night in alternating red and blue. His heart pounded despite the dispatch deputy assuring him Izzy was unharmed.

He barely remembered to put the truck in park before jumping out. The front door stood open, spilling warm light onto the porch. Cole took the steps two at a time and burst into the living room.

Izzy stood in the center, directing two deputies with the calm authority of someone used to managing chaos. She wore an oversized FBI Academy sweatshirt and thick socks, her dark hair loose around her shoulders.

Cole hesitated. This was her workplace, even if it was happening in Joe’s living room. The last thing she needed was him rushing in like some overprotective fool.

But then Izzy saw him. Her professional mask was in place as she crossed the room and placed a hand on his arm. Cole covered her hand with his.

“Are you okay?” He ran his hand up her arms, checking for injuries.

“I’m fine.” She stepped back, though her fingers lingered on him.

“What about Joe?”

Izzy nodded toward the unlit side of the room. Cole glanced over at the old man, who gave him a bemused wave.

“Someone broke in,” Izzy explained. “Tried to attack me in bed. But he’s the one who needs medical attention now. I need you to take care of him.”

“I’ll take care of him, alright.”

“Cole.” Her voice was soft but firm. “I need you to be the doctor right now. I don’t need this guy’s lawyer getting him off because we didn’t look after him.”

He let out a long, slow breath. “Whatever you need.”

She led Cole to where a man lay curled up on the floor, hands cuffed behind his back. Blood had soaked through the seat of his pants.

“The bitch split me open,” the man whined. “I’m bleeding from my fucking⁠—”

“Call her that again,” Cole cut in, his voice dropping to a dangerous register, “and you can tend to your own wounds.”

The man subsided into sullen silence. Cole knelt to examine him, keeping his touch clinical despite his desire to cause more damage.

“He needs stitches,” Cole announced, standing. “Where’s the paramedic?”

The younger deputy shifted uncomfortably. “They’re all volunteers, sir. Didn’t want to wake anyone on Thanksgiving. I just borrowed the van from across the street in case we needed transport.”

Cole sighed. “Help me get him to my clinic.” He turned to Izzy. “Pack a bag. You and Joe are staying at my place tonight.”

“That’s not necessary,” Izzy protested. “I doubt anyone else is coming⁠—”

“It’s not optional.” His tone left no room for debate. “I’m going to stitch this guy up and come right back for you both.”

At the clinic, Cole worked efficiently while the deputy stood guard, pointedly looking anywhere but at the procedure. When the last stitch was placed, Cole stripped off his gloves with more force than necessary.

“He’s ready for lockup,” Cole told the deputy. “I’ll write up the medical report tomorrow.”

He helped push the gurney back out to the van before locking up and heading to his truck.

Izzy leaned against the arch between the living and dining rooms, watching the deputies file their reports at her dining table. Hawthorne’s pen scratched across paper while Martinez typed on his laptop. Gone were the skeptical glances, replaced by something that looked like concern, and maybe a little bit of respect having taken down the intruder unarmed.

“You two should head home. Your families will be wondering.” Izzy pushed off from the frame. “I appreciate the backup tonight.”

Martinez closed his laptop. “Sheriff, you shouldn’t stay here. Karen would love to have you and your grandfather over. We’ve got plenty of room.”

“Veronica, too.” Hawthorne capped his pen. “Our guest room is yours as long as you need it.”

The front door opened, and Cole stepped back in, this time without the medical bag. His presence filled the small space, and Izzy felt her pulse quicken despite her exhaustion. Neither deputy commented on his return, but she caught the subtle exchange of glances between them.

“Really, I’ll be fine.” Izzy gestured toward the door. “Go home. Get some sleep. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

The deputies gathered their things, both hesitating at the threshold. Martinez moved to touch her shoulder but pulled back. “Call if you need anything. Anything at all.”

When the door closed behind them, Cole was standing at attention. “You ready?”

“Let me grab some things.” Izzy headed for her room, hyperaware of Cole’s presence behind her. She tossed some clothes in her backpack, then collected her firearm from the lockbox.

As they stepped back out, Joe emerged from his room, overnight bag already packed. “All this fuss,” he said. “This is my home.”

“I know,” said Cole, putting his hand on the older man’s shoulder. “It’s just tonight, Joe. You’d be doing me a favor. Nanook won’t sleep knowing you’re here after what happened.”

Joe eyed him. “You got coffee?”

“Espresso machine.”

He grunted like that would do in a pinch.

Izzy looked through the window of Cole’s truck as he drove, her senses heightened. Cole’s cabin appeared through the windshield like a postcard come to life—rough-hewn logs and wide windows catching the moonlight. But inside, the space felt different. Modern. Clinical almost. The furniture was new, the surfaces bare of photos or personal items. No evidence of a life lived here, just a place to exist.

Nanook padded over and pressed against her legs. His fur was soft under her fingers as she scratched his ears, finding comfort in his solid presence. The dog’s tail thumped against her leg.

“Guest rooms are this way.” Cole led them down a hallway, opening a door to reveal a sparse but comfortable-looking space. “Bathroom’s through there. Another bedroom there.”

Joe set his bag on the bed. “I’m beat.”

“Night, Joe.” Cole stepped away, leaving them alone.

Izzy helped her grandfather settle in, making sure he had everything he needed. When she came back into the hallway, Cole was waiting, his presence both reassuring and unsettling. She followed him to the living room, where the mountain view through the windows had turned to black velvet studded with stars.

Izzy peeled off her boots and sat them by the front door, her sock-clad feet silent on the hardwood. Her hands trembled—not from fear, but from the adrenaline cocktail flooding her system. The same feeling she’d had after firefights in New York, that electric buzz that made sleep impossible.

Cole leaned against the kitchen counter, watching her. “You should sit.”

“Can’t.” She flexed her fingers, trying to dispel some of the nervous energy. “Not yet.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” She caught his skeptical look. “Really. I’m fine.”

“Just a robbery gone wrong?”

Izzy barked out a harsh laugh. “No. He came to kill me.” She stopped pacing and met Cole’s eyes. “With a fire poker, if you can believe it. The idiot probably thought it would look like a crime of opportunity.”

Cole’s jaw clenched. “You’re sure?”

“He went straight to my room. Knew exactly where I slept.” The memory of the man raising the poker over her empty bed flashed through her mind. “If I hadn’t been in the kitchen . . .” She shrugged, not wanting to complete that thought.

“What can I do?” he asked.

“You’re doing it.” She closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around his solid frame. His warmth enveloped her, and she tilted her face up to his.

Their lips met, and this time there was nothing gentle about it. The sweet kisses from earlier evaporated, replaced by raw need that coursed through her veins like fire.

She tugged at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against hers. Cole helped her pull it off, and Izzy ran her hands over his muscled chest, tracing old scars with her fingertips. She pressed her lips to his collarbone, his sternum, anywhere she could reach.

“I want you,” she breathed against his skin. “Right here. Right now.”

Cole’s hands found her shoulders. “Slow down.”

“No.” Izzy pressed herself against him. “We’re not at Aitona’s anymore.”

His grip tightened, holding her at arm’s length. The desire in his eyes matched her own, but something else lurked there too—concern, understanding.

“I want you too,” he said, his voice rough. “But not like this. This isn’t about us, Izzy. This is about what that man just tried to do to you.”

Confusion and hurt flashed through Izzy. “You don’t want me?”

“God, Izzy, that’s not it at all.” His eyes blazed with intensity. “I want you more than I’ve wanted anyone in a long time.”

“Then why⁠—”

“Because I’m not eighteen anymore. This needs to be right. And this isn’t right. Not after what just happened.”

Anger surged through her, and she tried to wrench away, but his grip remained firm. Instead of letting go, he pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her.

“You’re okay,” he murmured into her hair. “I’m here.”

The fight drained from her as his steady heartbeat thumped against her cheek. Her breathing synchronized with his, and clarity crept in. He was right.

“I should try to sleep,” she whispered.

“Good idea.”

“Stay with me?” When he hesitated, she added, “Just sleep. I want you near.”

Cole nodded.

They took turns in the bathroom. When he emerged in just boxer shorts, her mouth went dry.

“I sleep hot,” he explained.

“I believe it,” Izzy muttered, already burning up in her Academy sweats.

Nanook padded in to check on them, nudged them both with his cold nose, then retreated to his own bed.

In Cole’s king-sized bed, they started on opposite sides, a careful distance between them. Izzy lasted about thirty seconds before rolling over and pressing against him, resting her head on his chest. Her hand traced the defined muscles of his torso, drifting lower.

“Izzy . . .” His warning held a hint of amusement.

She slid her hand back up and inhaled his scent, desire still thrumming through her. But as she lay there, exhaustion crashed over her like a wave. Her last conscious thought was how badly she wanted him, before sleep swept in and pulled her under.

Chapter

Twenty-Four

Sunlight warmed Izzy’s face as she watched Cole balance on the ladder, his T-shirt riding up to reveal a strip of tanned skin as he mounted the security camera under the eaves. She was scratching Nanook behind an ear while her grandfather sat in his favorite lawn chair, squinting up at Cole’s handiwork.

“Angle it more toward the street,” Joe called out. “Wanna catch 'em before they even get on the property.”

Cole adjusted the camera. “Good point. These aren’t as sophisticated as the ones coming next week, but they’ll do for now.”

Izzy crossed her arms, fighting a smile as the two men fell into an easy rhythm of suggestion and adjustment. Cole treated her grandfather with the same direct respect he showed his young patients—no patronizing head pats or raised voices. Just straightforward conversation between equals.

“The Wi-Fi reach okay out here?” Cole climbed down to check the feed on his phone.

“I don’t know Wi-Fi,” said Joe. “I’m a cable guy.”

Izzy watched Cole pull up the camera view, his head bent close to her grandfather’s as they examined the screen together. Cole had a gift for connecting with people at the edges of life—the very young, the very old. It was the ones in between he seemed to struggle with, keeping a careful distance until someone crashed through his walls.

Like she had.

“One more to go on this side.” Cole grabbed his tools and moved the ladder. “Then we’ll do the back of the house after lunch.”

“You didn’t have to do this today,” Izzy said, though she’d promised him she’d let him install the cameras before they left his cabin. One night, and Joe was itching to get home. Izzy was sheepish about how she acted, but Cole had made no mention of it when she woke the next morning in his bed, hair sprawled all over his pillows, with him propped up on an elbow watching her wake.

“Yes, I did.” Cole’s expression was firm as he climbed back up. “And don’t forget, I ordered the motion sensors too. They’ll be here Tuesday.”

After Cole and Joe finished installing the cameras, Cole packed up his tools and headed home. Joe settled into his armchair, already dozing as a rerun of Law & Order played on the television.

Izzy changed into a burgundy sweater and dark jeans for the annual post-Thanksgiving potluck at the Masonic hall. She’d made her grandmother’s famous apple pie, following the recipe card exactly, though she knew it wouldn’t taste quite the same. Izzy drove her aitona the short distance, still feeling anxious about the townspeople, and glad she wasn’t arriving with Cole.

Christmas decorations transformed the usually austere Masonic hall into a winter wonderland. Two massive trees flanked the stage, their white lights reflecting off silver and gold ornaments. Red and green garland draped the walls, and someone had arranged poinsettias on every table.

Izzy carried her pie to the dessert table, nodding at familiar faces. She couldn’t help scanning the room for Cole, spotting him near the BBQ station in a blue button-down and his tan coat. He caught her eye and smiled, making her cheeks warm.

She made her rounds, accepting condolences about the break-in and deflecting questions about the investigation. Every few minutes, she’d feel Cole’s gaze on her. When she finally reached the buffet line, he appeared beside her, their fingers brushing as they both reached for serving tongs.

“Careful there, Sheriff.” Frank Denly’s voice carried across the table, slightly slurred. He lifted his cup of mulled wine in a mock toast. “Wouldn’t want you dropping anything.”

Izzy moved down the line, biting her tongue. More locals approached to share their thoughts on the break-in. Some worried it meant crime was getting worse. Others praised her quick thinking. A few whispered that maybe a woman sheriff wasn’t such a good idea after all.

Cole drifted away and Izzy ate some food with Tam, but she continued scanning the room for him as they talked. When she finally spotted Cole doing serving duty alone at the hot dog stand, she excused herself and started making her way over. The station was quiet now that the kids had eaten their fill. But before she could reach him, Nate stepped into her path.

“Quite a turnout,” he said, gesturing at the crowd with his paper plate.

“I thought you’d be back in Vegas by now.”

“Dad wanted to get in some golf before the weather turns.” Nate shrugged. “Heading back tomorrow morning. Classes Monday.”

Izzy glanced toward Cole, remembering his reaction at the cafe when he’d seen her with Nate. But Cole wasn’t looking at her this time. His attention was fixed on Frank Denly, his expression dark with concern.

Izzy nodded absently as Nate described his plans for Christmas break, playing golf with his father in Florida. Her attention kept drifting to Cole and Denly, who were deep in what seemed like a tense conversation. Cole’s shoulders were rigid, his hands planted on his hips as he spoke in low tones to the deputy.

“Sounds like quite the trip,” she managed when Nate paused.

“Yeah, well, your parents get older. You realize they’re not going to be around forever.” Nate shifted, putting his hand to his forehead. “I’m sorry. That was insensitive.”

Before she could answer, she caught a glimpse of Cole striding toward the door, closing in on Denly who was headed for the exit.

Her stomach clenched. “That’s okay. I feel the same way about my mom.”

“Hey, I heard about the other night.” Nate frowned and touched her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Fine. Just fine.”

“Should I be worried for Mom and Dad?”

“No, Nate. There’s always potential for crime, so just be vigilant. Locks their doors and take the normal precautions. But we’re lucky to be in a small town that looks after each other.”

“I’m sure you’re on top of it.” His fingers swept down her arm as he dropped his hand. “I won’t keep you from your adoring townspeople. Happy holidays, Izzy.”

“You, too, Nate. Best wishes to your parents.”

As he turned away, Izzy strode toward the exit. The night air hit her face as she pushed through the double doors. The parking lot was half-empty now, strings of white lights casting shadows between the cars. No sign of Cole.

“Looking for someone?”

Izzy turned to find Denly leaning against the building, cigarette smoke curling around his face.

“Just had a question for Dr. Barrow. Did you see him?”

“Headed home.” Denly’s lip curled. “Guess he got a better offer.”

The deputy’s words carried an edge that grated on her nerves, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. She started toward her truck, then remembered she’d driven Joe.

Izzy dashed back inside to find Adrianne. She asked her office administrator if she could drive her grandfather home. Adrianne asked if there was something wrong.

“Nothing to be concerned about,” said Izzy.

But as she strode outside to her Explorer, she knew she had just told a lie.

Cole ladled chili onto a hot dog, handing it to a grinning kid with a Cardinals baseball cap. The pavilion buzzed with conversation and laughter, paper plates rustling as people navigated the crowded buffet tables. Usually, these community gatherings left him feeling like an outsider looking in, but tonight was different.

He found himself laughing at Deputy Martinez’s terrible jokes, listening to stories from the Hamiltons about their new grandchild, offering medical advice about Sarah Prestwich’s arthritis. The conversations flowed naturally, without the usual strain of trying to prove himself worthy of their trust.

His gaze drifted to Izzy across the pavilion. She stood with Tamara Ramos, head thrown back in genuine laughter. As if sensing his attention, she caught his eye and winked.

They’d crossed paths at the buffet earlier, her fingers brushing his as she reached for the potato salad. That brief touch still lingered in his nervous system.

Cole scanned the crowd again, noting the absence of the Markrams. Strange. Farm families never missed these gatherings—there were few social events when you lived out of town. He’d have to check on Robbie again, make sure the boy wasn’t getting worse.

“Hot dogs going okay?” Deputy Denly’s gravelly voice interrupted Cole’s thoughts. The man’s usual sneer had morphed into something looser and more predatory as he stepped up to the serving table.

Cole frowned as Denly swayed slightly, the deputy’s breath heavy with mulled wine.

“You’ve really become part of the town, Doc.” Denly’s words slurred together. “And impressions matter here.”

Cole focused on arranging the remaining hot dogs in neat rows, fighting the urge to point out that if impressions were so important, maybe a sheriff’s deputy shouldn’t be three sheets to the wind at a community gathering.

“Friendly advice?” Denly leaned in closer, dropping his voice. “Might want to dial back how much time you’re spending with the new sheriff. She won’t be here long.”

Cole kept his expression neutral. “That so?”

“Special election’s coming up soon enough. She won’t win it.” Denly grabbed a hot dog, squeezing it too hard in his unsteady grip. “Her people ran away once before. She’ll do the same.”

“Sheriff Llewellyn might surprise you.”

Denly’s laugh came out harsh and bitter. “Maybe she will. But the people of this town won’t.” He took an aggressive bite of his hot dog, speaking around the mouthful. “Keep your eyes open in the meantime, Doc. Her last guy got shot in the back.”

Cole watched Denly stumble toward the exit, rage building in his chest. The deputy’s words about Izzy hit a nerve—especially that cryptic comment about getting shot in the back. Before he could stop himself, Cole dropped the serving tongs and strode across the pavilion.

“Deputy.” Cole caught up with Denly at the door and grabbed his arm, spinning him around. “You might want to watch your own back. Drunk deputies don’t exactly inspire the town’s confidence.”

Denly’s laugh came out as a wheezing bark. “Been here twenty years, Doc. I’ll be here till I’m ready to take my pension.” He swayed slightly. “See, I don’t get elected. And whoever does get the job—and trust me, it’ll be a man—they’ll want me around.”

Denly pulled his arm free. “Going for a smoke,” he muttered, pushing through the door into the night.

Cole meant to return to his hot dog duties, but his feet carried him outside instead. He found Denly leaning against the building’s brick wall, cigarette and hot dog in one hand, two plastic cups of wine balanced precariously in the other.

“What did you mean about getting shot in the back?” Cole demanded. “That’s defamation.”

“Sheriff Llewellyn’s husband?” Denly took a long drag. “Died during a bust, right? That’s what she told you?”

“I know he was FBI.”

Denly turned, his sneer visible even in the dim light. “Did she tell you she’s the one who pulled the trigger? Shot her own husband in cold blood and got away with it.” He jabbed the cigarette in Cole’s direction. “Watch yourself, Doc. You might be next.”

Cole’s control snapped. He grabbed Denly’s shirt and slammed him against the wall. “You’re lying.”

Denly brushed Cole’s hands away with surprising steadiness. “I’ll let the assault on a deputy slide, seeing as you just learned your squeeze is a killer.” He reached into his jacket. “Don’t believe me? Got the report right here, straight from the FBI database.” The paper fluttered in the night air as Denly waved it. “This is why they cut her loose. She’s a murderer.”

Cole snatched the document. His medical training helped him maintain steady hands as he read, but his heart hammered. The letterhead looked official—just the first pages of a longer report, but enough. It detailed an investigation concluding that Special Agent Mark Duvall had been corrupt, on an organized crime ring’s payroll. When Special Agent Llewellyn discovered this, she tracked him down and shot him. Motive wasn’t proven, but the facts were laid out in stark black and white.

The ground shifted beneath Cole’s feet. Izzy had killed her husband. The FBI’s own report said so.

He barely registered Denly asking for the document back. The world had narrowed to the thundering of blood in his ears as he made for his truck. The tires sprayed gravel as he peeled out of the lot, leaving Denly and Izzy and the town of Darkness behind.

Izzy gripped the steering wheel until her hands ached, her pulse thundering in her ears as she drove toward Cole’s cabin. The speedometer never crept above the limit, despite her urge to floor it. She needed answers, but dread coiled in her stomach about what awaited her.

Cole’s truck sat in its usual spot when she pulled up. She got out quietly and crossed to the steps. Before she could climb them, the door swung open. Cole’s broad frame filled the doorway, backlit by the warm interior lights. Something dark twisted his features. Nanook appeared beside him, pressing close against Cole’s leg. The dog’s shoulders hunched forward, hackles slightly raised. He didn’t bound down to greet her with his usual enthusiasm, as if he’d already chosen his allegiance.

“Leave.” Cole’s voice cut through the evening air like ice.

Confusion swept through Izzy. Just days ago at Thanksgiving, everything had felt so right. Safe. Real. Even after the attack, being with Cole had anchored her. Now that foundation was crumbling beneath her feet.

“What’s wrong?” Her voice came out steadier than she felt.

“You’re on my property. You need to leave.” As if echoing Cole’s words, Nanook’s hackles rose higher.

“I don’t understand.” Izzy took a step forward. “I thought . . . I thought we had something.”

“Did your husband think that too?”

Her lungs seized. “What does Mark have to do with this?”

“You told me he died on the job.” Cole’s jaw clenched.

“That’s true.”

Cole pulled a crumpled paper from his pocket. “You left out the part where you killed him.”

The world tilted sideways. Memories flooded back—Mark’s face as he died, matching the devastated look in Cole’s eyes now. Vertigo swept across her, and she found it hard to keep her bearings.

“I can explain. It’s not what you think.”

Cole waved the document. “What I think is the FBI says you killed your husband.”

“Who told you?” Her voice cracked. “Was it Denly?”

“Is that what you’re worried about? Who told me?” Disgust dripped from every word.

Izzy stepped forward, reaching out. “Please, let’s go inside and talk.”

“Just answer one question.” Cole’s voice dropped low. “If you’re capable of that much honesty. Did you kill your husband? Did you kill Mark?”

The truth sat like lead in her stomach. There was no running from it anymore. She dropped her gaze.

“Yes.”

When she lifted her eyes from the ground, the porch was empty.

Chapter

Twenty-Five

The next morning, Izzy’s footsteps echoed through the squad room as she entered. Her skin felt too tight, raw from a sleepless night spent replaying Cole’s expression of betrayal. But she kept her shoulders squared, her chin lifted. The room buzzed with the usual morning activity—deputies typing reports, phones ringing, coffee brewing in the break room.

Denly lounged at his desk, feet propped up, scrolling through his phone. Her blood pressure spiked at his casual demeanor.

“Deputy Denly. My office. Now.”

Several heads turned at her clipped tone.

Denly didn’t move. “You got something to say, say it.”

Izzy felt all eyes in the room on her, and she caught Hawkins watching from a desk at the front of the room, his expression unreadable. “Fine. You accessed sealed FBI files.”

“I don’t have access to federal files.” Denly’s lip curled.

“You don’t, but you accessed them anyway.”

Denly looked up from his phone and grinned. “Why would I do that?”

“To get information you have no legal right to for your own ends.”

“Interesting theory.”

“There’s no other way you could have gotten that report.” She planted her hands on his desk, leaning forward. “I know you used department resources to dig into my personal history.”

“Just doing my civic duty. The good people of Darkness deserve to know their sheriff is a killer.”

The accusation sliced through her composure. She straightened, fists clenching at her sides. “You have no idea what happened.”

“I know you shot your husband.” Denly spoke up, ensuring everyone in the room could hear. “Report says you put a bullet in him. That’s murder where I come from.”

Izzy’s throat burned. She wanted to scream the truth. But explaining would only feed the gossip mill Denly was so eager to stock.

She stood tall and steeled herself from glancing around the hushed room. She would rather not do this in public, but that was Denly’s choice. “The only way you accessed those sealed records was through illegal means. That’s a federal crime.” Her voice rang clear across the squad room. “You’re suspended, effective immediately.”

Denly barked out a laugh. “You can’t suspend me for telling the truth.”

“I can suspend you for unauthorized access to federal databases.” She held out her hand. “Badge and gun.”

“This is bullshit. You can’t prove any of this.”

“Oh, but I can. See, I’m good at this, and you’re not. You used your office computer to do it. And don’t bother thinking you can erase anything. You’ve been locked out of the system, and your computer is now evidence.”

Denly looked past her to Hawkins. “You gonna let her do this?”

Hawkins rose from his desk, authority radiating from his measured steps. “Hand them over, Frank.”

Something passed between the two men—a look that spoke of alliances and promises. Denly’s smirk told Izzy all she needed to know. This was temporary. He’d be back as soon as she was gone.

Denly yanked his badge from his belt and slammed it on her desk. His service weapon followed with a heavy thud.

“You know where to find me when you need me.” He headed for the door, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll be at the Horseshoe. First round’s on me for anyone who wants to hear the whole story.”

The squad room fell silent as he left. Izzy felt every eye on her, weighing, judging, wondering. She lifted her chin and walked up to her office, closing the door with a quiet click that echoed like a gunshot in her ears.

Izzy stared at her closed office door, box breathing to calm down. The squad room had no doubt fallen into hushed conversations, dissecting her confrontation with Denly. She’d known coming back here would be difficult, but this felt like trying to drain an ocean with a teaspoon.

Adrianne’s help in tracking Denly’s computer activity had been invaluable. The office administrator had shown her the logs—multiple attempts to access FBI databases using stolen credentials. But the source of those credentials nagged at Izzy. Assistant Director Van Buren’s words from their last meeting echoed in her mind: “Perception matters in the Bureau.” The investigation into Mark’s death had been buried quickly, swept under the rug to protect the Bureau’s image. Would this breach of security meet the same fate?

Hawkins had played it perfectly, appearing reasonable and controlled while she came off looking vindictive. The deputies who’d been on the fence about her would lean his way now. Denly would make sure of that, holding court at the Horseshoe, spinning tales about the FBI agent who murdered her husband and fled to small-town law enforcement. Denly was now a one-man political action group for Hawkins' sheriff campaign.

Her fingers traced the edges of Denly’s badge, cold and heavy on her desk. Half the department worshipped him, saw him as the old guard protecting their way of life. The other half might question his methods, but they’d trust his word over hers. An outsider. A killer.

A knock interrupted her spiral. Deputy Wahlberg’s fresh face appeared in the doorway, earnest despite the tension radiating from the squad room. “Boss? You wanted to interview the guy from your break-in?”

Work. Focus on the work. Izzy stood, grabbing her coat. “Thanks, Wahlberg. I’ve got it from here.”

“If it’s all the same, I’d like to come.”

Izzy studied him, seeing the determination beneath his youth. “You don’t have to do this. The squad room⁠—”

“I know what they’re saying. But I also know what’s right. And nothing about this is right.”

Something loosened inside. Maybe she wasn’t completely alone after all.

Izzy watched the high desert landscape roll past as Wahlberg drove. His hands were at ten and two on the steering wheel as if he was doing a driving test, and the silence in the cab felt heavy enough to crush them both. The young deputy hadn’t spoken since they’d left the office, but his thoughts practically echoed off the windows.

A tumbleweed skittered across the road ahead of them. Izzy tracked its path until it disappeared into the scrubland.

“Just ask your questions, Elliot.”

“I don’t have any questions.” His voice cracked on the last word.

“If you have no questions, then you’re a poor investigator and, frankly, an idiot.” Izzy turned to face him. “And you’re neither of those things.”

Wahlberg’s jaw worked for a moment. He kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Is there any basis for what Denly said? However he got that information?”

Izzy sighed. The memory of that night in the warehouse flooded back—the cold concrete floor, Mark’s blood seeping into her clothes, his eyes going dim.

“Yes, I shot my husband.” The words came out steady, despite the tremor in her hands. “He fired on me first. It turned out I didn’t know him the way I thought I did. He was corrupt, working for an organized crime group in New York. The Bureau had an informant, and Mark was sent to silence him. I got wind of it and stopped it.”

The engine’s hum filled the cab. Mile markers ticked past. Wahlberg’s expression remained unreadable as he processed her words.

Finally, he spoke. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” Izzy’s throat felt raw. “Me too.”

The squad room in Harris felt different from Darkness—smaller, stuffier, with ancient AC units sitting dormant in the windows. Sergeant Mills' bulk filled the narrow hallway as he led them toward the interview rooms.

“He’s in two.” Mills jerked his thumb. “Deputy Grimes is with him.”

“We got an ID?” asked Izzy.

“Nothing on him, but from prints, we pulled a rap sheet like War and Peace. Name’s Harlan McCann. He’s quite the citizen. Out of Nevada. I called the local PD. They said he works for some mid-level hoods in Henderson.”

“Nice work, Sergeant.”

Izzy studied McCann through the observation window. He lounged in the metal chair despite being shackled to the table, as if this was a minor inconvenience in his day and he had enjoyed spending the long weekend behind bars. His Hawaiian shirt clashed violently with the institutional grey walls.

“And he’s been in the lockup here all weekend?” asked Izzy. “Not in the main jail?”

“All weekend, as you requested,” said Mills.

“Ready?” Izzy glanced at Wahlberg, who nodded.

The interview room smelled of stale coffee and desperation. Grimes stood at parade rest in the corner, alert but trying to fade into the background.

McCann’s pockmarked face split into a grin as Izzy entered. “Well, if it ain’t the lady sheriff herself.” His gravelly voice grated on her nerves. “Come to thank me for the dance?”

Izzy placed her recorder on the table and hit the red button. “Interview with Harlan McCann, December first, ten forty-seven a.m. Present are Sheriff Llewellyn, Deputy Wahlberg, and Deputy Grimes.”

She sat, maintaining eye contact with McCann. “Let’s talk about Thanksgiving night.”

“Not much to talk about.” McCann shrugged, chains rattling. “You got the drop on me. Happens to the best of us.”

“Why were you in my house?”

McCann’s dull grey eyes fixed on the recorder. “No comment.”

“Who hired you?”

“No comment.”

“Who drove you there?”

McCann’s lips twitched. “What makes you think someone drove me?”

“Because we found no vehicle we couldn’t account for within walking distance.” Izzy leaned forward. “So who was it?”

“No comment.”

“Attempted murder of a law enforcement officer carries serious time, Mr. McCann. Twenty-five to life in California.”

McCann’s casual demeanor cracked. He sat up straighter, chains clinking. “Whoa now, attempted murder? I wasn’t trying to kill nobody.”

“You swung a fire poker at my head while I was sleeping.”

“You weren’t in the bed.”

“You didn’t know that.”

“Just trying to knock you out.” He settled back, seemingly relieved to clarify this point. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”

“Why did you want to knock me out?”

The shutters came down behind McCann’s eyes. “No comment.”

“What were you planning to do with me, unconscious?”

“No comment.”

“Who hired you?”

McCann’s jaw worked. “We’re done here.”

Izzy tried several more angles, but McCann had retreated into stony silence. His earlier slip about not intending murder was all she’d get.

She switched off the recorder and stood. “Think about that attempted murder charge, Mr. McCann. Maybe you’ll feel more talkative next time.”

But McCann just stared at the wall, already a thousand miles away.

Chapter

Twenty-Six

Harlan McCann’s lawyer showed up an hour later. Izzy watched him sign in then a deputy took him to an interview room. She would have given anything to know what was discussed but there were laws about her listening in on privileged conversations. So she waited with a stale coffee, but she didn’t wait long.

After only ten minutes, the lawyer’s polished loafers shuffled down the hallway, fading into silence. Izzy watched a deputy lead McCann back to the lockup, and the suspect gave her a smile that was way too confident given his circumstances.

Izzy walked back to the dispatch desk. “You got the details on that attorney?”

The woman on dispatch nodded. “California Bar Association shows him registered and practicing out of Oakland. Marvin Frumkin, been a member since 1998.”

“Did McCann make a call to this lawyer?”

“No, ma’am. He made one call, to a Nevada number.”

Izzy frowned. “Thanks.” She turned to find Wahlberg hunched over a computer screen, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Boss, you need to see this.” He pulled up McCann’s rap sheet on the screen. “Our friend’s got quite the history in Nevada. Address listed in Henderson.”

“Henderson?” Izzy leaned in. “So?”

“Well, here’s the thing.” Wahlberg clicked to another view on the computer. “Remember Reeves' fancy new truck? I ran it through CarFax. Guess where it was purchased?”

“I feel like you want me to say Henderson.”

“Bingo. Desert Sun Motors.”

“But Reeves' truck has California plates.”

Wahlberg tapped the screen. “Transfer of registration at purchase. That’s a lot of extra paperwork for a car you could just buy here.”

“If he could afford it, which I think we agree, he couldn’t.”

Wahlberg shifted in his chair. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence.”

“Me, neither.” Izzy stood up straight. “How’d you think to check CarFax?”

“Public records are public records.” Wahlberg shrugged. “My wife used it before we bought her car. She suggested it.”

“Your wife should consider a career in law enforcement.” Izzy grabbed her jacket from the back of a chair. “Let’s go pay another visit to Reeves' place.”

Clouds set Reeves' front yard in perpetual gloom as Wahlberg pulled up to the curb. The property looked exactly as it had on all her visits—rundown and neglected, except for the shiny new truck in the driveway that stuck out like a gold tooth in a mouthful of decay.

“Mail’s piling up,” Wahlberg noted, pointing to the overstuffed mailbox.

Izzy stepped out of her vehicle. “How long since anyone’s seen him?”

“Not since he made bail.” Wahlberg followed her up the cracked walkway. “Deputies say he hasn’t been at any of his usual spots.”

Izzy knocked on the door. No answer. She tried again, harder this time. The hollow sound echoed through the house.

“Known drug user, mail’s stacking up, no one’s seen him in days.” Izzy walked around the side of the house. “I’d say that warrants a welfare check.”

The back door’s lock was cheap, the kind found at any big box hardware store. It took Izzy less than a minute to get inside.

The interior smelled of stale cigarettes and unwashed dishes. Empty beer cans littered the coffee table, exactly where they’d been during their first visit. The clothes they’d seen scattered across the floor remained untouched.

“Check the bedrooms,” Izzy directed. “I’ll take the garage.”

The main garage door was locked, but there was a personnel door at the side. Izzy broke a window with a rock and reached through to open it. The door groaned as Izzy pushed it open. She fumbled for a light switch but didn’t find anything, so she grabbed her flashlight. Dust motes swirled in the beam. A tarp-covered mass occupied the majority of the space. Izzy approached carefully, drawing back the corner of the heavy canvas.

Her breath caught. A truck. Older model, similar to the previous sheriff’s vehicle. The passenger side panels showed distinctive denting—the kind that might match perfectly with missing panels from a wreck sitting in a yard a couple of miles away.

“Wahlberg,” she called out. “We need a tow truck.”

Twenty minutes later, a flatbed arrived. The driver, a heavyset man in his fifties, surveyed both vehicles.

“The new one’s blocking the garage,” he said. “Want me to move it first?”

“Can you take them both?” Izzy asked.

“Sure. It’s your dime.”

Izzy didn’t argue that as a taxpayer, it was actually his dime.

The driver scratched his head. “Where you want ’em, Sheriff? Your office in Darkness?”

“CHP office here in Harris.”

Wahlberg waited until the trucks were loaded before speaking. “Boss, why give this to the Highway Patrol? It’s our jurisdiction.”

Izzy watched the flatbed pull away. “Because right now, I don’t know who I can trust in our office. And I don’t care who solves this thing, Elliot. I just want the truth.”

I stare at my half-eaten eggs, the yolks congealing into a sickly yellow mess. The phone call had killed what remained of my appetite. Fucking Reeves. I’d told him to get rid of that truck, not park it in his garage like some trophy.

The new sheriff found it. Of course, she did. She has that annoying habit of digging where she shouldn’t, just like her old man. At least Reeves wasn’t around to talk. The idiot probably would have cracked under pressure, spilled everything. Not that she wouldn’t know plenty now. No doubt there would be paint transfer on the moron’s truck, and she would find that it matched perfectly with the paint from Trahan’s wreck.

I push my plate away and watched the steam rise from my coffee. Maybe this could work in my favor. Let her chase down that lead, waste time building a case against a dead man. Keep her busy looking in all the wrong places while we finish business.

My gaze drifts to the photos spread across the kitchen table—surveillance shots of Sheriff Llewellyn. That trim figure in her uniform, that determined stride. My partner’s man had failed miserably, and he knew who I was. That was a concern. My partners assure me he won’t talk, but I don’t like relying on criminals where my liberty is concerned. The timetable has to accelerate. I need more cooks. But I know where to look.

What I don’t need are partners. I should have handled things, and now I will. For now, I’ll let the sheriff do her business, follow the breadcrumbs she’s found. When I’m ready, I’ll reel her in. And when I’ve had my fun, I will be nothing but dust in the rearview.

Chapter

Twenty-Seven

The call came in just as Izzy was packing up for the day. Robbie Markram’s fever had spiked to dangerous levels. His parents found him unresponsive and called 911. Izzy heard the dispatch and tore through the streets, her headlights cutting through the darkness that gave the town its name. The paramedics didn’t bother with the clinic, heading straight up the highway to Harris.

The emergency room doors slid open with a hiss. Cole stood at the nurse’s station, waiting. He glanced up as Izzy entered, his expression hardening, before he turned away to speak with the nurse.

Izzy’s entire body ached. She wanted to go to him, to explain everything, but what could she say? The truth was exactly what Denly had told him—she had shot her husband. The context, the betrayal, the pain, none of that changed the basic facts.

She found the Markrams in the waiting room, huddled together on a vinyl sofa. Sally Markram’s eyes were red and swollen, while Jeb paced in tight circles, his work boots squeaking against the linoleum floor.

“Sheriff.” Jeb’s voice cracked. “They won’t let us see him.”

“The doctors need space to work.” Izzy settled into a chair across from them. “Cole—Dr. Barrow will let you know what’s happening as soon as he can.”

Sally nodded, clutching a tissue. “He’s been so good with Robbie. He just isn’t getting better.”

Izzy watched through the waiting room window as nurses rushed past. Ten years old. The same age she’d been when she first realized Darkness wasn’t like other places. While her classmates played tag at break, she’d overheard her teacher discussing Bobby Jensen’s older brother—another overdose, another funeral. The desperation seeped into everything here, like the dust that coated the town in summer.

Some, like Tamara, found their place teaching the next generation, running family businesses, carrying on traditions. But for others, the weight of limited horizons crushed their spirits. They either escaped or slowly suffocated.

Cole emerged from the treatment area, his face drawn. The Markrams jumped up, and Izzy’s heart lurched as he approached. But his eyes slid past her, focusing solely on the anxious parents.

“We’ve stabilized him,” Cole said. “His temperature is coming down, but we’re still running tests. He’s in pediatric intensive care and might be there for a while.”

“Can we see him?” Sally choked.

Cole nodded. “He’s awake, but he’s quite out of it.” He led them through the double doors, leaving Izzy alone with her thoughts.

She watched through the window as Cole spoke with the parents, his manner gentle and reassuring despite his obvious exhaustion. His hands moved as he explained something, probably medical terms in ways they could understand. The same hands that had touched her face so tenderly at Thanksgiving, before everything fell apart.

These kids—Robbie, the others who’d fallen ill—they were still innocent. Still believed in a world where adults could fix anything, where their hometown was a playground, not a prison. Izzy had believed that once too, before she understood why so many turned to drugs or drink, desperate to escape a reality they believed they couldn’t change.

Izzy felt sick herself. About not seeing through Mark’s mask, about letting down the Bureau, about ending up back here. About Cole, and about Robbie, and how she couldn’t fix him, solve his problem. She was too focused on herself, on whatever this thing was with Sheriff Trahan’s death. She needed to crack this nut. For Robbie, for his parents. For every kid in Darkness.

Izzy waited for an hour. She knew Cole had not left, but he was nowhere to be seen. Even in a small rural hospital, there were plenty of places to hide if you knew your way around.

Izzy watched Sally and Jeb emerge from Robbie’s room, their shoulders slumped with exhaustion. Sally wiped her eyes with a crumpled tissue.

Izzy stood and walked over to them. “How is he?”

Sally glanced at Jeb. “He’s scared. He doesn’t understand what’s happening to him. Or why.”

“He’s sick,” said Izzy. “And we need to find out why.”

“I thought that was your job?” spat Jeb.

“Jeb,” said Sally.

“No, Sally.” Izzy put her palms up. “Jeb’s right. It is my job. Would you mind if I talk to him for a minute?”

“He’s not going to tell you anything,” said Jeb. “Why should he trust you?”

“He already thinks he’s in trouble,” said Sally.

Izzy’s brow creased. “For what?”

“I don’t know. Causing all this fuss.”

“Sally, Jeb, please let me talk to him. Not as the sheriff—just as someone who grew up here too.”

Sally nodded. Jeb said he’d be watching.

Izzy slipped into the dim room. Robbie lay propped up against white pillows, his skin pale except for two fever-bright spots on his cheeks. An IV dripped steadily beside the bed.

“Hey there.” Izzy pulled up a chair. “Your mom says you’re feeling pretty rough.”

Robbie nodded, his eyes wary as they swept across her uniform.

“You know, when I was your age, I used to get into all sorts of trouble around here.” Izzy settled back, keeping her voice casual. “Did you know there used to be an old tree fort out by the creek?”

A slight spark of interest flickered in Robbie’s eyes. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah. My friend Tamara—Ms. Ramos now—and I spent whole summers up there. We’d pack sandwiches and pretend we were explorers mapping unknown territory.” Izzy smiled at the memory. “Of course, the territory wasn’t so unknown to my dad. He caught us sneaking home after dark more than once.”

Robbie’s fingers plucked at his blanket. “We have a place like that too.”

“Yeah? Where do you go?”

He hesitated and pulled the sheets up to his chin.

Izzy crossed her legs. “Did you know that my dad was the sheriff back then?”

Robbie shook his head.

“Yeah, imagine being the sheriff’s kid.” She smiled, and his face relaxed a touch. “But I remember that we never got in trouble for going to the old fort. My dad was just worried about us getting hurt.”

Robbie nodded.

“You haven’t done anything wrong. You’re just out playing in a place that can sometimes be a little boring. I know that. You gotta make your own fun. But now, something’s making you sick. And your mom and dad are worried about that, just like my dad was worried about me. But you know what? I have a superpower.”

Robbie’s eyes widened.

She uncrossed her legs and leaned toward the bed. “Promise you won’t tell?”

He nodded.

“Well, my superpower is that I can solve puzzles. All kinds of puzzles. Jigsaws and treasure maps and mysteries. That’s why they made me sheriff. Because of my superpower. And right now, I need a sidekick. Do you think you’re up to being my sidekick?”

Robbie nodded again.

“Awesome. So together, we can solve this puzzle.”

“And find the treasure?”

“Absolutely.”

Robbie bit at a fingernail before looking up at Izzy. “I have a treasure map.”

“You do? Is it at home?”

He shook his head. “It’s in our hideout.”

“That’s a good place to keep it. Where’s your hideout? I won’t tell. It can be like our superhero base.”

“There’s this old shack.” His voice grew stronger. “Way out past Dad’s farm, in the hills. Near the magic river. We ride our quads out there.”

“We?”

“Me and Kent and Mira.” Robbie’s eyes drooped. “We pretend it’s our hideout. Sometimes . . .” He yawned. “Sometimes we pretend we’re out looking for treasure like they used to here, in the old days.”

Izzy nodded. “Do you ever find treasure?”

But Robbie had drifted off, his breathing evening out into sleep. Izzy stood quietly, her mind racing. Three kids, all sick. All with access to the same location. She had her first real lead.

The hallway felt too bright after the dimness of Robbie’s room. Sally approached while Jeb watched from a distance.

“What happened?” Sally asked.

“He mentioned a hideout. A place where the kids go and play. In the foothills beyond your property.”

Jeb stepped closer. “There’s nothing out there.”

“He mentioned a shack, maybe?”

Jeb shrugged. “There’s an old miner’s shelter out there, but it’s hardly even standing. I played there myself when I was a kid. I didn’t get sick.”

“Have you been there recently?”

“Not in twenty years.”

“I need to go and look at it first thing tomorrow.” Izzy glanced down the hall and then back. “Do you mind if I cross your property to check it out?”

Jeb hesitated. Sally elbowed him in the ribs.

“No,” he said. “I don’t know if we’ll be there in the morning. Might be here. But there are UTVs and quads in the shed. The keys are in ’em.”

Chapter

Twenty-Eight

Cole pulled his truck onto the gravel driveway of the Markram farm just as the sun crested the eastern mountains. The cold morning air bit through his jacket as he gathered his sampling equipment from the back seat.

His breath frosted in front of him as he checked his watch. The white Explorer eased in through the gate, kicking up dust as it rolled to a stop beside his Ram.

Izzy stepped out, her dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail under a sheriff’s office ball cap. Her eyes widened slightly at seeing him there. “What are you doing here?”

“Jeb mentioned the shack last night. Thought I should check for environmental factors, take some samples.” Cole kept his voice neutral, professional. “Could be something the kids were exposed to out there.”

She nodded, her face carefully composed. The awkward silence stretched between them like a physical barrier.

Cole shifted his medical bag, wanting to look anywhere but at her. The memory of her scent on his sheets this morning had nearly undone him. He needed to do laundry, needed to scrub away every trace of her from his life. But these kids came first.

“The shed’s this way.” Izzy led him around the barn to where several vehicles sat under a metal overhang. Three quad bikes and a side-by-side UTV waited, their metal frames gleaming dully in the early light.

Cole eyed the vehicles, calculating. The quads would be faster, more maneuverable. But the UTV had actual seats and a steering wheel.

“I’m driving,” Izzy announced, moving toward the UTV.

Cole hesitated, tempted to take a quad just to avoid being close to her. But they needed to maintain some semblance of professionalism. With a resigned sigh, he climbed into the passenger seat, placing his medical bag between his feet.

The engine roared to life, and they set off across the scrubland, following what looked like a well-worn trail into the foothills. The silence between them felt charged, dangerous. Questions burned in Cole’s mind, the same ones he’d never asked his ex-wife. Why the lies? Why the deception?

But he knew why. His ex had cheated. Izzy had killed her husband. People who did things like that lied, didn’t they? The thought should have chilled him, pushed her further away. Instead, his mind kept circling back to that night on her grandfather’s porch, the way her lips had felt against his. How she’d kissed him in his living room, soft and hesitant at first, then with growing passion.

Cole gripped the roll cage as they bounced across flat, featureless ground. The land dipped down to cross a shallow river, water splashing up around the tires. Cole watched her hands on the wheel, sure and confident as she navigated the terrain. She seemed to know exactly where she was going, taking turns without hesitation.

She followed a winding trail into the foothills. Cole braced his legs together to keep his equipment bag secure between his boots. The morning sun cast long shadows across the rugged landscape, painting the rocks in shades of amber and gold.

Izzy guided them through a narrow gulch where the walls pressed close on either side. The gulch opened into a wider clearing, and there it stood. A decrepit miner’s shack barely clinging to existence. One wall had completely collapsed, leaving the tin roof sagging at a precarious angle. The remaining wooden walls were aged to a dull gray, covered in patches of desert lichen. The glass in the windows was long gone, the frames hanging askew.

“You’ve been here before?” Cole asked as they climbed out of the UTV.

“Not here exactly. But places like it.” Izzy adjusted her cap against the morning sun. “There are old mines all through these hills.”

“You seemed to know the way pretty well.”

She pointed to the ground. “I just followed the tire tracks.”

Cole shook his head. Of course—the tracks were obvious now that she’d mentioned them.

Inside, the shack’s floor was littered with candy wrappers and empty soda cans. A plastic bin held an assortment of action figures and toy cars, carefully arranged despite the chaos around them. Cole recognized the careful organization of children trying to create order in a world where they had no agency.

“Cole.” Izzy’s voice drew his attention. She held up a piece of paper—a hand-drawn map decorated with skulls and crossbones. “Robbie mentioned a magic river. Look.”

The crude map showed several landmarks, including what appeared to be the shack they were standing in. A wavy blue line marked “Magic River” wound its way across the paper.

“There’s a ridge just over there that matches this.” Izzy pointed through the collapsed wall.

They hiked over the rocky outcrop, following the children’s map. As they crested the hill, Cole could see the folds in the landscape like a discarded bed sheet..

“They mined out here?”

“Sure did. Gold, silver, lead.” She waved her hand across the view. “The town of Darkness was actually settled by the '49ers, so the legend goes.”

“That was here?”

“No, the mother lode was closer to Sacramento. Coloma, thereabouts. Most of the mining done here was actually later, but those 49ers dug a hole everywhere they stopped on their way west. A few stayed here.”

“Why?”

Izzy shot him a look. “They quit, that’s why. The story is that gold diggers came west and crossed the Rockies and then these eastern hills here, and then they hit the Sierra Nevadas and that was one range too many, so they just gave up. They found a few precious metals, so they set up shop, and by the time word came that people were hitting it big further west, many didn’t have the heart for one more try. Some left, some didn’t.”

“Why did they Darkness? What was that all about?”

“They’d passed through Death Valley, sun all the time. Even the nights are bright out there. When they got here, the sun was lost behind the Sierras by mid-afternoon, and it came up over the eastern hills late, so it felt like it was always night.”

“Always in Darkness.”

Cole watched her nod and flick a glance his way.

The sound of running water grew louder as they descended the other side. A narrow stream trickled through the rocks below, but something was wrong. Instead of clear mountain water, the stream flowed in otherworldly shades of green and yellow.

Cole pulled on latex gloves and knelt beside the water. The acrid smell burned his nostrils—chemical, industrial. He carefully filled several sample vials.

“It’ll take weeks to get VOC testing done through the state lab,” Izzy said.

“I know a guy at the private lab in Harris.” Cole sealed the vials in his collection kit. “He owes me a favor.”

The wind whispered through the rocks, carrying that sharp chemical smell. Cole thought of Robbie in his hospital bed, of the other sick children. He’d seen the effects of contaminated water sources before, in villages outside Kandahar. The results were long, slow deaths.

He wasn’t going to let that happen. Not on his watch. He waited while Izzy took photos, and then they hiked back to the UTV. They rode back to the farmhouse in silence, Cole thinking about a town that was founded by people who had given up, but whose descendants had persevered for nearly two hundred years.

Izzy parked the UTV where she had found it, and they walked to their vehicles. As he opened his door, Izzy called over the hood of her Explorer, “Please let me know what the tests say.”

Cole nodded. “Serena will be in touch.”

Then he pulled out, gravel spraying behind like a wake.

Cole drove north on 395, his mind churning over the implications of what they’d found. The chemical smell lingered in his nose despite the truck’s air conditioning. He’d encountered that particular odor before, usually in emergency room cases of toxic exposure.

The Ram’s engine growled as it ate up the miles between Darkness and Harris. Fields of scrub grass blurred past his windows, broken only by the occasional cluster of buildings or an ancient windmill.

The Harris Regional Hospital parking lot was half-full when he arrived. Cole bypassed the main entrance and headed straight for the service access at the rear of the building. A private pathology company rented space there. Dr. Dylan Pickett was face down at a microscope when Cole found him, his nametag dangling from his white lab coat.

“Those the samples?” Pickett held out his hands as Cole approached.

Cole passed over the collection kit. “I need everything you can tell me about what’s in that water. Priority rush.”

Pickett raised an eyebrow. “Priority or priority?”

“Got a kid dying upstairs.”

“Give me eight hours.”

“You can do it in six.”

Pickett headed into his lab to run the samples through a battery of tests while Cole returned to his office in Darkness. Each hour dragged by like molasses. He checked his phone periodically but resisted the urge to call for updates. Dylan would contact him when he had something to tell.

Finally, after six hours of waiting, Serena put through the call, and Cole snatched up the phone.

“You’re not going to like this,” Pickett warned. “Check your email.”

Cole brought up the data Dylan had sent through. As he perused it, Dylan explained what he was seeing.

“VOC levels are off the charts. Acetone, methanol, sodium hydroxide . . .” Cole’s finger traced down the list on the screen as his colleague spoke. “Plus traces of lithium, red phosphorus, and several other compounds I won’t bore you with.”

Cole’s stomach clenched. He knew these chemicals. Had treated their effects in both combat zones and emergency rooms. “This looks like the list of byproducts from methamphetamine production.”

Matthews nodded. “Exactly. Someone’s dumping their waste into that water source. Based on these concentrations, I’d say either they’re working in massive quantities or they’re dumping it close to the source you tested. It’s hardly diluted at all.”

Cole tossed over the test results, his mind already racing ahead to implications. Kids playing near contaminated water. A dead sheriff. New trucks purchased with cash. An attempt on Izzy’s life.

“Thanks for the rush job.” Cole hit print on his computer. “Now I owe you one.”

“Just keep it quiet that I jumped you ahead in the queue,” Pickett said. “And Cole? Be careful with this. That level of contamination means someone’s running a serious operation out there. You should take this to the new sheriff.” He paused, then, “I hear she’s quite the looker.”

“I wouldn’t know,” he said, hanging up. He hit the button to call the hospital in Harris and alerted the doctor on call to the results and the implications for Robbie’s treatment.

Cole pulled off his white coat, grabbed his jacket, and headed for his truck. The sun hung low on the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple, but he paid it no attention. He needed to get these results to the new sheriff.

He started the engine and cursed the world that kept pulling him back into her orbit.

Chapter

Twenty-Nine

Izzy stared out the window at the endless desert, her mind on the magic river and when Cole would call. If Cole would call. She decided that a call from Serena would suffice, anything to keep the momentum of the investigation.

A light tap at her office door pulled her attention. Tamara stood in the doorway, holding a cardboard drink carrier in one hand and a white paper bag in the other.

“I come bearing gifts.” Tamara held up her offerings. “Mom’s churros, still warm.”

The scent of cinnamon and sugar mingled with fresh coffee wafted through the office.

“You’re a lifesaver.” Izzy cleared a space on her desk.

Tamara settled into the chair across from her, distributing the coffee cups and treats. “So, want to talk about what’s going on with you and Dr. Barrow?”

Izzy felt her face flush. She kept her eyes fixed on unwrapping her churro. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Please. I saw how you two looked at each other at the potluck. Then he stormed out, and you followed.” Tamara leaned forward. “And now you’re both avoiding each other like teenagers after a bad breakup.”

“Tam, don’t.” Izzy’s tone carried a sharp edge. She softened it with a sigh. “This is my workplace. I can’t have my personal life here. It’s more than I can handle.”

“Fair enough.” Tamara sat back, but her eyes held a knowing sympathy. “But when you’re ready to talk, I’m here.”

Grateful for the reprieve, Izzy gestured to the papers on her desk. “Actually, I could use your help with something else. We found contaminated water in the foothills out by the Markram place. I’m trying to trace where it’s coming from, but none of our maps show any water sources in that area.”

“What about the old mining surveys?”

“What mining surveys?”

Tamara’s laugh echoed through the office. “Oh my god, you really don’t remember the library, do you? You were too busy playing sheriff with your dad’s badge to ever step foot in there.”

“The school library?” Izzy frowned. “Why would they have mining surveys?”

“It’s also the public library. Open two afternoons a week and Saturday mornings.” Tamara’s eyes lit up with the enthusiasm of a true bibliophile. “There’s this whole separate room full of local records, old maps, all kinds of historical documents. The elementary kids aren’t allowed in there, but it’s a goldmine of information about the area, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

“That’s perfect.” Izzy straightened in her chair. “Any chance you’d want to do some digging?”

A wide grin spread across Tamara’s face. “Mind spending time in the library with an actual purpose? You really don’t know me at all anymore, do you?”

Izzy watched Tamara lick cinnamon sugar from her fingers, grateful for the easy companionship.

“Remember when we used to skip fourth period and get churros from your mom?” Izzy asked.

“And she’d pretend not to see us, but somehow Dad always knew.” Tamara shook her head. “I got grounded so many times because of you.”

“Me? You were the mastermind.”

“Yeah, but you had that innocent sheriff’s daughter thing going. Nobody ever suspected you.”

Their laughter filled the office, and Izzy felt some of the tension drain from her shoulders. After Tamara left, promising to check the library records tomorrow, Izzy spread out her topographical map across the desk.

She traced the path from the Markram farm to the contaminated stream, noting how the land sloped down from the eastern mountains. Water always followed the path of least resistance. If the stream originated higher in the hills, it would naturally flow toward the valley floor.

Her finger followed the contour lines, tracking the likely course. The stream had to connect to something, another river, an aquifer—no water source existed in isolation out here. As she backtracked against the natural flow, her finger stopped at the service road where she and Wahlberg had recently stood in the middle of nowhere.

Maybe there was more to the place than she had seen.

The afternoon sun slanted through her office window, casting long shadows across her desk. She glanced outside. Maybe an hour of decent light left. Enough time to check her theory about the service road.

She grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair, already mapping the fastest route in her head, when Cole appeared in her doorway. His presence filled the space, making her office feel suddenly smaller.

“Don’t you knock?”

Cole held up a manila envelope. “Got the test results back from Dr. Pickett.”

“And?”

“VOC levels are off the charts. Acetone, methanol, sodium hydroxide.” He pulled out a sheet of paper dense with chemical compounds. “Plus traces of lithium and red phosphorus.”

“In English, Doctor.”

“It’s consistent with methamphetamine production waste. Someone’s using that water source to dump their chemical byproducts.” Cole’s eyes held hers. “Pickett says based on the concentration, they’re either working in massive quantities or dumping close to where we tested.”

The pieces clicked into place in Izzy’s mind. She grabbed her keys and moved past Cole, close enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne.

Cole turned to follow her. “Where are you going?”

“I need to check something.”

“What about the families?” His voice hardened. “Or should I do your job for you? Those kids need treatment.”

Izzy spun to face him. “It’s handled, Dr. Barrow. I didn’t wait for the results. One family’s already driving to Harris. I have Deputy Wahlberg picking up the other. If you’ll excuse me.”

She strode down the stairs, her boots echoing on the metal steps. Cole’s footsteps followed.

“Are you going to do something stupid?”

Instead of answering, Izzy swiped her ID across the security panel. The door to the motor pool clicked open.

“What do you care?” She stepped through, letting the heavy door swing shut between them.

What did he care? That was rich coming from her. Man, she could get under his skin. The memory of Izzy’s face when he’d delivered the test results lingered. Professional. Focused. Already three steps ahead with calls made and families notified.

Damn her efficiency. It was frustrating as all hell.

Trust. That was what relationships needed. Trust and honesty. He’d learned that lesson the hard way in Afghanistan, watching his marriage crumble while he was deployed. Then again when she admitted the affair.

He needed to get to Harris Regional. He had treatment protocols to develop, specialists to consult. The sooner he got there, the better chance those kids had of avoiding permanent damage.

But first he had to take care of Nanook. Neglecting his best friend was not acceptable, so he would stop and give Nanook some love and some food, and then hit the road. He could consult by phone on the way.

The Ram’s engine strained as he rose up the hill toward his cabin. His patients needed him. Three kids with potentially severe chemical exposure. That was what mattered now.

Cole pulled into his driveway. Nanook’s excited barking greeted him before he even cut the engine. The big malamute’s tail wagged furiously as Cole opened the front door.

“Hey, buddy.” Cole scratched behind Nanook’s ears, letting the dog’s unconditional affection wash over him. No complicated histories here. No hidden truths or betrayals. Just pure, simple love.

Cole filled Nanook’s bowl with premium kibble and watched him eat, then led him outside even though the dog had constant access through his custom door.

The crisp mountain air bit through his jacket as they walked the perimeter of his property. Nanook bounded through patches of scrub brush, marking his territory while Cole’s mind drifted to the sick kids. He could feel the fatigue setting in, and he didn’t look forward to the drive, but his mind wouldn’t rest. The diagnoses worried him. So did Sheriff Llewellyn. She had that look in her eyes, the one that meant she was about to do something reckless.

Cole shook his head. Not his problem.

“Come on, boy.” He led Nanook back inside. The dog flopped onto his bed in the corner while Cole headed for the shower.

A quick wash and fresh shirt, then the long drive to Harris Regional. The kids were what mattered now. Everything else—the sheriff, the lies, that kiss on her grandfather’s porch—counted for nothing.

Chapter

Thirty

Izzy pressed her foot harder on the accelerator, the Explorer’s engine roaring as she sped down the dirt track. Dust billowed behind her truck in a thick plume that hung in the still desert air. The setting sun made the hills ahead glow, a warning that darkness would soon blanket the valley.

She could return tomorrow. That was what a sensible sheriff would do. But momentum mattered in an investigation, and she had it now. Each piece fit together: the contaminated water, the kids' hangout, the service road that led nowhere.

Cole’s words echoed in her mind. Are you going to do something stupid? She clenched her jaw again. Who was he to question her judgment?

Her thoughts drifted to doing something stupid that night with Mark. The warehouse. The gun. Her split-second decision that changed everything. No. She shook her head, forcing the memory away. Mark died because he was corrupt, because he’d betrayed everything they’d built together. His choices led to his death, not hers. His other life, his lies. Just like her half-truths made Cole look at her with disgust.

She was concerned about what she was headed into, but not overly so. The hitman sat in a cell, denied bail after the lawyer’s visit spooked him silent. She wasn’t walking into danger blind this time. This was reconnaissance, nothing more.

Izzy pulled up where she and Wahlberg had stopped before, where the track ended at the base of the foothills. She killed the engine and stepped out. The cooling metal ticked in the silence.

Nothing appeared different. Ancient tire tracks cut through the hard-packed earth, weathered by time and the elements. But something had drawn the previous sheriff out here. Something he’d died for.

She grabbed her flashlight and weapon, then started the climb into the rocky terrain. Her boots slipped on loose gravel as she picked her way up, staying alert for movement in the growing shadows.

Twenty minutes of steady hiking brought her to another miner’s shack, this one more intact than the children’s hangout. The wooden walls leaned slightly, but the roof looked solid. Recent activity had cleared a path to the door. Glass windows were intact, and the structure looked three seasons habitable.

Izzy drew her weapon and eased the door open. Her flashlight beam cut through the gloom, revealing a rough table and chairs. Fresh scuff marks broke through the dust on the floor, forming clear footprints. Someone had been here, and recently.

The beam of her flashlight caught something metallic glinting on the table. Izzy stepped closer, slipping her weapon back into its holster. Empty beer cans, cigarette butts—and metal shell casings. She picked one up. Not the cheap stuff locals used for target practice. These were high-end rounds, like the ones that had torn through Mark’s chest.

“You should have stayed back east, Sheriff.” Frank Denly’s gravelly voice froze her in place. The metallic click of a revolver being cocked echoed in the small space. “Darkness was better off without you.”

Izzy dropped her flashlight. The beam rolled across warped floorboards, casting wild shadows.

“Hands high,” said Denly. “Turn slowly.”

Izzy eased around to face him with her hands at shoulder height. Denly stood in the doorway, his personal revolver trained on her chest.

“Drop the gun, Frank. Whatever this is, we can work it out.”

“Like you worked things out with your husband?” Denly’s lip turned up on one side, giving him a grotesque appearance in the dim light. “Yeah, I know all about that. You’re good at working things out with bullets.”

“You don’t know anything about Mark.” She lowered her hands an inch, then two.

“I know enough. Just like I know what happened to Sheriff Trahan when he started asking questions.” Denly took a step forward. “On your knees, or I’ll make this look like another tragic accident.”

“You didn’t kill Sheriff Trahan.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“But Reeves worked for you,” Izzy said. “Is he dead too now?”

“I’d say old Hector outlived his usefulness, and if don’t get on your damned knees, you will have too.”

“How am I useful, Frank?”

Denly hacked a laugh. “Before, it was because you’re so damned useless at your job, but now? I’m sure we can think of some uses for a pretty girl like you.”

Izzy’s mind raced. The window beside her was low enough to dive through, if she could use her gun to clear the path. Then Denly took his left hand off his weapon to adjust his crotch, as if giving Izzy a preview of things to come.

Izzy went for her gun.

The explosion of gunfire filled the shack. Pain seared through her left shoulder as the round drove her backward into the wall. She dropped out of the beam of light for a moment. Denly didn’t fire a second shot.

“I don’t want to kill you!” he yelled. “Not yet, sweetheart.”

Izzy pulled her weapon. She couldn’t see Denly in the dark either, so she went with Plan B and fired through the window. Then she ran. One, two, three quick steps across the floorboards, and she flung herself into the disintegrating pane. Glass shards and splinters tore at her jacket. She hit the ground hard, rolling down the rocky slope.

More shots cracked overhead as she scrambled behind an outcropping. Warm blood soaked her shirt. The wound burned, but she could still move her arm. The round had gone straight through. Small mercy.

She ran into the shadows of a gully, then scrambled up behind a boulder that looked ready to roll. Pressing her back against the rock, she felt the wound. It was bleeding badly, but she couldn’t fix it and fire a weapon. Izzy didn’t know if Denly was lying in wait or fleeing. He could wait in the shadows near her vehicle and pick her off. If she could even make it back there. Twenty minutes felt like forever as the sun gave way and the stars took duty.

Izzy wriggled out of her coat, making way too much noise in the process. Then she tore off her polo shirt with one hand, the action of working her shoulder sending shooting pain through her to the point of nearly fainting. She sat against the boulder in her bra, sucking in cold air and willing her brain to stay booted up.

When the pain became but a dull roar, she wadded up her shirt and folded it across her shoulder, covering both the entry and exit wounds. Then she eased her arms back into her coat and zipped it up.

Izzy fumbled for her phone with her left hand, trying to keep pressure on her shoulder with her right. The pain made operating that hand difficult, but the screen lit up, illuminating her blood-stained fingers. No bars. Nada. Of course not. She hit the emergency SOS button anyway, knowing it was useless out here.

The temperature was dropping fast as night settled over the hills. She strained for the sound of Denly’s boots crunching on rocks above, searching. There was nothing. Her breath came in short gasps, visible in the cold air. The pain tore at her, and a tear broke free. A wave of nausea hit her.

No one knew where she was. No one was coming.

Deputy Elliot Wahlberg stared at the incident report on his screen, carefully checking each field for accuracy. The squad room had emptied out as the day shift wrapped up, leaving him alone with the gentle hum of the central heating and the click of his keyboard.

Some of the other deputies, especially Denly, had mocked his methodical approach to paperwork. “You trying to win a Pulitzer for report writing, rookie?”

But Sheriff Llewellyn had validated his attention to detail, explaining how even routine reports could become crucial evidence. “Everything we document might end up in front of a judge,” she’d said. “Your diligence could make the difference between justice served or denied.”

The squad room door burst open. Adrianne rushed in, her normally composed demeanor cracked with worry.

“Is Hawkins still here? I can’t find him anywhere.” Her voice trembled.

Wahlberg straightened in his chair. “He left an hour ago. What’s wrong?”

“We got an emergency beacon alert.” Adrianne wrung her hands.

“Probably one of the guys messing around?”

“It’s not.”

“Who is it?” But even as he asked, Wahlberg was already moving toward the front desk, his heart hammering.

“It’s Sheriff Lew.”

The alert glowed red on Adrianne’s monitor. Wahlberg had read the manual cover to cover when they’d installed the new system. The beacons operated on GPS satellites, not cellular networks. They couldn’t transmit voice or text—just location coordinates. Homeland Security money at work.

He studied the map location. The signal originated from deep in the eastern foothills, past where he and the sheriff had investigated the service road. His stomach clenched. That was at least an hour’s drive and then a hike, even pushing the speed limit.

Sheriff Lew wouldn’t trigger the beacon without cause. Something was very wrong.

Wahlberg sprinted back to his desk, grabbing his coat and phone. “I’m going out there.”

He pulled up Cole Barrow’s number as he rushed to his SUV. His thumb hesitated over the call button. Things had gotten weird between the doctor and the sheriff lately. The easy rapport they’d shown at the potluck had dissolved into tense exchanges.

But this wasn’t about their personal drama. If the sheriff was hurt, she’d need medical help. Wahlberg hit dial as he started the engine.

He hoped the doctor would answer. He hoped Cole would come. But he had heard them talking earlier in her office, and something bad was flowing between them. They spoke with hate in their voices.

Wahlberg pulled out and rethought the conclusion. Not hate.

Fear.

Cole’s phone buzzed against the mount as he drove past the You’re Leaving Darkness sign. A local number lit up the screen. Probably Harris Regional, about one of the kids.

“Dr. Barrow.”

“It’s Deputy Wahlberg.” The young deputy’s voice crackled with urgency. “Sheriff Lew’s in trouble. We got an emergency beacon alert from the eastern foothills. Something bad’s happened.”

Cole yanked the wheel hard, the Ram’s tires squealing as he executed a sharp U-turn. His heart beat like a drum as he floored the accelerator through town. The streets blurred past—general store, Coyote Flat’s Café, the shuttered bank building. His mind raced with possibilities. Someone had already tried to kill her once.

He screeched into the small airfield where Wahlberg stood waiting, hands jammed in his jacket pockets against the cold. Cole grabbed his emergency medical pack from behind the truck seat.

“Run into the hangar and hit the flood lights,” Cole ordered, already striding toward his Robinson R22.

The pre-flight checklist burned in his mind as he circled the helicopter. Every fiber screamed to rush, to get airborne now, but he forced himself to be thorough. Blade integrity. Fuel levels. Oil. Weather conditions. A crash wouldn’t help anyone.

The flood lights blazed to life as Cole completed his walk-around. Wahlberg jogged back, face pale in the harsh illumination.

“Get in,” Cole said, climbing into the pilot’s seat. “Strap in tight.”

The Robinson’s engine whined as Cole brought it to life. The main rotor began its slow rotation, gathering speed until it was just a dark blur against the night sky. He was grateful now for the night-flying upgrades the previous owner had installed—the additional lighting and instruments that made it legal, even possible, to make this flight.

Cole eased the collective up, feeling the slight shudder as the skids left the ground. His hands were tight on the cyclic, hyper-aware of the darkness and the looming mountains ahead. The instrument panel cast a green glow across the cockpit as they climbed into the night.

Wahlberg’s face was illuminated by his phone screen as he studied the GPS coordinates. “Bearing zero-eight-zero. About thirty miles out.”

Cole banked east, pushing the little helicopter as fast as he dared. Somewhere out there in the darkness, Izzy needed him. Nothing else mattered.

Cole kept his eyes fixed ahead, scanning the dark expanse below through the helicopter’s windscreen. The spotlight carved a bright circle through the night, sweeping across the barren landscape between the hills and the oozing river. His hands stayed steady on the controls, despite the adrenaline coursing through his system.

The beam caught a flash of white.

“There’s her vehicle.” Izzy’s department SUV sat abandoned, a lonely sentinel in the wilderness. Cole banked the Robinson toward the foothills, following the natural contours of the land. The terrain grew more challenging as they approached the hills, forcing him to maintain a higher altitude than he’d like.

“Over there.” Wahlberg pointed to a depression in the landscape. “There’s a gulch. The beacon’s getting stronger—we’re close.”

Cole guided the helicopter over the first ridge. The gulch opened beneath them into a wider clearing. The spotlight illuminated an old mining shack, its ramshackle boards and sagging roof casting long shadows in the harsh light. The building seemed to stare back at them like a startled old-timer woken from sleep.

“Signal’s real close now.” Wahlberg kept his eyes on his phone screen. “But where can we land?”

“Need somewhere flat and open. At least twice the rotor diameter.” Cole swept the spotlight in a slow arc across the terrain. No trees to worry about up here—the vegetation was sparse outside the gulch.

The light caught a natural plateau jutting from the hillside. Tight, but workable. The surface looked relatively smooth, free of the larger rocks that dotted the surrounding area.

“There.” Cole nodded toward the plateau. “It’ll be close, but we can make it.”

He brought the Robinson around in a careful approach, mindful of the wind and the limited landing zone. The skids touched down with a gentle bump. Before the rotor blades had begun to slow, Cole had his harness off and was reaching for his medical backpack.

They jogged across the rocky ground, Wahlberg in the lead with his phone providing guidance. The whop-whop-whop of the rotors faded behind them.

“How close can we get with that thing?” Cole asked between breaths.

“Manual says ten meters’ accuracy.” Wahlberg glanced at him. “That’s what, about thirty feet?”

Cole’s flashlight beam cut through the darkness as they approached the GPS coordinates. His medical training warred with his rising panic—he needed to stay focused, but the thought of Izzy hurt or worse tied him in knots.

“Sheriff!” Wahlberg’s voice echoed off the hillside. “Sheriff Lew!”

“Izzy!” Cole’s deeper voice joined in.

The silence that followed each call twisted his gut.

They reached the spot where Wahlberg’s phone showed the beacon signal strongest. Cole scanned the surrounding area, seeing nothing but rocks and scrub brush in the harsh light.

“Let’s grid this out.” Cole pointed to their feet. “Start here. Walk opposite circles, five feet out. When we meet, we do it again at ten.”

They split up, moving in widening arcs. Cole’s boots crunched on loose rock as he swept his light back and forth. Nothing on the first circuit. Or the second. His heart pounded harder with each empty sweep.

On their third circle, now fifteen feet out, Cole’s light caught the edge of a massive boulder jutting from the hillside. He swung the beam behind it, and his breath caught.

Izzy lay crumpled against the rock, unconscious. Blood matted her hair and covered her hands, neck, and coat.

Cole dropped to his knees beside her, fingers pressing against her neck. The pulse was weak but steady. “Over here!”

Wahlberg’s footsteps pounded across the rocky ground as Cole shifted into doctor mode, his training taking over. He did a rapid assessment: breathing shallow but regular, skin cold and clammy.

“Hold her up,” Cole instructed as Wahlberg reached them. “Keep her sitting while I check the wound.”

Cole eased off her blood-soaked coat. Beneath it, he found her bloodied shirt wadded tight against her shoulder.

“Smart girl,” he said.

Wahlberg supported her back but faced away from his now bra-clad sheriff. Cole worked quickly. He cleaned the area and applied a proper field dressing from his kit. The bullet appeared to have gone through cleanly, missing vital organs. He wrapped the coat back around her, tucking her arms inside for warmth rather than threading them through the sleeves.

“I’ve got her.” Cole lifted Izzy in his arms, cradling her against his chest. “Talk to me, Izzy. Come on, open those eyes.”

They picked their way back to the helicopter, Cole murmuring encouragement with each step. He settled her into the passenger seat, securing the harness around her still form.

“There’s no room for three,” Cole said.

“I can hike out to her vehicle,” Wahlberg said.

Cole fished the keys from Izzy’s pants pocket and handed them over. “You sure you won’t get lost out here?”

“I was an Eagle Scout.” Wahlberg’s attempt at a smile looked more like a grimace.

“Of course you were.” Cole climbed into the pilot’s seat. “Take it slow. No heroes—I don’t want to have to come out here again.”

“I’ll follow the gulch down.” Wahlberg stepped back from the helicopter. “You heading to your office?”

“No. Straight to Harris Regional.” Cole started the engine sequence.

“I’ll be right behind you.” Wahlberg’s voice barely carried over the growing whine of the rotors.

Chapter

Thirty-One

Izzy floated in and out of consciousness, fragments of reality mixing with dreams. A window materialized through her heavy eyelids, sunlight streaming across white sheets. Her vision swam, but Cole’s face came into focus. He smiled down at her, and she tried to return it, but her facial muscles refused to cooperate. She blinked, and he vanished like smoke.

The next time awareness crept in, her mind felt less clouded. She took in her surroundings—the antiseptic smell, the steady beep of monitors, the stiff sheets. Hospital. The memory hit her: the shack, Denly’s voice, the gunshot. But there was no pain, just a disconnected, floating sensation. She attempted to push herself up, and agony ripped through her shoulder, driving her back against the pillows with a gasp.

Cole appeared at her side, his warm hand covering hers. The contact anchored her, but exhaustion pulled her under again.

When she surfaced once more, the fog had lifted, though bone-deep fatigue weighed on her limbs. Cole remained in the chair beside her bed, dark circles under his eyes and stubble shadowing his jaw.

“You’ve been out for most of the day,” Cole said, his voice gentle. “How’s the pain?”

Before she could answer, footsteps entered the room. Wahlberg appeared with Hawkins close behind, both wearing matching expressions of concern.

“Sheriff.” Hawkins moved to the foot of her bed. “Can you tell us who did this?”

“Frank Denly,” Izzy said, her voice rough from disuse. “He was waiting for me at the shack.”

Shock registered on both deputies' faces. Hawkins recovered first, turning to Wahlberg. “Put out a BOLO on Denly and his vehicle immediately. Get someone over to talk to his wife. Find him.”

Wahlberg nodded sharply and strode from the room, already pulling out his phone.

Hawkins shifted his weight, his usual commanding presence softened. “We’ll need a full statement when you’re feeling stronger, but don’t worry about that now. The whole office is pulling together for you.”

Izzy managed a weak nod, wondering if that was true after everything that had happened with Denly. The suspension, the accusations, the divide it had created. But her mind felt too fuzzy to untangle those threads.

“Just focus on recovering,” Hawkins said.

“Thank you, Dab.”

Hawkins ducked out of the room and Wahlberg returned minutes later with Joe, who rushed to her bedside with surprising speed for his age. His face creased with worry as he took her hand.

“I’m okay, Aitona,” Izzy said, squeezing his fingers. “Really.”

Joe settled into the chair on the other side of the bed from Cole, his presence comforting. They visited for a while until both of them seemed to flag from the stress.

Wahlberg cleared his throat from the doorway. “I can take you home now, Mr. Etxebarria,” he said.

“I’ll be home soon,” Izzy assured her grandfather. “Promise.”

Joe patted her hand. “I’ll call your mother.”

Izzy closed her eyes briefly, grateful to postpone that conversation. Another family member shot in Darkness. Her mother would love that.

A doctor entered, clipboard in hand, and began checking her vitals and wound dressing. Cole stood back, watching without comment. When the doctor finished, he and Cole left the room, their heads bent together in quiet discussion.

Alone at last, Izzy stared at the ceiling tiles. The quiet allowed her thoughts to crystallize, bringing clarity she hadn’t wanted to face. She’d done it again—charged into danger thinking she had to handle everything alone. Just like in New York, she hadn’t known who to trust.

But maybe that was wrong. Maybe she was the one who couldn’t be trusted. She’d lost Cole’s trust—or perhaps never truly had it—because she didn’t understand what it meant. How could she expect others to trust her when she couldn’t even trust herself?

The understanding settled heavily, more painful than the gunshot wound. She’d been so focused on others' motives, others' secrets, that she’d missed examining her own patterns of behavior. The same patterns that had contributed to Mark’s death and had destroyed whatever she might have had with Cole.

Izzy squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill. She wouldn’t cry, not here where Hawkins or anyone else might see. Her whole career had been about proving herself in a man’s world from her first day at the academy. The realization hit hard that she’d only learned to combat toxic masculinity by becoming toxic herself, wrapping herself in suspicion and distrust until she saw threats in everyone.

Cole returned to sit beside her. His hand found hers on the edge of the mattress, warm and steady. The touch sent a small ripple of relief through her, even knowing he was lost to her. She’d take any scrap of humanity right now, any connection to ground her in this sterile room.

“What’s the damage?” she asked.

Cole’s thumb traced small circles on her palm as he spoke. “You’re going to live. There’s muscle and tendon damage that will heal with therapy and time. The bullet cracked a rib—they cleaned out the fragments in surgery last night while repairing the wound. Your scapula—that’s the shoulder blade,” he clarified, “it took a hit. We’re hoping it won’t need additional surgery, but we’ll have to wait and see. All in all, remarkably lucky.”

“Remarkably stupid,” Izzy corrected, turning to meet his gaze. “Thank you for being here.”

A nurse entered with fresh dressing supplies, and Cole stood. “I’ll get some coffee, come back in a bit.”

“You should go home,” Izzy protested. “Nanook needs you.”

“Serena has Nanook.” Cole’s expression softened. “He’ll be fine.”

Cole pushed through the heavy hospital doors into the dark courtyard. The metal cafe table scraped across concrete as he pulled out a chair, the sound harsh in the quiet night. His breath formed clouds in the frigid air as he sank onto the cold seat.

The coffee from the nurse’s station burned his tongue, bitter and stale. He welcomed the pain, something tangible to focus on instead of the churning in his gut. The cup warmed his hands, but the chill still crept into his bones.

His mind drifted to Amber, how she’d smiled and kissed him goodbye before his last deployment. Everything had seemed perfect then. But she’d already been planning her escape, hadn’t she? Building a life without him while he treated battlefield injuries and wrote her emails about starting a family when he came home.

Now here he was again, falling for a woman who kept secrets. The image of Izzy’s blood-soaked jacket flashed through his mind. He’d almost lost her tonight. The thought made acid rise in his throat.

But she hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him the truth about Mark. About shooting her own husband. Cole pressed his palms against his eyes until spots danced in the darkness. Was there something wrong with him? Something that made the women in his life decide he couldn’t handle their truth?

Amber had said he was never really there, even when he was home. Always thinking about the next patient, the next crisis. Maybe she’d been right. Maybe Izzy saw the same flaw in him—a man so focused on fixing others that he missed what mattered most.

The coffee had gone cold. Cole stared into the murky liquid, searching for answers that weren’t there. His body felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and doubt. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept.

He didn’t have solutions tonight. Maybe he never would. But he had patients who needed him. Robbie fighting off chemical exposure, Izzy recovering from surgery. That, he could handle. That made sense.

Cole stood, his joints protesting the cold. He tossed the half-empty cup in the trash and headed back inside to check on Robbie.

Izzy picked at the bland hospital food on her tray, pushing a rubbery piece of chicken around with her plastic fork. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across the small room, making the food look sickly and pale. She wondered what kind of sight she must be.

Cole sat in the visitor’s chair, his presence both comforting and unsettling.

“You hungry?” she asked. “How long have you been here?”

“Since the beginning.”

She pushed the plate an inch his way. “There’s plenty of rubber chicken to go around.”

The hint of a smile was a relief to her. The weight of his expression was becoming too much to bear. She handed him the plastic fork, and he speared some broccoli and ate.

“Not quite up to your usual standard,” he said. He took some chicken, and then some more. “I’m sorry, you need this.”

“I’ve got an IV,” she said. “I have no need for semi-solid food.”

She caught herself watching him again, studying the way his shoulders tensed when he shifted position, how he studied each morsel of food before sticking his fork into it. He looked up and caught her staring.

“What’s wrong?” His voice was soft, gentle in a way that made her ache.

“I think it’s me,” Izzy said. “I need to tell you something, but I don’t want you to think I’m saying it for any reason other than it needs to be said. I don’t want anything from you except for you to listen.”

Cole nodded. “Okay.”

Izzy drew in a deep breath, wincing at the pull in her shoulder. “The night Mark died, I got a call from a friend in OPR—that’s the Office of Professional Responsibility. Kind of like internal affairs. She warned me that I might be in danger. The OPR had been investigating Mark for months.” Her voice caught. “They’d been investigating me too, trying to determine if I was involved.”

She glanced at Cole, but his expression remained neutral. “They had surveillance on our apartment, tracked our devices, everything. Mark had turned. Started with looking the other way, then actively helping mob operations by feeding them information about investigations and undercover operations.”

The memory of that night flooded back, the cold panic that had gripped her when her friend laid out the evidence. “I couldn’t believe it at first. How do you just accept that your whole reality is a lie? But the proof was there. He was an enforcer for the mob.”

Izzy’s hands trembled. She clasped them together in her lap. “He was away on an operation, and I was sitting at home with this information but no context. So I did what I do. I investigated. My friend said they feared he had been assigned to locate and eliminate an FBI informant. They were trying to find the informant. But I went one better. I went through our texts, our emails, his notes, everything, and I figured out where and when.”

“You didn’t think about calling your FBI friend back?” Cole’s question held no judgment, just curiosity.

“I did think about it.” Izzy met his eyes. “But there was still this voice in my head saying I had to be wrong. I lived with him. I was married to him. I thought I knew him.” She shook her head. “He was supposed to be one of the good guys. And the meet was happening that night. I didn’t call anyone.”

Izzy took another sip of water, her throat tight. The hospital room felt smaller now, more confined, as if the walls were pressing in with the weight of her confession. “I went in alone. My plan was to confront him, get his side of the story. He was my husband—what could happen, right?”

She closed her eyes, the warehouse materializing in her mind. The smell of motor oil and damp concrete. The echo of footsteps. Her own breathing, measured and controlled despite her racing heart. “I found Mark with the informant. Some low-level scumbag who’d been feeding information to the Bureau.” Her voice cracked. “The guy was on his knees, and Mark—Mark stood over him with his gun pressed to the back of his head.”

Cole remained silent, his presence steady and grounding. The plastic fork lay forgotten on the hospital tray.

“I heard their conversation. The informant begging, Mark telling him he should have kept his mouth shut.” Izzy’s good hand clenched the thin hospital blanket. “He was going to execute him, right there.” The words stuck in her throat. She took another sip of water, but it did nothing to wash away the metallic taste of memory. “So I stepped out and told him to stop.” Izzy stared at the wall, seeing not the generic hospital artwork but Mark’s face in that moment—the flash of recognition, then something cold and foreign replacing the warmth she’d known all those years. “He turned his gun on me. Fired.”

The monitor beside her bed beeped steadily, marking the silence between her words.

“Sometimes I wonder if he missed on purpose.” She shook her head. “But no. He was moving. I was moving. He was a good shot. Just not as good as me.”

Her hand drifted to her wounded shoulder, fingers ghosting over the bandage. “My first round hit his shoulder. But he kept firing, so I dove behind some pallets. Got off one more shot. That one hit his stomach. The bullet . . .” She swallowed hard. “They told me later it severed his spine. If he hadn’t bled out in my arms, he would have never walked again.”

Izzy finally looked at Cole, her vision blurring. “So Denly was right. I did kill him. But I didn’t murder him.” A tear escaped, rolling down her cheek. “I loved him.”

Izzy watched Cole’s face, searching for any hint of what he was thinking. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the steady beep of the heart monitor and the distant sounds of the hospital corridor. Her confession hung in the air, heavy and raw. Cole’s expression remained unreadable, his brown eyes fixed on some point past her shoulder.

When he finally spoke, his question caught her off guard. “What happened to the informant? He was a witness.”

Izzy’s fingers twisted in the thin hospital blanket. “They pulled his body from the East River three weeks later.” The words tasted bitter in her mouth. “So it became my word against nobody, and the Bureau chose nobody.”

She shifted in the bed, clenching against the pain. “I hated it then, but I get it now. I would have done the same thing. If you can’t trust your partner, even if they’ve done nothing wrong, then you can’t go into battle with them, or for them.”

The truth of those words settled deep inside. She’d been taught that lesson twice now—once with Mark, and again with Cole. She wondered if she would ever actually learn from it.

“It’s no excuse, but I couldn’t tell you the full story before because I didn’t trust myself to do it.” Izzy’s voice wavered. “Every time I hear the words come out of my mouth, I think, what kind of monster am I? To shoot my husband and let a criminal run free?”

She forced herself to meet his gaze. “I want you to know that I don’t blame you. You’re not the party at fault here.” A tear slipped down her cheek, but she didn’t wipe it away. “That’s on me. It’s all on me.”

Cole sat in the hard hospital chair as Izzy’s words washed over him. The clinical detachment that served him through battlefield trauma and pediatric emergencies allowed him to absorb her story with an outward calm. But beneath that professional veneer, his heart pounded like a jackhammer, the rhythm irregular and painful.

When Izzy finished speaking, exhaustion carved deep lines around her eyes. Cole’s mind raced, processing each detail through new filters. Had he jumped to conclusions when Denly dropped that bombshell? The betrayal he’d felt seemed hollow now. He hadn’t given her time or space to trust him with such raw truth. This wasn’t the kind of story anyone would want circulating through Darkness’s gossip mill.

As he watched Izzy stare into middle distance, lost in memories, Cole recognized his own truth. Izzy challenged him, matched him step for step. Not strong where he was, but in her own ways—the weight she carried, the responsibilities she shouldered. That scared him more than any trauma call ever had. Even his loyal companion Nanook couldn’t push him to examine himself the way she did—that had been the secret to their relationship. But now he realized that both he and his buddy were hiding.

“My marriage ended because I made assumptions,” Cole said, breaking the silence. “I should have approached it like a tough diagnosis—if I couldn’t find the answer in my experience or the medical journals, I should have sought help. Getting a specialist’s opinion makes me a better doctor, not a failure. But with Amber . . .” He shook his head. “I saw the symptoms and ignored them because I didn’t know how to treat the disease. I told myself everything would heal on its own when I got home.”

Izzy reached out her hand in invitation. Cole took it. She sighed as if the effort of speaking was taking its toll. “The thing I’m realizing is that I didn’t make Mark do what he did. And you didn’t make Amber do what she did. Should we have handled it differently? Should you have spoken to Amber? Yes. Would it have changed things? Maybe, maybe not. But she broke your trust. She made that choice. Just as Mark chose to hide another life. I’ll never believe that I shouldn’t have seen it. I’m a cop, for crying out loud. But it’s not the act that hurts; it’s the lie.”

Cole pushed up from his chair and pressed his lips to hers. The sharp tang of iodine filled his senses, embedding this moment in his memory like a lesson carved in stone. He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, their noses still touching.

“I choose to not fight this alone anymore,” he said. “So let’s agree to be honest. Not perfect, not infallible. Just honest. Even if it hurts.”

“You have a deal, Dr. Barrow.”

He kissed her again, soft and slow.

“Sorry,” Izzy murmured. “I must smell like a barnyard.”

“Actually, more like a hospital. But what about me? I haven’t showered in two days. I must reek like a lumberjack after a hard day.”

“You do.”

Cole grinned. “Gee, thanks.”

A smile tugged at Izzy’s lips. “You did say you wanted honesty, right?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Well, how’s this for honesty? It turns out I like the smell of a hard-working lumberjack.” She grabbed his shirt with her good arm, pulling him down for another kiss before pushing him away. “But that’s not an invitation to grow a beard. I’m really not into beards.”

This changes everything. She’s not dead. They tell me she went into surgery after that do-gooder doctor flew her there. Flew her there. What kind of person has a helicopter at their disposal?

Me. That’s who. I will have a chopper and a massive house and a pool. I will have whatever I want, but the timetable just got sped up. I’ve got the extra cooks on the way. They’re crossing the desert in the back of a van as I wait. The damned mariachi music gives me a migraine, but they seem to like it. It keeps them focused. Their job is not hard. I give them the recipe. A monkey could do it. But I need more monkeys. Tomorrow, we start doubling down.

I have timed my inputs so as to not raise suspicion. Methylamine doesn’t grow on trees. People notice when it goes missing. The wrong kinds of people. So I have my schedule carefully planned. A little bit at a time becomes enough. But now I need a lot. I need it all.

The risk is higher but manageable. If I were like my partners, the risk would be too high. They think this is a career. I see it as one glorious season. I have set it up that way. Make bank and get out. My partners won’t like that, but they can go to hell. They’ll never find me. They won’t even know where to look. And if I’m so inclined, I might leave my kitchen for them, and my cooks too. They can keep going just long enough to get caught.

I have to leave the good sheriff behind. The bitch has nine lives, but at least two of them are gone. And I can always return later when she’s moved on. When her mind is on other things. When she doesn’t suspect anyone is watching anymore. Or not. I might just have some bikini-clad bimbos on call. I’m not after the conversation.

Or maybe I am. Maybe I have things I want the good sheriff to hear.

Chapter

Thirty-Two

Izzy sank into the passenger seat of Cole’s truck, her shoulder throbbing despite the pain medication. The drive back from Harris stretched ahead of them, quiet except for the hum of tires on asphalt. Cole kept his eyes on the road, but his hand found hers across the center console.

At home, Cole helped her inside, where Joe waited in his favorite armchair. “I need to check on my clinic,” Cole said, his fingers lingering on her arm. “I’ll be back later.”

Izzy nodded, settling into the recliner beside her grandfather. The opening credits of Streets of San Francisco rolled across the screen. Five minutes in, her eyes glazed over. The pain meds made everything fuzzy, but not fuzzy enough to make vintage TV interesting.

The screen door banged open, and Tamara burst in, her curls wild around her face. “Oh my god, you’re actually here. I’ve been so worried!”

Relief flooded through Izzy at the sight of her friend. “I’m fine. Just a flesh wound.”

“Right.” Tamara perched on the arm of the recliner. “And I suppose that gorgeous doctor flying you to the hospital in his personal helicopter, then flying it home, then driving all the way back to get you was just standard medical procedure?”

“Tam—”

“I’m just saying, if I had a hunky doctor who’d do all that for me . . .” Tamara waggled her eyebrows. She turned to the TV. “Ooh, young Michael Douglas. Oh, to have been young and lovely in the seventies.”

“It was pretty good,” said Joe with a mischievous grin. “But the sixties were better.”

“Aitona,” said Izzy with a wide smile.

Joe bounced his eyebrows and returned his focus to the screen. Izzy used one hand to push herself up and lead Tam to the dining table.

“So come on, Iz,” said Tamara. “Are you okay? Really?”

“I’ve screwed everything up,” Izzy said, the words spilling out. “Cole, Denly, this whole investigation. One sheriff dead, another shot. And I’m no closer to answers than when I started.”

Tamara straightened. “Actually, that’s why I’m here. I think you were right. I found something.” She reached into her bag and carefully removed a yellowed map inside a protective sleeve that she placed flat on the table. “Look at this.” Tamara pointed to faded markings. “It’s a survey map from the 1870s.”

“How did you get this?”

“I told you, the school library and the public library are one and the same.”

“And they let you take out a hundred-and-fifty-year-old map?”

“There is no they, Iz. I teach at the school, remember? Well, we don’t have a paid librarian. It’s one of my many hats.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“There’s plenty you don’t know, Iz, but that’s for another day.” Tam tapped the plastic sleeve. “There’s an old mine out there. It’s not on any current maps because it was abandoned, apparently within months, but these documents show the original mining claim.”

Izzy leaned closer. “Where exactly?”

“Right here.” Tamara’s finger traced a spot in the foothills. “And I found a journal that mentions an underground flow, a stream through the caves. It runs right through where this mine would have been, then down to where those kids got sick.”

Izzy’s pulse quickened. “You think they’re operating out of an abandoned mine?”

“It’s perfect, isn’t it? And it’s just east of where . . .” Tamara hesitated.

“Where I got shot?” Izzy supplied.

“Yeah. That.”

Izzy pushed back from the table, ignoring the protest from her shoulder as she stood.

“What are you doing?” Tamara asked.

“Going to shut this operation down.” Izzy headed for her room.

“Are you insane? You can barely move!”

“I’ll rest when this is done.” Izzy turned back. “Sheriff Trahan deserves justice. Hell, I deserve it.”

Tamara jumped up, blocking her path. “This is exactly what you do! You rush in without thinking and get yourself hurt. But don’t you get it, Iz? There are people who care about whether you live or die, you know.”

Izzy stopped, struck by the emotion in her friend’s voice. “I never realized that before,” she said softly. “But I do now. I’m not rushing in this time. I’m assembling my team.”

A slow smile spread across Tamara’s face. “Sheriff Lew, are you forming a posse?”

Izzy laughed, then winced at the pull in her shoulder. “I suppose I am.”

“I’ve always wanted to be in a posse.”

“Good.” Izzy squeezed her friend’s hand. “Because I can’t do this without you.”

Izzy pulled out her phone and dialed Wahlberg’s number. Her deputy answered on the first ring.

“Boss?”

“I need a favor, Elliot. A big one.”

A pause. “What kind of favor?”

“The kind that could get us both fired. Or killed.” Izzy glanced at Tamara, who gave her a thumbs up.

“I’m in. Where do you need me?”

After getting Wahlberg moving, Izzy made another call.

“Yeah,” said the voice.

“Mr. Markram, it’s Sheriff Llewellyn.”

“Sheriff? I heard you got . . . Are you okay?”

“I have to admit, I’ve been better. How’s Robbie?”

She heard the tension in his voice. “Not that great, but the docs say he’s responding, whatever that means.”

“Are you there now?”

“No. I had to come home. You think that water is poisoning my sheep, too?”

“I think it’s likely.”

“Well, I moved 'em into another paddock. I’ll have to truck in water, but it’s better than losing the whole flock. I already had to put down the one you saw.”

Izzy’s shoulder spasmed and she bit down on the pain. “I’m sorry to hear that, but moving them is a good idea, sir. Listen, I think I can stop whoever is putting that junk in the water, but I need your help.”

“My help? How?”

Izzy told Jeb what she needed. “Can I come over?”

“No,” he said. “No need. I’ve got you.”

Twenty minutes later, Wahlberg’s patrol SUV pulled up outside Joe’s house. He stepped onto the porch in a polo covered by a Mirage County Sheriff tactical vest, his badge clipped to his belt next to his holstered weapon. He held up a second vest for Izzy.

“You sure about this, Sheriff?” Wahlberg’s hazel eyes tracked to her injured shoulder.

“Never been surer of anything.”

“Are you on any narcotics for the pain? Because I don’t think you should handle a gun while⁠—”

“You’re a smart guy, Elliot. But no, just ibuprofen.”

His brow furrowed. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

“I can manage it.” Izzy kept her voice steady despite the throbbing ache that radiated from her shoulder.

“We should bring Cole as backup.”

“He’s a civilian.”

Wahlberg’s normally calm demeanor cracked. “Sheriff, I don’t know what the opposite of pulling rank is, but I’m doing that right now. Cole needs to be in. We can’t do this without him unless we call in the National Guard.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “And regardless, if you get hurt, and he doesn’t know about it, he’ll kill you.” A beat. “Or worse, me.”

Izzy considered arguing, but exhaustion and pain wore down her resistance. “Fine.”

Izzy waved Tam goodbye and her friend told her to be safer than safe. In Wahlberg’s car, Izzy pulled out her phone again and dialed.

Serena’s cheerful voice answered, “Darkness Medical Clinic.”

“Serena, it’s Sheriff Llewellyn. I need to speak with Cole.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Sheriff, he’s with a patient right now. Can I have him call you back?”

Izzy gripped the phone tighter. “Just tell him . . .” She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “Tell him I’m heading back to the cabin. He’ll know which one.” She paused for a second. “And tell him Robinson might be useful.”

Izzy hung up and shifted in the passenger seat, trying to find a position that didn’t make her shoulder scream. “There’s something out there, Elliot. I can feel it.”

“But how?” Wahlberg kept his eyes on the road. “We’ve been there. Nothing but desert and scrub. No vehicles, no roads.”

“You can hike it in. And those quad bike tracks we saw? A quad would fit in that gulch.” Izzy pulled out the map Tamara had given her. “Look at this. There’s an old track coming in from the eastern side, near the state line. If you brought a four-by-four across the salt flat, you could get quads in that way too.”

Wahlberg frowned. “Okay, but how does this add up to meth?”

She explained the logistics with a hint of frustration in her voice. “You can make meth from Sudafed. It’s not high-scale production, and getting other supplies is tricky, but they call it smurfing, which uses multiple buyers to fool the system. They’ll send different people into pharmacies across multiple cities and counties and even states to buy cold medicine, staying under the legal limits. One box here, two boxes there. The pharmacies track individual purchases, but these guys work together to get around it. It’s crude but effective, especially in rural areas where enforcement is stretched thin.” Izzy remembered similar operations from her FBI days. “The recipe itself isn’t complicated. I’ve seen labs in RVs, bedrooms, anywhere you can set up basic equipment.”

“That feels small-time.” Wahlberg shook his head. “These guys are connected enough to send a professional hitman from out of town. That’s not amateur hour.”

“You’re right.” Izzy stared out at the passing landscape. “This operation is different. Bigger. More organized. But everyone starts somewhere, and maybe that’s what we’re seeing—the remnants of how they began, before they scaled up.”

“And you think they’ve scaled up?”

“Sick kids and dead sheep say they have.”

Chapter

Thirty-Three

The patrol SUV kicked up dust as they pulled to a stop at the spot where Izzy had abandoned her vehicle. Her shoulder throbbed at the memory of diving through that window, crawling through the scrub.

But now the desert breeze whipped around them, and her pulse quickened with anticipation rather than fear. The familiar ripple of adrenaline pushed the pain to a distant corner of her mind. It wasn’t a surge yet, as if her body had just turned on the spigot to give her some juice, ready to open up when she needed. The thought eased into her conscious that it was like a drug high, a rush. Not illegal like meth, but potentially just as destructive.

Izzy brushed the thought away as the rumble of an engine drew their attention.

A pickup truck with a trailer bumped across the uneven terrain on the mountain side of the river, kicking up clouds in its wake. Jeb Markram pulled up alongside them, the trailer loaded with three quad bikes.

“Thank you for coming,” Izzy said, walking over to inspect the vehicles.

Jeb’s face hardened. “I’m not doing this for you. This is for Robbie.”

“I know.” Izzy nodded, meeting his gaze. “But you’re here all the same.”

He lett the ramp down with a clang, then unstrapped the first quad bike. “I’m coming with you. These bastards hurt my boy.”

“No.” Izzy’s voice left no room for argument. “Sally and Robbie need you alive. I need you to stay here with the truck.”

“But—”

“I’m serious, Jeb. These guys shot me. Sally and Robbie don’t need the same to happen to you. How do they survive if something happens to you?”

Jeb’s expression was a constant frown, but his brow furrowed further.

“If we’re not back in two hours, go get help.” Izzy checked her watch. “And I mean it, Jeb. Two hours, not a minute more. We couldn’t have done this without you, but your part is done. Your family needs you to wait here.”

Izzy watched Wahlberg sling a pack across his shoulders. Her own shoulder protested at the thought. She adjusted her tactical vest instead, checking her weapon was secure, then she zipped the sheriff’s office badged coat Wahlberg had brought her.

They mounted the quad bikes, the engines growling to life. Izzy followed Wahlberg back over the first rise and along the gulch, toward the shack where she’d been shot. The deep ravine was already in shadow, but when they broke into the opening, Izzy saw the cabin still in the sunlight.

Yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the breeze, marking off the dilapidated structure. They dismounted and, with weapons drawn, they checked the area. Her stomach clenched at what she saw. Blood stained the dirt beneath the window where she’d escaped—her blood. She pushed the memory aside and gestured for Wahlberg to keep moving.

Beyond the shack, they picked up a narrow hiking trail that wound into the mountains. The quads crawled over loose scree and around jutting rocks that threatened to tear into their tires. The terrain opened up after a hundred yards of careful navigation, revealing a more established track marked with the telltale grooves of quad bike tires.

“These aren’t ancient,” Wahlberg called over his shoulder.

“No mining equipment made those marks.” Izzy traced the path ahead with her eyes.

The track snaked through another gulch that could have been lifted straight from an old Western. Towering rock walls stretched toward the cloudless sky on either side, casting long shadows across their path. Scraggly vegetation clung to life in the cracks and crevices, the only green in a landscape dominated by rust-colored stone and pale sand. The air felt different here, still and heavy.

After ten minutes of riding, they came upon a mine entrance. An iron gate blocked their path, its metal weathered but solid. While the gate itself appeared to be from the early 1900s, the padlock securing it gleamed new in the sunlight.

“Should have brought bolt cutters,” Izzy said, examining the lock.

Wahlberg unzipped his pack and pulled out a compact battery-powered angle grinder. He smiled.

“I like how you think, Deputy.”

Izzy drew her weapon and scanned the ridgeline above while Wahlberg worked on the lock. The contours of the mountains created a patchwork of shadow and brightness, deceiving her vision and making every boulder look like the enemy. The screech of metal on metal echoed off the canyon walls. She held her breath between each pass of the blade, listening for any sound that might indicate they weren’t alone.

The lock dropped to the ground with a dull thud.

“We’re in,” Wahlberg whispered, pulling the gate open with minimal squealing of hinges.

The gate groaned shut behind them, leaving only the beams from their tactical lights to pierce the darkness. Izzy strained to listen as they entered the mine, the only sound their footsteps echoing off the rough-hewn walls. The entrance was a testament to late nineteenth-century engineering—timber supports lined the walls and ceiling every few feet, creating a claustrophobic rhythm of light and shadow as they ventured deeper.

The air grew mild, carrying the mineral tang of wet stone. Their lights caught the glint of metal tracks embedded in the floor, remnants of the ore carts that once shuttled back and forth. Water dripped somewhere in the darkness ahead, each drop amplified by the tunnel’s acoustics.

Izzy kept her weapon trained ahead, moving in sync with Wahlberg. The beam of her light traced along the walls where crude chisel marks showed the desperation of miners searching for wealth. The tunnel narrowed, forcing them to walk single file. The climate mellowed to a steady coolness, more bearable now that the gusts weren’t biting at her flesh.

Her light swept across something dark and viscous on the ground. She raised her fist, signaling Wahlberg to stop. Crouching, she examined the dark patch that spread across the mine floor like spilled oil. The metallic smell hit her before she got close—blood, and lots of it. Too much for someone to survive losing.

“Boss?” Wahlberg whispered.

Izzy shook her head, standing slowly. Someone had died here, probably recently given how the blood hadn’t fully dried in the cool air.

They pressed forward, moving slower now. A sound filtered through the darkness, so faint at first that Izzy thought she was imagining it. But as they progressed deeper, it grew clearer.

“Is that . . .” Wahlberg’s face caught the glow of his tactical light, confusion evident in his features. “Mariachi music?”

The cheerful strains of trumpets and guitars seemed bizarrely out of place in the oppressive darkness. They advanced more cautiously now, the music growing louder with each step. The tunnel began to slope downward, and Izzy noticed the timber supports giving way to natural rock formations.

Light bloomed ahead, a warm glow that pushed back against their tactical beams. Izzy clicked off her light, Wahlberg following suit. They crept forward until they reached the edge of the illuminated area.

The tunnel opened into a vast natural cavern. Izzy estimated it was roughly the size of the Masonic hall back in Darkness, though the ceiling stretched higher, perhaps thirty feet up. Stalactites hung like stone daggers above them. The walls weren’t the ordered cuts of miners, but the smooth curves of natural erosion.

The cave before them had been transformed into an industrial-scale drug lab. Izzy’s breath caught as she took in the scope of the operation. This was no amateur setup cobbled together in someone’s garage. Bright work lamps lit the space that hummed with purpose, like a twisted mirror of a legitimate manufacturing facility.

A massive fifty-five-gallon drum dominated one corner, its hazard labels partially obscured by condensation. The sharp chemical smell burned Izzy’s nose and eyes even from their position in the shadows. A generator chugged away, powering the lights and an industrial air handler that fought to clear the toxic fumes through what appeared to be a natural chimney in the rock ceiling. The system was losing the battle—the air remained thick with chemical vapor that caught the light like a ghostly fog.

Six men worked with a well-honed rhythm, their movements suggesting this wasn’t their first cook. All wearing white N95 masks that would do little against the caustic chemicals they handled. Some wore protective eyewear, while others working with the base chemicals wore rubber gloves, but it felt like paying lip service to the toxic environment.

Henry Ford would have marveled at the variation on his production line concept. Two men managed the chemical processing, measuring and mixing with careful precision. Another pair tended what looked like oversized aluminum vats, monitoring temperatures and consistency of the toxic brew within. The final two operated a packaging station, weighing and bagging finished crystal meth with the efficiency of assembly line workers.

Behind them, contaminated waste disappeared into a natural water flow at the rear of the cavern. The underground stream would carry their toxic byproducts straight to the kids' secret hideout.

The mariachi music continued to play, its cheerful rhythm a stark contrast to the grim work being performed. Izzy remained motionless in the shadows, scanning every corner of the cavern. She’d learned the hard way about unexpected threats emerging from dark places. Her shoulder throbbed at the memory.

Minutes ticked by as she studied the operation. No additional workers appeared from the shadows. No surprise guard patrol emerged.

Izzy committed every detail to memory. When she was ready, she leaned close to Wahlberg’s ear. “Circle around to the rear. Get an angle on them from the shadows. Wait for my signal, then cover me.”

Wahlberg nodded and melted into the darkness. Izzy counted to sixty, giving him time to get into position. Her shoulder ached as she raised her weapon, but she pushed through the pain. Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the harsh light of the work lamps.

“Sheriff’s Office! Everyone, freeze!”

Six faces turned toward her, expressions blank. No panic, no fear, just empty stares as if her presence was expected, routine. Her weapon didn’t seem to register as a threat.

“¡Policía!” She switched to Spanish. “¡Levanten las manos!”

Understanding flickered across their faces. Six pairs of hands rose slowly into the air as Wahlberg stepped from the shadows with his weapon drawn.

“Contra la pared.” Izzy gestured with her weapon toward the smooth section of the cave wall. “Todos juntos.”

They moved without protest or resistance, lining up shoulder to shoulder against the rock face. The mariachi music continued to play.

“De rodillas.” Her command was firm. “¡Ahora!”

The men dropped to their knees in unison, faces toward the wall. Wahlberg holstered his Glock and pulled out some zip ties. He secured each man’s wrists behind their back while Izzy kept her weapon trained on the group.

“Sheriff.” Wahlberg’s voice was tight. “You need to take a look.”

Izzy maintained her aim at the kneeling men. “What is it?”

Wahlberg nudged his head. “Back of the cave.”

She backed away, keeping the suspects in view until she reached the darker recesses of the cave. As her eyes adjusted, she made out a form crumpled on the ground. Hector Reeves lay face-up, his body positioned where all the workers could see it.

The mariachi music played on, trumpets celebrating while Izzy stared at Reeves' lifeless form, understanding now why the men had surrendered so easily. They’d already seen the alternative.

Izzy stared at Reeves' body, a mix of emotions churning in her gut. They’d found the lab, stopped the production, saved more kids from getting sick. But Denly wasn’t here. The bastard who’d shot her was still out there somewhere. The victory felt hollow, tainted by the dead man on the cave floor and the missing deputy.

“We need to get them out of this air.” Izzy turned back to the kneeling men. “¡Levántense!”

The men stood in unison, their movements mechanical. Wahlberg took point, leading them single file through the tunnel. The mariachi music faded behind them until only their footsteps echoed off the rock walls. The temperature dropped as they moved away from the heat of the equipment, and the chemical smell gradually dissipated.

About fifty yards from the entrance, where the air felt cleaner but darkness still pressed in around them, Izzy called for them to stop.

“Here’s good.” She gestured to the tunnel wall. “Better to keep them contained where they can’t run.”

The men settled against the rough stone, awkwardly maneuvering with their hands bound behind them. They slid down to their knees first, then dropped onto their backsides. None spoke or made eye contact. Their blank expressions reminded her of shock victims she’d encountered—present in body but minds elsewhere.

Izzy touched Wahlberg’s arm and tilted her head toward the entrance. They walked together toward the glow. Afternoon light spilled through the mine opening, painting the tunnel walls in warm amber.

“I need to go back to Jeb, get backup in here.” Izzy’s shoulder throbbed as she holstered her weapon. “Keep an eye on them.”

“Let me go.” Wahlberg’s face was etched with concern. “You’re injured. I can move faster.”

She started to argue but stopped herself. He was right. Her shoulder felt like it was on fire, and the quad ride back would be brutal.

“Okay.” Izzy nodded. “Be quick.”

They emerged into the late afternoon shadows. The sun hung low over the western ridge, casting long fingers of darkness across the canyon floor.

Wahlberg glanced back at her. “I’ll be back before you know⁠—”

The crack of a rifle shot split the air. Wahlberg jolted back violently before collapsing in a heap on the dirt.

Chapter

Thirty-Four

Izzy’s brain registered Wahlberg’s crumpled body in the split second before another shot cracked through the air. Rock fragments exploded behind her as the round struck, and her legs carried her forward before conscious thought kicked in.

The rattle of automatic weapons fire sent dirt spraying in a line between her and the mine entrance. Izzy veered away from the cave, her lungs burning as she sprinted across the uneven terrain. Her shoulder screamed in protest with each impact of her boots on the ground.

She dove behind a rocky outcrop, the rough stone scraping her arms as she pressed against it. Drawing her weapon, she returned fire, trying to get a fix on her attackers' positions. Muzzle flashes high on the hill across the gulch gave away two separate locations.

Her cover wouldn’t last long—she was too exposed, caught on low ground between their elevated positions. Through the gathering dusk, she spotted a deep ravine cutting between the hills, its depths already swallowed by shadow. It wasn’t ideal, but it beat getting caught in their crossfire.

Izzy pushed off from the outcrop and ran, keeping her head low as rounds kicked up dirt around her feet. Her lungs burned with each breath of the thin mountain air. She reached the ravine, then scrambled up the hillside toward cover. The loose scree shifted treacherously as she scraped and clawed up the incline. Her arms, her face, her gun were all covered in dirt by the time she threw herself behind a massive boulder.

Izzy sucked in hard, unable to get in oxygen fast enough. She ejected the magazine and the chambered round. The Glock was a hardy item, practically indestructible, and she wiped it down and reassembled it.

Rifle rounds sparked off the rock face around her position. She needed to focus on one threat at a time or she’d be overwhelmed. Stealing glances around the boulder’s rounded surface, she caught glimpses of movement on the opposite side of the gulch. A ball cap bobbed into view—bright blue with what looked like the distinctive LA Dodgers logo. The shooter was using classic infantry tactics—shoot, move, shoot, move—trying to work his way around to her flank.

Izzy steadied her breathing, pressing her back against the boulder as shots impacted around her position. She waited, counting the rhythm of his movement pattern. The blue cap appeared again, stark against the desert colors in the last rays of sunlight high on the hillside.

She squeezed off two rounds. The first struck rock, sending fragments flying. The second found flesh. The shooter’s body doubled over, then collapsed, tumbling down the gravelly slope. His weapon clattered away as he rolled to a stop, face down against the rocky earth.

Izzy tracked the muzzle flashes from the second shooter—Denly, obviously—higher up the ridge. The automatic fire walked closer to her position with each burst. She squeezed off controlled pairs, forcing the shooter to duck behind cover, but the angle was getting worse. Her shoulder burned with each recoil, the pain threatening to overcome the adrenaline assist that was fading fast.

Empty brass clinked against rock as she ejected the magazine. Her fingers fumbled with the spare mag, slick with sweat and dirt. The fresh magazine clicked home just as movement caught her eye—Denly was working his way around the bend in the gulch, using the terrain to mask his advance, where he could cross the low point and climb her hill to attack from above.

The firing stopped. In the sudden silence, Izzy’s ragged breathing seemed deafening. Her tactical options were limited and getting worse by the minute. The ridge above offered higher ground, but no protection—she’d be silhouetted against the dying light. The gulch below promised cover in the deepening shadows, but she’d be surrendering what little elevation advantage she had left.

She strained to hear the distinctive thump of helicopter blades. Cole should be coming. She’d left the message, hadn’t she? Through the growing haze of pain, she tried to remember the exact words. But the sky remained empty, the only sound the whisper of wind through the rocks and her own labored breathing.

Once again, Izar Llewellyn was left alone.

Izzy shook her head to clear her thoughts. This wasn’t like last time. She wasn’t alone, rushing in without backup. Jeb waited by Wahlberg’s SUV, ready to call in reinforcements. She just had to survive until full dark. Then the shadows would work for her instead of against her.

Automatic fire erupted again above her now. Rock fragments stung her face as rounds peppered her position. Izzy returned fire, but her shots went wide as pain lanced through her shoulder. The magazine ran dry.

Her fingers found the backup Glock 26 at her ankle. The compact pistol felt too small in her hands after the full-sized duty weapon. She spotted movement on the ridgeline—a dark shape against the fading sky. Izzy squeezed the trigger, and the figure dropped to one knee, answering with a spray of automatic fire.

She fired back until the slide locked open. Empty. Her last magazine spent. Izzy knew Denly would recognize the different report of the backup weapon. The desperate sound of last resort.

The high ground was his now. Her cover was running out. Darkness wouldn’t come soon enough.

Izzy pulled out her phone, hoping to trigger the SOS that had saved her life before. The screen was a spiderweb of cracks, dead and useless. She stuffed the broken device back in her pocket, the weight of her situation settling over her like the growing shadows.

Chapter

Thirty-Five

Izzy watched the silhouette rise from its crouch, rifle held steady. Her heart pounded as he picked his way down the rocky slope, each footfall sending pebbles skittering into the shadows. The figure descended into the ravine’s growing darkness, and recognition hit her as if struck by another bullet.

“Nate?” Her jaw dropped, mind refusing to process what her eyes were telling her.

His smile gleamed in the fading light as he stepped closer, keeping the rifle trained on her position. “The one and only. Surprised to see me, Izzy? Or should I say, Special Agent Llewellyn?” He spat out her title like it was poison.

“You’re behind all this?”

“Smart girl. Always were. Too smart for this backward town, right? Too good for any of us here.” He shifted his weight, but the rifle never wavered. “You know what’s funny? You probably don’t even remember how you used to treat me in high school.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That smile. That fucking smile you’d flash whenever I tried to talk to you. Then you’d just walk away like I was nothing.” His voice hardened. “I wrote you this amazing letter, asking you to junior prom. Poured my heart out. And you couldn’t even be bothered to say no.”

Izzy’s mind raced through fragmented memories of high school, trying to place what he was saying. “I never got any letter, Nate. And I didn’t go to junior prom. My father died. We left town.”

“Oh, I know all about that.” His laugh held no humor. “You just disappeared. And then they found the letter in your locker when they cleaned it out. Read it out loud in the cafeteria. Everyone had a good laugh at poor, pathetic Nate Bolton and his crush on the sheriff’s daughter.” His mouth turned into a snarl. “I didn’t appreciate being turned into a joke.”

Nate stopped at the other end of the boulder, propping one foot against the massive rock, his rifle relaxed across his arm. He sneered down on Izzy with barely contained rage.

“But I showed them all, didn’t I? I got out of this dump, just like you did. Got myself a scholarship to UNLV. Chemistry degree, then my doctorate. Became a professor.” His voice took on a mocking tone. “Professor Bolton, respected academic. Teaching organic chemistry to entitled brats who can’t even balance an equation.” He spat into the dirt. “Wife who wanted the suburban dream. House in Henderson. Two-point-five kids. Golden retriever. But you know what professors make? Shit money. Couldn’t even afford a decent car.”

The rifle barrel wavered slightly as he gestured. “Vegas, though. Vegas was different. Thought maybe I could multiply my salary at the tables. Mathematics, probability—that’s my thing, right?”

Izzy pressed herself against the cold rock, searching for options as Nate continued his monologue.

“Blackjack, poker, craps. None of it gave me that rush. Just numbers. Boring numbers.” His voice hardened. “But then I found something that actually used my skills. Something that made real money.”

“You started making meth?” She kept her voice steady, buying time. “You watched too much Breaking Bad.”

“Oh, I got into it by accident. A bag of it dropped from a student’s pocket during office hours. The kid didn’t miss a beat. I thought he was a user when I asked him about it, but he tried to sell it to me. The little scumbag drove a BMW M3. Brand new.” Nate’s face twisted. “There I was, teaching advanced organic chemistry, and this moron who could barely pass my class had a better car than me. So I watched him. Followed him. Learned his operation.”

He shifted his weight, the rifle barrel tracking her smallest movement. “The recipe was child’s play. Basic reduction synthesis. The kind of thing I could do in my sleep. But that idiot was cooking in his apartment bathroom.” A bark of laughter echoed off the rocks. “Amateur hour.”

“So you took over his operation?”

“Taught him how to do it properly. Used the students to get pseudoephedrine, one box at a time, from different pharmacies. Paid them in product.” His voice took on a lecturing tone. “But that method’s inefficient. Limited supply chain. I needed something bigger.”

Izzy’s fingers brushed against her empty holster. “The methylamine.”

“Beautiful thing about being faculty—access to industrial chemicals. My supplier worked in receiving. He’d siphon off a little at a time, never so much that anyone would notice.” Nate’s eyes gleamed. “Do you know what you can do with fifty-five gallons of methylamine, Izzy?”

“Make a lot of people sick. Kill a few kids.”

“Don’t be dramatic. Fifty-five gallons of methylamine makes over four hundred pounds of pure product. Twenty grand a pound wholesale.” He grinned like he was having a good night at the casino tables in Vegas. “You do the math. You’re a smart girl. That’s eight million per barrel. Even after my partners in Vegas take their cut, six barrels will set me up for life. Somewhere warm. Somewhere far from this shithole town.

“The mine was perfect,” he continued. “I remembered it from when I was a kid. Found it on a hike. I knew every path and every fold out here. Beat the hell out of being home, watching my bastard old man bash my mother around.”

Nate glanced around the hills doused in gloom and then back at Izzy. The warm eyes she recalled from the cafe had gone dark and cold. “Remote. Hidden. Natural ventilation, underground stream to carry away the waste. I just needed partners for the distribution. And to source the workers from across the border.”

“They’re here against their will?”

“No. They’re here for the money. They get paid well. Of course, they don’t know where they are. They probably don’t even know they’re in the United States.” Nate shrugged. “Or that they’re going to end up dead in a cave when I’m done.” Nate barked an ironic laugh. “It was the perfect operation.” His expression darkened. “Until the old sheriff started sniffing around.”

Izzy forced her mind to stay sharp despite the pain and exhaustion. She felt blood oozing from her shoulder and knew she had reopened the wound. After having already lost blood in the shooting, she wasn’t sure how long she could hold on. But she needed to keep him talking, keep him focused on his own brilliance rather than pulling that trigger.

Izzy shook her head. “You really think your partners will just let you walk away?”

Nate’s smile widened. “They don’t even know who I am or where I’m doing this. The only one who’s seen my face is Dodger back there.” He jerked his head toward where the other shooter lay. “And it looks like you finished him off for me. Nice shooting, by the way.”

“They know you’re somewhere around Darkness.”

“They could search for a thousand years and never find this place.” His confidence bordered on arrogance.

“That guy must have told them the location by now. They’re not stupid.” Izzy watched his expression darken.

“Neither am I,” Nate snarled. “Reeves drove him in every time with a bag over his head. Perfect system.”

“Until you killed Reeves.”

“He got sloppy with Sheriff Trahan.” Nate’s face contorted with disgust. “Did the first part okay—followed the sheriff when he came sniffing around, just like you did. Caught him at the right spot and ran him off the road into the ditch. Didn’t even have to kill him. The old guy was already dead.” He shifted his weight, the rifle barrel never wavering. “But the useless idiot kept the truck. Thought he could sell it. We couldn’t move it through the same wrecking yard as the sheriff’s car. Someone might connect the dots. Reeves said he’d dump it in LA, let the vultures down there pick it apart.” Nate wiped sweat from his nose and smeared his face in dirt. “He didn’t. So he had to pay.”

Izzy’s stomach churned as the pieces fell into place. “So that cave becomes a mass grave? Is that it?” She swallowed hard. “Is Denly in there too?”

“They’ll all end up in there, eventually.” Nate’s eyes gleamed with a zealot’s fervor. “That’s the beauty of this place. No one comes out here. Ever. I know because I used to camp here all the time and never saw another human being. Nothing but coyotes.” His smile returned, cold and satisfied.

Nate dropped his foot from bracing against the boulder and told her to get up. Izzy’s legs trembled as she tried pushing herself to her feet, using the boulder for support. Her shoulder screamed in protest, fresh blood seeping through her shirt. The world tilted for a moment, and Izzy collapsed back to the ground.

“Come on, you can do it.” Nate gestured with the rifle. “Down to the cave.”

Izzy frowned at him. “So you can shoot me too?”

“I can shoot you here, Izzy. But I don’t want to do that. I want something else from you.”

Izzy pushed down the bile in her throat.

“You know what’s funny?” Nate smiled. “I actually thought you might come with me. When I knew you were coming back, I thought it was perfect.”

“Perfect for what?”

“For us. Think about it—you and me, we’re the same. Both got out of this hellhole. Both made something of ourselves.” His voice took on an eager tone. “I was going to bring you in on this. Show you how much money we could make.”

Izzy pushed herself to sit up against the boulder and winced. Nate didn’t move to help her.

“They all said you were washed up after what happened in New York. Said you’d be easy to control. Easier than Trahan.” He laughed. “That’s why I brought you back. But once I saw you, I thought, why not renew our acquaintance?”

“We didn’t have an acquaintance to renew, Nate.”

“We could have,” he spat. “But you had to go full FBI, didn’t you? Had to be the hero.”

Izzy’s head swam, her vision blurring in and out, but she forced herself to stay alert, looking for any opportunity.

“All that ‘FBI gets her man’ bullshit.” Nate’s voice dripped with contempt. “And then there’s that guy. Dr. Barrow. You think he’s something special?”

Izzy’s heart clenched at Cole’s name.

“Maybe after I’m done here, I’ll pay him a visit. Just because the thought of him pisses me off. The way he looks at you. He thinks he’s such hot stuff because he’s a doctor. I’ve got a doctorate, too, you know.”

“Leave him out of this.” Izzy’s words came out sharper than she intended.

“Or what?” Nate stepped in and jabbed the rifle barrel into her wounded shoulder, making her gasp. “You’re not exactly in a position to make demands, Izzy.”

Izzy felt tears building from the agony but gulped the pain down deep.

“Once this is done, I’ll have enough money to disappear like the wind.” Nate’s voice echoed off the rock walls. “Could have taken you with me, Izzy. We could have had it all. But you had to ruin everything.”

The image of Wahlberg’s crumpled form flashed through her mind, making her stomach clench. She couldn’t let his death be for nothing.

“You don’t need Cole,” she said, her voice hoarse. “You’ve got me.”

Nate’s eyebrows rose, but he kept the rifle trained on her.

“I never wanted to come back here, Nate. You’re right about that.” Izzy shifted against the boulder. “But millions of dollars? That could take us anywhere we want to go.”

A shark-like smile spread across Nate’s face, his teeth gleaming in the fading light. “I wish I could believe that, Izzy. I really do.” He shook his head slowly. “But you’re so damned righteous.”

He stepped back from her, moving several yards up the hill. For a moment, Izzy thought he might be leaving, but then he laid the rifle carefully on the ground. Her heart hammered as he pulled a revolver from behind his back and walked back to her.

“So I guess it will have to be one and done for us, Izzy.” He stopped in front of her, eyes cold. “Take off your pants. Nice and slow.”

The blood loss had left her weak, her limbs heavy and uncoordinated. But Izzy knew she wouldn’t give him what he wanted. She’d rather die than surrender that power to him. The tactical part of her brain screamed that she should play along—being raped was better than being dead. On any other day, she might have welcomed him to try, confident she could overpower him. But now, with blood seeping through her shirt and her vision swimming, she had nothing left.

Nothing except her will to fight.

If he forced himself on her, she might not be able to stop him completely. But she’d make damn sure he came away with injuries he’d remember.

“Take off your pants,” Nate barked again. “And your shirt. Do it now.”

Izzy met his gaze, pouring every ounce of defiance she had left into her voice. “Go to hell. I’m not giving you anything.” She bared her teeth in a feral smile. “You can try to take it from me, but it will cost you. It will cost you dearly.”

Nate’s face contorted with rage. “Be like that.” He stepped over her, straddling her legs as he aimed the revolver at her head. “It could have been fun, but you’re so conceited.”

Izzy looked right down the dark barrel, but she didn’t close her eyes.

“Goodbye, Izzy.” His finger tightened on the trigger. “Say hi to your dad.”

The shot rang out across the hills like the howl of a wolf.

Chapter

Thirty-Six

The gunshot echoed off the rocks, and Nate stumbled backward into the boulder. His eyes locked with Izzy’s, wide with shock and confusion. A dark stain spread across his jacket. His mouth worked soundlessly, trying to form words that wouldn’t come. Then his legs gave out, and he crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

Izzy stared at Nate’s body, her mind struggling to process what had happened. The blood loss and exhaustion made everything feel distant and unreal, like watching scenes play out underwater. She hadn’t fired. Her gun was empty. But Nate was dead.

Using the boulder for support, Izzy dragged herself around, ignoring the fresh wave of pain that tore through her body. She peered down the rocky slope into the gulch below.

There, barely discernible in the last glow of the day, knelt Cole. His position was textbook—one knee planted firmly on the hillside, arms extended, both hands gripping his pistol. The barrel still pointed at where Nate had stood, unwavering. His face bore an expression Izzy had never seen before, hard and determined. In that moment, he wasn’t the gentle doctor who healed with careful hands. He was a soldier doing the one thing she knew went against everything he believed in.

Taking the life of another.

The world spun as Izzy slumped against the boulder. Cole clawed his way up the loose terrain toward her, rocks and dirt spitting down behind him. Her heart ached watching him scramble to her. This man who dedicated his life to saving others had just been forced to take one. Because of her. Because she hadn’t been able to handle this alone.

“Cole,” she whispered.

He reached her side and dropped to his knees, shoving his weapon into his waistband. His hands moved to check her wound, but they trembled. The same hands that had sutured countless injuries, delivered babies, and brought comfort to the sick now shook with the aftermath of what he’d done.

“I’m so sorry.” Her voice cracked. “I never wanted⁠—”

“Don’t.” Cole’s word came out rough, his eyes fixed on her shoulder. “We need to get you help.”

She reached up with her good arm and caught his wrist, stilling his trembling hands. “Cole, look at me.”

When he finally met her gaze, the pain in his eyes made her want to curl up and cry. She’d done this to him. In trying to protect herself, she’d wounded him in a way that might never fully heal.

The world tilted as Cole helped Izzy to her feet, his strong hands steadying her against the boulder. Blood loss made her head swim, but she forced herself to focus on his face, drinking in the warmth of his brown eyes. He’d saved her. After everything, he’d still come for her.

Movement caught her eye beyond Cole’s shoulder. A shadow detached itself from the deeper darkness of the rocks. Denly emerged, a pistol aimed at Cole’s back. The deputy’s face twisted with hatred as he lined up the shot.

Cole’s attention remained fixed on Izzy, his expression soft with concern. He had no idea death lurked behind him. No way to know these might be his final breaths.

Izzy’s heart seized. Not again. She couldn’t watch another man she loved die before her eyes. She opened her mouth to scream a warning.

The words were shoved back down as the crack of gunfire shattered the evening silence again.

Izzy’s mind whirled and Cole’s head snapped toward the noise but remained standing. Denly crumpled, his weapon clattering against the rocks. Her heart hammered as she spun toward the source, Cole’s arm still supporting her weight.

A figure emerged from the darkness of the gulch. Relief flooded through her as Elliot Wahlberg stepped into view, his service weapon held low and steady. His coat hung open, and she saw the tactical vest underneath.

“I told you to stay where you were.” Cole’s voice carried equal parts gratitude and exasperation. “Even with the vest, you’ve got broken ribs.”

Izzy felt a smile tug at her lips despite the pain. Trust Cole to focus on his patient’s well-being moments after a shootout. The same gentle concern that drew her to him remained intact, even after being forced to take a life.

Wahlberg eased himself beside her, his back against the rock. His breath came in controlled pants, managing the pain of his injuries.

“We don’t go in alone,” he said, meeting her eyes with unwavering loyalty.

The words hit Izzy like a tornado. After years of isolation, of keeping everyone at arm’s length, she’d found people willing to risk everything to stand beside her. Her deputy. Her doctor. Her family.

Izzy leaned heavily against Cole as they made their way back down the rocky slope. Each step sent fresh waves of pain, but the warmth of his body against hers made it tolerable. Wahlberg limped ahead, one hand pressed to his ribs, leading them by flashlight back toward the mine entrance.

“I’m sorry,” Izzy said, her voice rough. “I never meant for you to get caught up in this.” Then she frowned at Cole. “Where did you get the gun?”

“Wahlberg’s backup piece. He wouldn’t give me his service weapon, said department rules.” Cole shook his head. “Found him near the mine entrance, groggy and confused. Took a nasty hit when he went down—definite concussion. Told him to stay put, but apparently no one follows my orders around here.” A small smile played at the corners of his mouth.

Izzy studied his profile in the flashlight glow. “What were you even doing down here? I meant for you to provide air support with the Robinson’s spotlight.”

“That was the plan. But I saw armed men moving across the peaks, closing in on the mine.” Cole helped her navigate a particularly treacherous section of loose rock. “Couldn’t land the chopper anywhere close enough to help. So I set down back where the farmer was waiting with the quads.”

“You rode in?”

“Took one of the bikes most of the way, then hiked the last stretch to stay quiet.” He glanced down at her. “Learned a tactic or two in the army.”

Izzy choked up at the thought of Cole putting himself at risk for her. “You could have been killed.”

“So could you.” His voice was gentle but firm. “That’s why we don’t go in alone.”

Izzy felt tears prick at her eyes. She blinked them away, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. The pain in her shoulder had settled into a deep throb, but she knew the real ache was somewhere deeper—guilt over dragging these good men into her fight, mixed with overwhelming gratitude that they’d come anyway.

Izzy mounted a quad bike, and Cole slid on behind her, leaning across her to operate the handlebars. He wrapped right around her, and as they bumped slowly across the trail out of the hills, Izzy felt safe for the first time in a year.

Against Cole’s wishes, Wahlberg stayed at the mine to guard the captured men. When Cole rolled the quad over the final crest and down to the desert flat of the valley, Izzy noticed that Jeb Markram’s trailer sat in the darkness, but the truck was gone.

“Gone to get help,” said Cole. “No cell coverage here.”

Cole checked Izzy’s wound and found it split and bleeding. He taped it and redressed it as they waited. Izzy watched him work in silence.

Then she saw the flashing strobes, red and blue, charging along a long, lonely road. They seemed to take forever to reach them. When they did, Izzy directed Hawkins and several deputies into the hills, telling them Wahlberg was injured and six suspects would need to be marched out.

Then Izzy was loaded into the back of the paramedic van. The volunteer firefighter in the van told Cole he couldn’t come, but Cole stepped up and pulled the door closed.

“I’m her physician,” he said, closing the matter.

Chapter

Thirty-Seven

Izzy shifted on her grandfather’s sofa, trying to find a position that didn’t make her shoulder scream. The painkillers dulled the edges but couldn’t eliminate the deep ache completely. A knock at the door made her tense before she recognized Wahlberg’s pattern.

“Come in,” she called out.

Wahlberg entered, still favoring his ribs as he moved. He carried a manila folder in one hand. “Boss, got my incident report done. Thought you’d want to see it before I file it.”

Izzy accepted the folder, noting how carefully typed and organized the pages were. As she read through the account, her brow furrowed.

“This says you shot both Denly and Nate?” She looked up at her deputy.

Wahlberg nodded, settling into the armchair across from her. “Yes, ma’am. After running out of rounds in my service weapon taking down Denly, I switched to my backup to neutralize Bolton.”

Izzy studied his face, remembering Cole’s steady hands on the borrowed backup weapon, the shot that had dropped Nate. But Wahlberg’s expression remained earnest and unwavering.

“That’s your official statement?” she asked carefully.

“Yes, ma’am. Figured you’d need to write up your own report soon. Wanted to make sure our accounts aligned.” He met her gaze steadily. “For the record.”

The weight of what he was doing—protecting Cole from the complications of a civilian involved in a shooting—settled over her. Her deputy was willing to take that responsibility onto his own shoulders without hesitation.

Izzy stared at the report in her hands, her mind churning. “I don’t like this.”

“Boss?”

“Falsifying reports. That’s not how we do things here. Not anymore.” The paper crinkled under her tightening grip.

Wahlberg leaned forward, wincing at the movement. “How do you think the townspeople will react to their doctor becoming a killer? Even if it was to save your life?”

The question was one she hadn’t considered. Memories of the FBI investigation flooded back—the suspicious glances, the whispered conversations that stopped when she entered a room, the slow erosion of trust that had destroyed her career. All because she’d shot her husband to save an informant’s life. She couldn’t let that happen to Cole.

But then there was Mark. What story had he told himself to justify his actions? Was he on some fabricated moral high horse, or did he acknowledge that what he was doing was wrong, but did it anyway?

“This is a slippery slope, Elliot.” Her voice came out barely above a whisper.

“My wife always says doing the right thing is never the wrong thing.” Wahlberg’s steady gaze met hers.

A smile tugged at Izzy’s lips. “I’ll say it again, you have a very smart wife.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” He shifted in his chair, adjusting his position to ease his ribs. “So?”

“I’ll talk to Hawkins. I’ll file my report.” She handed the folder back to him. “We’ll figure this out.”

Later that evening, the warmth and aromas of her grandfather’s kitchen sent Izzy back in time. Joe moved around the buzzing kitchen with vigor, preparing his signature Basque chicken while Mr. Ramos hovered nearby, clearly angling for the recipe. Her grandfather seemed renewed by having life back in his house.

“Just a hint about the spices?” Mr. Ramos pleaded.

Joe shook his head, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Family secret.”

Cole sat beside Izzy at the worn dining table, close enough that their shoulders brushed. When the food was all on the table, he reached across her to fill her plate. Everything about the moment struck her as so different from her solitary life in New York. Tamara passed Cole a platter of beans, and he scooped some onto Izzy’s plate, then he passed the platter on to Elliot. Izzy saw the brief acknowledgment from Cole, an almost imperceptible nod, returned by Wahlberg as he took the beans. Not so much I owe you one as thanks and I won’t forget it.

Under the table, Nanook’s tail thumped against the floor as Joe slipped him pieces of chicken. Her grandfather’s conspiratorial winks at the dog made her swell with affection.

But even surrounded by this unexpected warmth, questions nagged at her. Nate’s words echoed in her mind: “I brought you back.” How had he known about her situation with the FBI? What connection did he have to Supervisor Preston? The timing of her job offer felt less like coincidence with each passing moment.

Cole’s fingers brushed her hand. “Potatoes?”

Izzy blinked, pulling herself back to the present moment. Those questions could wait. For now, she had this—a table full of people she loved, the comfort of home, and a future that finally felt real.

Izzy Llewellyn battles local politics and her father’s legacy in book 2, Echoes of Darkness. Get it here.

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