Naomi squared her shoulders, ignoring the twinge in her ribs. “Let’s do it.”
The interior of the station smelled like coffee and floor polish, with undertones of sweat and gun oil. A dispatcher sat behind bulletproof glass, her headset perpetually tilted away from one ear as she monitored radio traffic. Two deputies lounged at their desks, one filling out paperwork with the enthusiasm of a man facing root canal, the other scrolling on hisphone beneath the level of his desk, as if no one could possibly see the blue light reflecting off his face.
“Marshal Brandt and Naomi Lefthand to see Sheriff Goodwin,” Brandt said to the dispatcher, badge already in hand. “He’s expecting us.”
The woman’s eyes flicked from Brandt’s badge to Naomi’s face, lingering just long enough to make it clear she recognized her. Not surprising—in a town the size of Solace, Naomi’s abduction and rescue would have been headline news for days.
“I’ll let him know you’re here.” The dispatcher’s voice was cool, professional, but her eyes held a hint of something else when they returned to Naomi. Curiosity, maybe. Or pity.
Naomi hated both options equally.
“Fancy digs,” she said quietly to Brandt while they waited. The walls were covered with framed photographs—Sheriff Goodwin at various community events, shaking hands with politicians, cutting ribbons at grand openings. In every shot, his square jaw was set in the same stern, paternalistic expression: the face of a man protecting his town from threats only he could see.
“Local law enforcement,” Brandt murmured, his gaze sweeping the room with professional assessment. “Big fish, small pond. They like to remind everyone who’s in charge.”
A door at the back of the room opened, and Hank Goodwin emerged. He was exactly as Naomi remembered from community meetings—tall, imposing, with a military-style haircut that never quite softened his severe features. His uniform was pressed to within an inch of its life, the creases in his pants sharp enough to cut paper, his badge polished to a high shine. Everything about him radiated authority and control.
“Marshal,” Goodwin said, extending a hand to Brandt. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Welcome back to Solace.” His gazeslid to Naomi, and the smile dimmed further. “Ms. Lefthand. Good to see you up and around. Heard you had quite an ordeal.”
The casual dismissal of her abduction, as if she’d had a bad case of flu rather than been beaten and imprisoned, made her teeth clench. But she kept her expression neutral, years of federal training kicking in.
“Sheriff Goodwin,” she replied evenly. “Thank you for making time to see us.”
“Always happy to cooperate with our federal counterparts,” he said, the words practiced, hollow. He gestured toward his office. “Shall we?”
The sheriff’s private office was a study in masculine austerity—heavy oak desk, leather chair, a gun rack mounted on one wall displaying vintage service revolvers. A large framed map of Ravalli County dominated another wall, with color-coded pins marking what looked like patrol zones. Family photos lined a credenza behind the desk—Goodwin with what appeared to be his wife, a studio portrait where neither smiled; Goodwin in fishing gear holding up a massive trout; Goodwin at his swearing-in ceremony, hand raised, face solemn.
“Coffee?” he offered, settling into his chair with the confidence of a king on his throne.
“No, thank you,” Brandt replied, taking one of the chairs across from the desk. Naomi took the other, noting how they sat slightly lower than Goodwin’s—another small power play.
“So,” Goodwin leaned back, steepling his fingers. “What can the Ravalli County Sheriff’s Department do for the U.S. Marshals Service today? Your call was a bit vague on details.”
Brandt matched Goodwin’s posture, relaxed but alert. “I’m heading up a federal task force investigating a human trafficking operation we believe is operating in this region. We have reason to think several local cases may be connected.”
“Human trafficking.” Goodwin’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes—wariness, perhaps. Or calculation. “That’s a serious accusation. What evidence are you basing this on?”
“The recovery of two minors from a remote location in your county, for starters,” Brandt said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Plus Ms. Lefthand’s own account of her abduction. And the recent discovery of Leila Padilla’s remains near the same location.”
Goodwin’s gaze shifted to Naomi. “Ms. Lefthand’s... account.” The slight pause before the last word carried a weight of skepticism. “Given her condition when she was found, I’m not sure how reliable that account might be.”
Naomi felt heat rise in her cheeks but kept her voice steady. “My ‘condition’ didn’t affect my memory, Sheriff. I was drugged and beaten, not concussed. I can provide a detailed description of the men who took me, the vehicle they used, and the layout of the building where I was held.”
“Of course,” he said smoothly. “And we’re following up on all credible leads. But you have to understand, jumping from one isolated incident to accusations of organized human trafficking is a stretch. Especially when there are other explanations that fit the facts.”
“Such as?” Brandt prompted.
Goodwin spread his hands. “The most obvious is drug-related. Meth has been a growing problem in this county for years. The property where Ms. Lefthand was found has been on our radar as a potential cook site. It’s more likely she and those girls stumbled onto something they shouldn’t have.”
“That doesn’t explain why I was specifically targeted,” Naomi countered. “Or why those girls were being kept in individual stalls, or why their arms showed evidence of repeated injections consistent with sedation, not recreational drug use.”
“With all due respect, Ms. Lefthand, you’re not a detective anymore.” Goodwin’s smile was thin and patronizing. “And while your federal experience is noted, local law enforcement has a better understanding of the patterns and problems in our own jurisdiction.”
“Which is why we’re here,” Brandt interjected smoothly. “To collaborate. To share intelligence.” He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a slim file folder. “We believe Leila Padilla’s disappearance and murder may be connected to several other cases, including Mary Rose Charlo, who went missing from this county nearly eleven years ago.”
At the mention of Mary Rose, Goodwin’s expression hardened. “The Charlo case was thoroughly investigated at the time. The girl was a troubled teenager who’d been talking about leaving town for months. There was never any evidence of foul play.”
“There was never any evidence she left town willingly either,” Naomi said, unable to keep the edge from her voice. “No credit card usage, no phone calls, no sightings. She vanished.”
