Stay calm.
Stay in control.
The cell was eight by ten feet. Standard county holding, with a metal toilet in the corner that offered no privacy, a thin mattress on a bolted-down frame, and the bench where he sat. The air smelled of industrial disinfectant layered over decades of sweat and desperation. He had been in worse places—much worse—but the confinement still scraped against his nerves like sandpaper.
He’d lost control. After years of perfect discipline, of containing every impulse behind walls of ice and calculation, he’d snapped. The moment he’d seen that wounded animal look in her eyes, something dark and primal had overriddenhis training. He hadn’t just wanted to subdue Deveraux—he’d wanted to destroy him, to erase him from the earth for daring to touch her.
And in doing so, he’d given the sheriff exactly what he wanted: an excuse to shut down their investigation, to discredit Naomi’s account, to paint Valor Ridge as a haven for dangerous ex-cons playing at reformation.
Stupid. Sloppy. Amateur.
Across the room, Walker Nash stood with his hands braced on Sheriff Goodwin’s desk, leaning forward. Boone and Marshal Brandt flanked him like sentinels, three men against the smug certainty of Hank Goodwin, who sat behind his desk as if it were a throne, immune to the pressure building in his office like a sealed pressure cooker.
They’d been at it for hours. The clock on the wall read 10:42 PM, and Ghost could track the progression of their arguments by the deepening lines in Walker’s face, the increasingly rigid set of Boone’s shoulders.
“For the last time,” Goodwin said, leaning back in his chair with an easy confidence that made Ghost’s jaw clench, “your boy assaulted a tribal officer in front of witnesses. There’s cell phone footage. Kids saw it, for Christ’s sake.”
“That ‘tribal officer’ was identified as one of the men who abducted Naomi Lefthand,” Walker said with barely restrained patience. “A fact that seems remarkably uninteresting to you, Hank.”
Goodwin waved a dismissive hand. “We have one traumatized woman making an accusation. An accusation against a man with a spotless record, I might add.”
“A traumatized woman?” Brandt stepped forward, his federal badge catching the fluorescent light. “Ms. Lefthand is a former federal agent and a trained observer. Her identification carries weight.”
“Not in my jurisdiction, it doesn’t.” Goodwin’s smile was thin and sharp as a paper cut. “What carries weight here is evidence. Due process. Rule of law. Things your boy in the cell there seems to have forgotten in his rush to play vigilante.”
Ghost didn’t move, didn’t react. He’d given them enough ammunition already. But he remembered the look on Naomi’s face when she’d heard Deveraux’s voice—the blood draining from her skin, the sudden, animal terror in her eyes. That hadn’t been confusion or mistake. It had been recognition, bone-deep and visceral.
“Where is Officer Deveraux now?” Brandt asked, his tone deceptively casual.
“Getting his broken nose set at County General,” Goodwin replied.
Brandt gave a decisive nod and turned away. “Same as where the other two victims are being treated. I’ll just go have a chat with them, see if they recognize?—”
Hank came half out of his chair. “Wait.”
Brandt turned back, eyebrow raised.
“You’re making a mistake, Marshal.” Goodwin’s voice had an edge to it now, the easy confidence slipping. “The victims are being treated for shock. Doctors have advised against questioning.”
“I have federal jurisdiction in a trafficking investigation,” Brandt replied, his tone still measured but unyielding. “Medical staff doesn’t dictate when I conduct interviews.”
Ghost watched the exchange from behind the bars, cataloging every micro-expression on Goodwin’s face. The tightening around his eyes. The subtle flex of jaw muscles. The sheriff was rattled.
“Those girls have been through enough without being badgered by federal agents,” Goodwin insisted.
“Funny,” Walker said. “You didn’t seem concerned about their wellbeing when you were dismissing the existence of a trafficking ring ten minutes ago.”
Goodwin’s face flushed and unhealthy shade of red that couldn’t be good for his blood pressure. “If there’s anyone trafficking girls around here, it’s not Mitch Deveraux. I can gaurantee you that.” he nodded toward Ghost’s cell. “And now thanks to your rabid dog over there?—”
Boone, who’d been silent until now, took a half-step forward. “Call him that again,” he said quietly, “and you’ll need more than one hospital bed.”
Walker put a hand on Boone’s arm without looking at him. A silent command. Stand down.
Rabid dog.
Ghost flexed his bruised knuckles, remembering the feeling of Deveraux’s jaw cracking beneath them. The satisfaction had been primal and immediate, a pure hit of vindication that had burned through him like lightning. But it had faded just as quickly, replaced by the cold realization that he’d become exactly what they thought he was. The killer. The weapon. The man with blood on his hands and ice in his veins.
Naomi deserved better.
