Sheriff Dunn’s office smelled like the same burned coffee from that morning, plus dust and tired authority. He’d traded his uniform shirt for a flannel, badge clipped to the pocket. Astack of paperwork leaned like it had been waiting for him to blink first.
“You find anything new?” he asked.
“Enough to bother me,” I said. “Feed-store footage caught a black pickup, cracked taillight, no plate. Same make that’s been floating through Elm Creek and Red Hollow. Magnetic decal—temporary, probably company truck.”
He nodded, lips pressing thin. “And you’re thinking our construction boom’s got a ghost company in the mix.”
“I’m thinking ghosts leave tire tracks.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You ever notice how quiet Peterson’s gotten lately? Usually, he’s in here twice a week, wanting updates, wanting reassurance the town’s safe. Now I can’t get him to answer a text.”
“Maybe he finally learned delegation.”
“Or maybe he’s neck-deep in permits he doesn’t want me to see.”
The sheriff pushed a file toward me. Inside: photocopies of bids for the south-pad expansion—two stamped withPioneer Facilities Groupat the bottom.
“Public record?” I asked.
“Supposed to be.” He gave a small, humorless laugh. “But when I asked for copies at City Hall, the clerk said they’d been ‘misplaced during digital migration.’ ”
“Convenient.”
“Exactly.”
He leaned back, the chair groaning under him. “I’ll tell you straight, Austin. Peterson’s no fool, but he’s the kind of man who thinks he can build a legacy out of other people’s sweat. If someone offered him an easy path to money—aggregate contracts, off-book hauling—he might not ask too many questions.”
“And if someone’s using his projects to cover theft?”
“Then we’ve got ourselves a hydra. Cut one head, two pop up.”
I scanned the file again, tracing the signature line. “You want me to keep digging?”
“I’m not telling you to,” he said slowly. “But I’m not telling you not to, either. Just—keep it quiet. If Peterson’s innocent, we don’t torch him on rumor. If he’s not, he’s got friends who don’t like daylight.”
It wasn’t a warning so much as a reality check. Every town had its lines of loyalty, and in Everwood, those lines twisted like creekbeds.
I stood, the chair legs scraping the floor. “If I find proof, I’ll bring it here first.”
Dunn gave me that tired, knowing smile cops get after twenty years of half-victories. “Just don’t bring it in a body bag.”
Outside, the afternoon light had gone syrup-thick, the heat shimmering off Main Street. I crossed to my truck, pulse steady but too fast. Training whispered through the noise—verify source, confirm threat, control perimeter.
I’d already broken the third rule by letting Milly anywhere near this story.
As I started the engine, my phone buzzed again.Jake Rainer:Got a name on your “Trent.” Full record coming. Spoiler: not real.
The text sat on the screen like a loaded chamber.
I stared at it for a beat, thumb hovering over reply, then typed:Send everything. Secure channel.
Traffic rolled past—a small-town normal that pretends nothing bad ever happens. But normal was an illusion, and I’d lived long enough to know illusions make the best cover.
If Dunn was right, Peterson might be a fool dancing near a cliff—or the man shoving others off it. Either way, the ground under Everwood just shifted.
And if I was going to keep Milly safe, I needed to know which it was before the dark came back around.
The sun was slipping down when I turned off the county road toward home. The light had that honeyed weight it gets in late summer, heavy and forgiving. My hands still smelled like machine oil and paper, the residue of a day spent chasing ghosts through files and gossip.
