He pulled his phone out and typed the first message.
STOP DIGGING.
Send.
Three beats.
Then the second.
YOU’RE NOT AS SAFE AS YOU THINK.
Send.
He slid the phone away and started walking, boots finding the cracks in the pavement.
The town moved around him.
Unaware.
He didn’t look back.
He already knew what came next.
And she didn’t.
Not yet.
Deputy Sara Parker — Sara’s Apartment 8 Hours Before Sara Was Taken
The range had been loud in the best way.
Gunfire cracking clean through cold air. Men talking trash between rounds. Someone from Jackson County bringing donuts like it was a tailgate instead of a yearly qualification. Even Burke had shown up for an hour—clipboard in hand, acting like he wasn’t proud of his people.
Sara had outshot half the room.
Not by much. Not enough to bruise egos. But enough to make Jenkins mutter, “Hell, Parker,” under his breath like it was a compliment he hated giving.
She drove home with her ears still ringing faintly, hands steady on the wheel.
One week since Thanksgiving.
Sylva already had Christmas lights up in half the windows. She caught herself thinking about the Christmas parade next weekend. About maybe standing on the sidewalk instead of working traffic control for once.
Maybe even asking Scout to grab coffee after.
Just coffee.
Nothingcomplicated. Nothing reckless.
Just something that wasn’t duty.
Sara parked behind the hardware store and climbed the outside stairs. Her duty belt was off, her jacket unzipped.
Unit Four waited at the top.
Her key slid in.
Something felt off.
