Jackson County Sheriff’s Office — Morning
By the time Tessa arrived, the office buzzed—phones ringing, deputies in and out.
She paused in the doorway as Scout came in from the lot, snow melting from his boots. He caught her gaze—a bare instant, enoughfor her pulse to jump—and shut it down behind a neutral expression.
“Morning, Agent,” he said, tone too even. He kept his hands busy so he wouldn’t reach for her. His voice didn’t match his eyes.
“Morning, Deputy,” she replied, voice thinner than she’d like. She could still smell woodsmoke—his secret on her skin.
Scout moved to the coffee, eyes on anything but her. Jenkins watched—a silent scowl.
Tessa ignored him, setting files on the table, but the words blurred. Her hands felt awkward.
Scout braced his palms on the briefing table, staring at a map too hard. The clock ticked loud. Every scrape of paper, every shuffle of boots, seemed extra sharp.
Burke strode in, face drawn. “You two ready?”
Scout and Tessa exchanged a glance, the charged kind that held overlong.
“All set,” Tessa said softly.
“Ready,” Scout echoed, tight smile betrayed by his eyes.
Burke caught their tension but let it go. “Let’s get to work.”
Shoulder to shoulder, Tessa’s sleeve brushed Scout’s arm.
The air between them was knife-thin—tight, cold, dangerous.
15
Deputy Sara Parker
Light found her first.
A pale wash spilled from two angled panes high overhead, where the ceiling vaulted like a chapel. White beams crossed the span—pristine and deliberate—and on either side of the ridge, a skylight slanted where snow slid in slow sheets down the glass. Each drift that broke loose sent a brighter blaze sweeping the room, then dimmed again as new flakes quilted the panes.
The light moved even when nothing else did.
She lay still beneath a white duvet with a lofty fill that rose and fell with her breath. For a few seconds, the hush felt like a kindness.
Then her stomach rolled.
Her limbs were heavy—wrong heavy—and her tongue felt thick in her mouth.
Drugged.
The word landed hard. Her pulse jumped anyway, like her body didn’t quite believe it.
Then the room came into focus in careful pieces.
Walls the color of sweet cream, easy on the eyes. Crown and base molding—wide, crisp, painted white that made the room feel finished, expensive. Dark hardwood floors swallowed the brightness and set it off. An oriental rug, all washed-out creams and pale gold, softened the space—threadbare in the beautiful way of heirlooms. A white slipcovered chair and ottoman sat in a pool of lamplight, the fabric so fresh it might have been pressed.
An antique desk anchored the far wall, a black typewriter squared on its surface like a promise. A neat stack of journals waited beside it, a pen aligned with deliberate precision. A small silver radio and an analog clock ticked softly on the side table.
Along one wall, a bookcase stretched from molding to molding—writing guides above, blank journals below.
In the corner, a glass-front fridge hummed with a microwave perched above. Through the pane: cut fruit, sealed soups, water lined like soldiers. A coffee maker waited beside porcelain cups, pods sorted by flavor.
