Page 8 of The SEAL and the Sheriff

“Regarding?”

“A fugitive.”

“Name?”

He didn’t answer.

Sarah sighed. “You’re not refusing because you can’t tell me.” She met his eyes. “You’re refusing because you don’t want to.”

“I’m protecting an active investigation.”

“You’re in my jurisdiction.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She held his gaze another second, measuring the line between cooperation and obstruction. Then she made a note in the margin. “Continue.”

He told her about the bar. The questions. Kincaid.

She wrote steadily, saying nothing. He’d known her as a girl who’d outrun every boy in Aurora Cove. The sheriff didn’t run. Problems came to her.

She finished writing and set her pen down. The professional part of the meeting, the part that had a form, was over. The silence was hers to break.

“How are your folks?” Courtesy. Her mother had raised her to ask.

His gaze dropped briefly. “Both gone,” he said. “Mom, four years ago. Dad two.”

When he looked back up, there was a tightness around her mouth and eyes—a place where something had moved and then been put away.

“I’m sorry.”

He believed her. “Thank you.”

She nodded once and looked back down at the file.

“Yours?” He waited.

“Good. Dad’s restoring a ‘92 Polaris.” She circled two fingers at her temple. A small, exasperated huff. “Nearly took his leg off last month. Mom won’t let him near it without a radio on him now.” She tapped the paperwork laid flat in front of her. “Anyway. Hudson⁠—”

She stopped, closed her eyes for the smallest fraction of a second. “Deputy Marshal.”

He didn’t react, but his heart stammered a beat.

She cleared her throat. “Deputy Marshal.” She clicked her pen. “Does Wyatt know you’re in town?”

“Sure.” Just not today.

He wasn’t here for that. He wasn’t here for anything permanent.

She adjusted the file so that it faced her more squarely. “The photograph,” she said at last. “The one you were showing around last night. I’d like to see it.”

He’d known this was coming. He hesitated anyway. Then he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and slid it across her desk.

She studied the photograph for a long time.

It was a clean shot. A man in his late forties, half-turned, coming out of a doorway in a city that was not Aurora Cove. Hudson had looked at it often. He knew what it held—and what it didn’t.

Her face didn’t change. She understood it hadn’t been taken by a friend.