Page 35

"Not when one person has made it clear they don't want contact." I take a step closer, closing the distance he tried to create. "She told you it was over. Multiple times. And instead of accepting that, you broke into her apartment, tracked her across state lines, and are now harassing local business owners for information about her whereabouts. That's not someone trying to reconcile. That's stalking."

His face goes red. A vein pulses in his temple. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know she's terrified of you. I know she left her entire life behind to get away from you. I know she filed a police report. That tells me everything I need to know."

"She's being dramatic. She does that—makes everything bigger than it needs to be. We just need to talk and she'll understand." His voice takes on an edge of desperation that makes my skin prickle. "We belong together. I take care of her. She needs me."

"She doesn't want your help. She wants you to leave her alone."

"Let me guess." Trevor's voice has venom now. "She told you all about our relationship. Made me out to be some kind of monster. Cried those pretty tears. And you believed her because she's beautiful and scared and you want to be the hero." He looks me up and down. "Small-town sheriff. Probably haven't had a real case in years. This must make you feel important."

I let him talk. Let him dig his own grave.

"This has nothing to do with me," I say when he's done. "This is about you refusing to accept no for an answer."

"How did you find her?" I ask, shifting tactics. "How did you know she was in Bloomfield? She didn't tell you."

Trevor hesitates. Just for a second. But it's enough. "I have friends. Someone saw her."

"You hired a private investigator."

His expression shifts. Caught. "I was worried about her. I hired someone to make sure she was okay. That's not a crime. That's caring about someone."

"Actually, it is when combined with everything else. Hiring someone to track down a person who's explicitly told you to leave them alone is stalking. You need to leave. Right now."

"You can't tell me where I can and can't go." But he's backing toward the door, realizing he's boxed himself in.

"You're right. I can't. But I can tell you that if you continue to harass someone who's filed a police report against you, I will arrest you. And I can tell you that if you attempt to contact Lyla Brennan in any way, you will face charges." I keep my tone even. Reasonable. Final. "Now get in your car and leave."

For a long moment I think he's actually going to push it. His hands curl into fists at his sides. The muscle in his jaw jumps. Then he looks at Ethan, at Ray, back at me, and whatever he sees makes him decide.

"Fine. I'll leave."

"Good choice."

He pushes past us toward the door, deliberately bumping my shoulder as he goes. It's not hard enough to really move me, but it's aggressive. Intentional. A threat wrapped in plausible deniability.

I let it go. For now.

We follow him outside into the cool October evening. His blue sedan is parked three spots down, and I commit the license plate to memory even though I already have it written down at the station. He gets in, slams the door, and sits there gripping the steering wheel for a long moment before starting the car.

The engine turns over. Headlights come on.

But he doesn't head toward the highway. He turns down Oak Street.

"That's not the way out of town," Ethan says quietly beside me.

"No." My stomach drops. "That's the way to Maple Ridge Road."

I'm in my truck before he can respond. There's a service road that cuts through the woods behind the old mill, comes out on Maple Ridge about half a mile from Lyla's cottage. It's rough and narrow but I know every turn, drove it a hundred times my first year as sheriff when some lady out there kept calling about raccoons in her attic.

I push the truck as fast as I dare. Branches scrape the sides with a sound like fingernails. Gravel spits up behind me and pings against the undercarriage. The truck bounces hard over a pothole and my head nearly hits the roof but I don't slow down.

If Trevor gets to that cottage before I do, if he corners her when she's alone and scared, if those locks don't hold...

The shortcut spits me out onto Maple Ridge with a jolt that rattles my teeth. I floor it. The engine roars. Trees blur past on either side.

Thirty seconds later I'm pulling into her driveway.