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Felicity took a step closer — not enough to crowd, just enough to see better. No visible injuries. No marks she could point to. “You sure about that?” she asked, quieter now.
Donny’s jaw flexed. For a second something flickered in his eyes. Then gone. “Yes, ma’am.”
Silence stretched. Felicity nodded once, stepping back.
“Okay. If anything changes, you call us.”
“We will,” Lance said smoothly. “Good night, Deputy Graham.”
Elaine was already easing the door closed.
It clicked shut with a finality that sat wrong in Felicity’s gut.
With a sigh she turned, heading back down the porch steps, unease settling heavy between her shoulders.
Another “nothing to see here.” And she didn’t believe a word of it.
She slid behind the wheel and pulled away from the curb, the Whittaker house shrinking in her rearview mirror — but not leaving her mind.
At the next corner, she slowed when she spotted Ronan’s truck pulling into Ruth’s driveway two houses down the side street. As she watched, Ronan and Davey climbed out, a gym bag slung over the kid’s shoulder. They were deep in animated conversation — easy, unguarded. No tension. No flinching when Ronan slung an arm around Davey’s shoulders. They headed straight up the steps and walked right in.
Felicity lingered, engine idling. Fighting the urge to wait.
To see how long he stayed.
She’d heard plenty about Ronan.
And Ruth.
About the time he put in with the kids — especially Davey. He was a constant at sports practice, even taking the kid with him to the local gym.
But after a call like the one she’d just walked away from, she was damn glad the boy had someone steady in his corner.
Someone who showed up.
Someone … good.
Felicity exhaled, the tension easing from her grip on the wheel, and drove on into the darkening evening. She’d made her decision about Ronan a month ago.
And she wasn’t about to revisit it — no matter how much it hurt.
*
December always arrived with a kind of forced brightness that made Felicity’s nerves feel too tight beneath her skin.
Mere minutes ago, the switch had been flipped, and the town burst into light. Clearbrook’s Main Street glowed like something out of a postcard. Every roofline traced in a warm white glow, every lamppost wrapped in garland thick with red bows and twinkles. The big spruce in the square shimmered under a thousand tiny bulbs, its star cutting sharp against the deepening blue of early evening.
And she had a month of this.
A whole fucking month.
Reminders in every direction.
Felicity kept her pace steady, boots striking the pavement in a measured rhythm. She caught her reflection in the furniture shop window — a tight-lipped woman, hair dragged back into a braid, a beanie pulled low over her ears, makeup disguising whatever emotion might slip through. Dressed in stark uniform, armed, every inch the authority she was supposed to be.
Framed — of all things — by the fucking fairy lights.
A low, coiled tension hovered at the edges of her mind.
