Page 17 of Indigo Ridge (The Edens 1)

Overall, the officer files were thin, too thin. The reports were short, too short. And everything was handwritten on paper templates.

Pops hadn’t been kidding when he’d told me that the Quincy Police Department needed a shove into the future. Though shove seemed too gentle a word. What we needed was a bulldozer.

I was that bulldozer.

Walking through the bullpen, I waved at Allen, one of the day-shift officers.

He nodded, his eyes darting to my sleeve. The corner of his mouth turned up.

I shrugged. “Coffee attacked me.”

“That’s why I’m partial to our black shirts and pants. Hides the spills.”

“My uniform order is supposed to get in today. Then I’ll be sticking to black shirts too.” I smiled and headed for the door.

Okay, that was nice. Allen hadn’t avoided eye contact. Progress, right?

I waved at Officer Smith when I passed him for the lobby, hoping for a nod. “I’m going to run home quickly. Would you please call me if anything comes up?”

He ignored me, like he had for the past two days. Even when we’d bumped into each other in the break room yesterday, he’d acted like I hadn’t even been there. The heat from his glare burned down my spine as I walked out the door.

Early retirement. We were definitely going to discuss an early retirement if he didn’t change his attitude.

I plucked my sunglasses from my purse, using them to shield my eyes from the glare and cover up the dark circles under my eyes—sleep hadn’t been easy this week. My Durango was parked beside Allen’s cruiser. The leather seats were warm and the air stuffy. I cracked my window, drawing in the scent of summer sunshine.

Located in the heart of western Montana, Quincy was about an hour from Glacier National Park. The town was situated in a valley surrounded by snowcapped mountains, their slopes covered by a dense evergreen forest. The Clark Fork River cut a path through the trees and provided a natural border on one side for the city limits.

Pops would take us camping along the river when I was a kid. My family would spend a few precious summer weekends at his favorite sites, where we’d fish and hike and roast s’mores.

At every turn, Quincy held a memory.

Visiting Pops had always felt like an adventure. My father had grown up here, and for him, Quincy was home. Mom and Dad would have loved to see me living here. They probably would have followed me from Bozeman.

Though if they hadn’t died, I doubted I would have moved to Quincy.

If they hadn’t died, a lot would be different.

At every turn, Quincy held a memory.

I had yet to decide if that was good or bad.

Pushing the past aside, I took in the tourists meandering down the sidewalks on Main. Because of our proximity to Glacier, Quincy would be bustling until fall with out-of-town visitors.

As the mayor, Pops loved the influx of cash to his small town. As a resident, the tourists tended to grate on his nerves. The abundance of visitors was the reason he loved whisking us away to the mountains for summer campouts.

It had been during the fall and winter visits that we’d actually stayed in Quincy to explore. Not much had changed since my childhood. There was comfort in the familiar.

As in most small Montana towns, Main Street was a segment of the highway that led in and out of town. Everything branched away from Quincy’s downtown, like arteries from a thriving heart. But the bulk of the commerce was right here, all clustered together in the town’s core.

Restaurants, bars and retail shops were the primary appeal for our seasonal visitors. Offices and banks filled the gaps in between. Mom’s favorite stop had always been the antique shop. Dad’s, the hardware store. The grocery store and two gas stations acted as the bookend to one side of Main. Quincy Farm and Feed was the other.

The community took pride in this street. The window displays were artful and charming. Flower baskets hung from lampposts in summer, holiday garlands and twinkle lights in winter.

I loved this town.

My town.

It hadn’t quite sunk in yet that Quincy was mine.