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Royce
“R a i n e y.” Royce King drew out his sister’s hated nickname name with exaggerated patience. “I need you to repeat yourself, static interrupted our connection. I thought I heard you say I’ve been named sheriff.”
Royce did not have time to deal with his sister’s shenanigans. Jim Prichard was waiting for his car to be finished—pacing the length of the shop’s makeshift lobby, peeking in through the window between the auto shop and the waiting area every forty-five damn seconds. Jordan had chosen the wrong day to flake out on him.
Maybe between jobs today he’d make time to discreetly bury Jordan’s body out by the old blueberry farm when he finally dragged his ass into work. Although that would make more work for Royce, so he would probably just give Jordan yet another big brotherly lecture about responsibility and then be reminded that he’d left town when Jordan was ten so he could zip it.
“You heard me right, big brother,” Raine replied in that extra-irritating way she used just because they were siblings. “There was an emergency vote by the City Council, and they named you sheriff.”
Nowhe understood why Jordan had made himself scarce today. Jordan probably knew about this plan and figured he didn’t want to be around when Royce found out. If Royce had known, he would have made himself scarce too. He was finished with policing, he’d had enough of it in the Army.
Rexville was the only town in the state with a sheriff instead of a city police chief. The position was a holdover from when the town was founded in the 1870s—when the population was much bigger than it was these days. Visitors thought it was quaint, but it actually caused a great deal of confusion. And for Royce, right now, even more of a headache than Jim Prichard’s impatient pacing.
“God damn it, Raine.”
The pass-through doors squeaked piteously on their hinges and Royce spun around, shooting a glare at Jim Prichard. He’d chosen the wrong moment to poke his head in through the swinging doors again to check and see how much longer it would be before his car was ready.
“Raine,” Royce said into the phone while continuing to glare at Jim, “I. Don’t. Want. The. Job. Why wasn’t I informed of this emergency vote?” Because they all knew he would have shot the idea down, with a double-barrel shotgun. “Never mind, don’t answer that. I need to finish Prichard’s car before closing time. I don’t have time for this. I’ll talk to Emory and Clyde myself.”
Emory Smith was Rexville’s mayor and Clyde Ransom was head of the three-person Rexville City Council. The two old codgers were his father’s age—if his father was still alive—and might be swayed with a bottle of top-shelf whiskey to change their minds. Royce frowned. On the other hand, the two were solely responsible for keeping the Rexville Sheriff’s Office around instead of changing it to a more traditional police station—because they thought it was a draw for tourists—and convinced the rest of the council as well.
Still, he could almost see Raine’s wicked grin as she said in a sing-song voice, “The people of Rexville believe in you, Royce.”
“I won’t be accepting the position. I already have a job.” Two jobs, but who was counting?
Raine was the one behind this, he knew she was. And she wasn’t listening.
Rexville needed a sheriff, there was no doubt of that. The town needed a real sheriff, one invested in protecting the community. And unfortunately, Royce fit the bill—he just didn’t want the job.
As he stood next to the only window in the bay of the auto shop, the fall rain, which had been relentless all day, began pounding down even harder, hard enough to make it difficult for him to hear his sister over the fat drops drumming on the roof.
“That’s not going to work on me or anyone else, my favorite older brother. You’re retired US Army and, more importantly, Smith trusts you. And you have to admit, you’ll be a better sheriff than Garrison was. And”—this was the truly underhanded blow—“there’s Tor Nilson to think about. Since Garrison died, no one is looking into his death. The Bridgeton police force has enough of its own trouble on its hands. And you know damn well Garrison probably wasn’t looking too hard before he died.”
The town’s last sheriff, Webster Garrison, had died in his sleep two nights ago, and longtime Rexville resident and curmudgeon, Tor Nilson, had been found dead in his kitchen the day before that. Talk around town was that he’d either fallen and hit his head, or that maybe there’d been a robbery.
In Royce’s opinion, Web Garrison was lucky. A peaceful death was better than what could be said for the two sheriffs before him. If Tor Nilson’s death had been caused by a robbery or some sort of home invasion? At best, any evidence had been ignored by Garrison during the short time he’d been on the case; at worst, it had been trampled and destroyed.
Royce was too busy dealing with the auto shop and his youngest brother, Jordan, to pay attention to any rumors flying around town about who might become the interim sheriff. In fact, if rumors had been flying around, the airspace around Rexville Auto had been remarkably free of them. He suspected that was on purpose and was probably why Jordan had made himself scarce today. Traitors, all of them.
His plans didn’t include being sheriff of Rexville. Royce was starting up a security business with Bishop, the brother closest in age to him, Royce’s best friend, Topher Carlson, and Topher’s younger brother, Caleb. King Security would officially open its doors next month, offering personal and property security as well as some investigative services. Every single one of them had served—all in different branches—and because of the team’s various connections from their time in the military, they already had several jobs lined up.
Caleb had been Delta Force, Topher a Navy SEAL, Bishop a Ranger, and Royce had proudly served as an agent with the U.S. Army CID, which meant between the four of them, they offered a little bit of everything, with Royce bringing both the investigative and administrative experience to help get the business off the ground. That and the auto shop were enough.
Being a co-owner of a private security firm would be a conflict of interest with the position of sheriff. He was sure of it.
The rain let up again, making the quiet of the shop seem almost oppressive.
“Raine, I can’t deal with this right now. I’m hanging up and we’ll talk about it later. Or maybe never because I am not going to be sheriff.”
“Too late, brother, you already are,” Raine said before ending the call.
He sighed. He should’ve gone with his first instinct and let the shop phone go to voice mail. Although, Royce supposed, his sister would’ve just delivered the news in person.
“Fuck it.”
Royce would be a better sheriff than Webster Garrison had been. Hell, a corpse could do a better job. It seemed unfair that someone as willfully incompetent as Sheriff Garrison got to just die in his sleep when his actions, or inactions, during his tenure had caused a fair amount of misery in and around Rexville. And probably was the reason why the Bridgeton police chief was less than thrilled about lending a hand to Rexville in its time of need.
Garrison had managed to burn a lot of bridges over his time in office and since Garrison’s timely death two days ago, Rexville was relying on the police department of the next town over, Bridgeton, to respond to emergencies. But that was inconvenient for all involved. The Bridgeton police didn’t want to drive fifteen miles to investigate malicious mischief or write speeding tickets to drivers who didn’t obey the twenty-five mile an hour speed limit through town—it wasn’t their town. If the town’s last remaining deputy hadn’t resigned almost a year ago—just after Royce had come home for good—Rexville would at least have had minimal law enforcement available while they searched for a new sheriff.
