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Sheriff Marlin gave a stiff smile, one that didn’t belie much sympathy. “You don’t have any other choice.”
A low and incredulous laugh broke from within Dean’s chest, his last shreds of integrity sliding away.
Maybe my confession will buy me enough freedom to apologize, you know, right before she ditches my ass.
“Her name’s Sarah.” His ribs compressed and a churning sensation took over his stomach. “She lives on Lincoln Drive and works at Maynard’s, and she likes to run, and”—he flicked his gaze up in time to register the sheriff’s astonishment—“that’s all I know about her.”
Or at least, as much as he was willing to say, which was still far more than he’d wanted.
He peered down again, avoiding the sheriff’s scrutinous stare, breaths changing to hollow puffs of regret. He never ratted others out. Much less others he liked.
“Sarah Overton?” The sheriff didn’t even bother to scribble anything in his notepad, which now hung loose between his fingers. His wary stare inspected Dean as if to wonder what a woman like Sarah would be doing with a punk like him.
The sheriff was right.
He and Sarah Overton didn’t belong together, but she liked him, and he damn well wanted her all the same.
He nodded to confirm the sheriff had the details correct, but also in silent agreement with the man’s critical wonderings.
“Well.” The sheriff rose from his armchair, his movements stiffer than when he first walked in, as though he carried the extra weight of this exchange. “I’ll let you know if I have more questions.”
Dean walked the sheriff to the door but paused before opening it. “Please, about Sarah, she didn’t want anyone to know.”
The sheriff turned, his expression taut before the muscles over his brow gradually softened. For the first time this meeting, the guy gave off a fatherly air. “It’s my job to be discreet, Mr. Holloway. Enjoy your day, I’m sorry we couldn’t meet under happier circumstances.”
