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“The Thin Blue Line”

Noah

The lake at dawn was my religion.

I sliced through the water with practiced strokes, each pull and kick cutting through the morning stillness.

Five a.m. light filtered through the pines, casting long shadows across the glassy surface.

The water—still cool before the day's heat took hold—shocked my system into full alertness, washing away the restless night's broken sleep.

My mind kept drifting back to the woman from Cabin 7.

Didi from Chicago. A tourist who claimed to be on vacation but whose eyes constantly scanned her surroundings with the vigilance of prey.

I'd caught that wariness immediately during our impromptu water rescue.

That, and the way her thin sundress had clung to her curves in the evening heat, outlining a body that would make a saint reconsider his vows.

I rolled onto my back, letting the water cradle me as I stared at the sky shifting from indigo to pale blue.

The distant call of an osprey echoed across the water.

My dock stretched nearby, the fresh boards I'd installed yesterday standing out against the weathered planks.

Next to it, her dock remained empty, though a light had flickered on in her cabin moments before I'd begun my swim.

Was she an early riser too? Or just having trouble sleeping in unfamiliar surroundings?

Thirty more laps, then reluctantly I hauled myself onto the dock. Water sluiced down my six-foot-four frame as I toweled off, gaze involuntarily drifting toward Cabin 7. The kitchen curtain twitched—just slightly—but enough to confirm my suspicions.

She was watching me.

The realization sent a jolt of heat through my core that had nothing to do with the morning exercises. I took my time drying off, lingering longer than necessary before heading inside to dress for work. Let her look. I certainly had when our positions were reversed.

By six-thirty, I'd traded swim trunks for my department-issued uniform—dark blue tactical pants, light blue button-down with the Hope Peak Sheriff's Department patch on the sleeve, duty belt with standard gear. The badge felt heavier than usual as I pinned it to my chest.

I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror—sandy hair still damp from the shower, the scattered freckles across my nose and cheekbones more prominent after yesterday's sun exposure.

My mother's Irish heritage visible in every one of those freckles and in the deep blue eyes that stared back at me, looking more distracted than I cared to admit.

Her image flooded my mind again. That cascade of blonde waves catching the sunset light.

Those green eyes that shifted like the lake itself—darkening when she'd challenged me about the life jacket.

That voice with its distinctive cadence that hinted at something professional beneath her casual demeanor.

A city woman clearly out of her element but too stubborn to admit it.

"Snap out of it, Sterling," I muttered, holstering my service weapon. "She's just another tourist."

But tourists didn't typically look over their shoulders every thirty seconds or try so hard to be forgettable when everything about them demanded attention.

The morning briefing at the station started at seven sharp.

I slid into my usual seat with two minutes to spare, nodding to Betty at dispatch on my way through.

The department employed a grand total of twelve officers including Sheriff Callahan, which meant everyone knew everyone's business.

From Betty's raised eyebrow, I sensed my business was currently under scrutiny.

"Morning, Detective." Sheriff Callahan dropped a stack of folders on the conference table. At fifty-six, Mike Callahan retained the build and presence of the college linebacker he'd once been, though his hair had long since turned silver. "Late night?"

"No, sir. Just the usual patrol of the lake perimeter."

"Uh-huh." He didn't sound convinced. "Heard you had to fish another tourist out of trouble near Miller's Rocks."

News traveled faster than wildfire in Hope Peak, especially when it involved a woman who looked like Didi. I suspected Matt Sorenson from the resort's adventure program probably witnessed the rescue and passed the story along.

"Minor boating issue," I said, reaching for my coffee. "Woman unfamiliar with the throttle mechanism. Situation resolved without incident."

Sheriff Callahan's eyes narrowed slightly. He'd known me since I was a gangly teenager fishing off the public dock, had personally recruited me to the department after I graduated from the academy. He could read my deflections like large-print road signs.

"This woman have a name?" he asked casually.

"Didi. From Chicago." I kept my tone neutral, professional. "Renting Cabin 7 for a few weeks."

Something about her story didn't add up.

People from Chicago typically came to Hope Peak for the resort's organized activities—guided fishing, water sports, horseback riding into the mountains.

They didn't rent isolated cabins for solitary stays unless they were either having affairs or hiding. And Didi had arrived alone.

The morning briefing proceeded with updates on the usual summer concerns—increased traffic violations, seasonal visitors wandering onto private property, noise complaints from the vacation rentals, petty thefts from unlocked vehicles. Sheriff Callahan saved the most pressing issue for last.

"Fourth of July weekend is coming up," he reminded us, leaning against the whiteboard. "Lake population triples, alcohol consumption quadruples, and common sense gets cut in half. We'll need all hands on deck."

He outlined the security plans for the fireworks display, the additional patrols around the most popular beaches, and the coordination with resort security for their Independence Day bash.

"Sterling, you'll be coordinating the lake patrol rotations." He slid a folder my way. "I want schedules finalized by end of day tomorrow."

I nodded, already mentally arranging the rotation. Then Callahan dropped his bombshell.

"And after that, you're taking the Fourth off."

My head snapped up. "Sir?"

"You heard me. You haven't taken a personal day in eighteen months. You look like hell, and I need my best detective sharp, not running on fumes."

"I'm fine," I protested, aware of the other officers studiously pretending not to listen. "The department needs all hands on—"

"That's an order, Sterling." Callahan's tone brooked no argument. "The schedule shows you working every major holiday for the past three years. You're due. Take the day. Go to a barbecue. Watch the fireworks. Remember what it's like to be a civilian."

"Yes, sir," I managed, jaw clenched against further argument.

The briefing adjourned, and I retreated to my desk to review the case files that had accumulated overnight.

Nothing major—a dispute between neighboring vacation rentals over noise, reports of teenagers sneaking onto the resort's boats after hours, a fender bender in the grocery store parking lot.

Standard summer fare in a small lakeside town.

But my mind kept wandering back to my new neighbor. To Didi. To the wariness in her eyes that didn't match her cover story.

Vacation, my ass.

At lunch, I scrolled through my contacts and paused at Shawna's name. We'd had an arrangement for the past year—casual, convenient, no strings attached. Perfect for a man who'd learned the hard way that commitment led to disappointment.

I texted, already imagining how her practiced touch might drive thoughts of blonde hair and green eyes from my mind.

Free tonight?

Her response came quickly:

Sorry, not anymore. Been meaning to tell you—I'm seeing someone. Like, exclusively. Think he might be the one, Noah.

I stared at the message, surprised to feel only mild disappointment rather than rejection.

Good for you , I replied sincerely. He'd better treat you right.

He does , she texted back with a smiley face. Friends?

Always , I confirmed, setting my phone aside.

So Shawna had found "the one." Good for her. She deserved happiness after the string of losers she'd dated before our arrangement. I ignored the hollow feeling that expanded in my chest, the one that whispered I might be the only person in Hope Peak not moving forward with their life.

My Philly cheesesteak sat half-eaten as memories ambushed me with the stealth of well-trained attackers.

Jessica, my wife of just shy of three years, announcing she "needed more excitement" than Hope Peak could offer, then moving to Seattle with her executive boyfriend two weeks later.

The highway patrolman at our door, hat in hand, explaining about the patch of black ice, the semi-truck, the instantaneous nature of my parents' deaths.

The silence of the cabin I'd inherited, my grandfather's fishing gear still hanging on the wall as if he might return to claim it.

Each loss had carved something from me, leaving a shell that functioned perfectly well as Hope Peak's detective but struggled with anything requiring emotional availability. I'd built a life around work and solitude, convincing myself it was by choice rather than fear.

I was better off focusing on what I could control—keeping the community safe, renovating my grandfather's cabin into something that felt like mine, protecting the lake that had been the one constant in my life. Entanglements led to pain. Better to keep things professional, casual, contained.

Which brought me back to the mystery woman next door.

By late afternoon, I'd wrapped the day's cases and headed home, the temperature climbing toward ninety as the July sun beat down mercilessly.

My cabin offered immediate relief as the central air conditioning hit me—one of the major upgrades I'd installed during the renovation of the old place.

I might embrace the rugged outdoor life in most ways, but Montana summers demanded modern solutions.

I changed into worn jeans and a faded t-shirt, then grabbed a beer from the fridge and stepped onto my deck. The heat hit like a physical wall after the cool interior, but the lake sparkled invitingly below. Maybe another swim before dinner would—

Movement on the neighboring dock caught my eye.

Didi stood at the edge, a fishing rod in one hand and what appeared to be a tangled mess of fishing line in the other.

She wore cutoff shorts that showcased legs that seemed to stretch forever, and a tight tank top that showed off her assets.

Her blonde hair was piled haphazardly atop her head, tendrils escaping to curl against her neck in the humidity.

Even from this distance, her frustration was evident as she attempted to thread the line through the rod's guides, the wind catching the loose strands and tangling them further. She muttered something I couldn't hear, then cast a longing glance at the cool water below.

I should mind my own business. Let her figure it out herself or give up trying.

Instead, I found myself walking down the path to my dock, then along the narrow strip of shared shoreline to hers. She didn't notice my approach at first, focused on the increasingly hopeless tangle in her hands.

"Didn't take you for the fishing type," I said.

She startled, nearly dropping the rod, then composed herself with visible effort. "There are a lot of things you don't know about me, Detective Sterling."

So she'd figured out my profession. Observant. Those green eyes assessed me with a mixture of guardedness and something else—interest, perhaps, though she was clearly trying to hide it.

"That's not a great knot for this lake," I said, nodding at her attempt. "The bass here will snap that in seconds."

She lifted her chin slightly. "I suppose you know a better one?"

"Been fishing these waters since I could walk," I replied, stepping closer. "Mind if I show you?"

A heartbeat of hesitation, then she held out the tangled mess. Our fingers brushed during the transfer, and that same electric awareness from yesterday's boat rescue sparked between us. From her quick intake of breath, I knew she felt it too.

"I'd appreciate the help," she said, her voice dropping into a lower register that sent heat rushing through me like wildfire.

As I began untangling her line, I studied her from beneath lowered lashes. Up close, I could see the faint smudges of fatigue beneath her eyes, the tension she carried in her shoulders despite her casual pose.

Didi from Chicago was running from something. Or someone.

And despite every instinct telling me to maintain professional distance, I found myself inexplicably drawn to her secrets—and to the beautiful woman keeping them.