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9

ZEKE

T he knock at the café’s back door is deliberate—three quick raps, evenly spaced, quiet enough not to wake anyone who’s not listening. I was expecting it. Caleb Knox doesn’t show up anywhere uninvited unless he has a reason. And when he has a reason, you answer.

I open the door and find him exactly where I knew he’d be—on the top step, arms crossed, dressed in camo and oil-stained wool, looking like he just walked out of a survival manual and dared it to keep up. Tall, broad, and built like the mountain behind him, Caleb is still as stone, his eyes scanning the street before they settle on me.

“Took you long enough,” I say, stepping back to let him in.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say much, ever. Just ducks inside, the low creak of the floor the only sound he brings with him. I lead him up the stairs to my studio apartment. His beard’s longer than the last time I saw him, streaked with early frost, and there’s a fresh scar near his temple I don’t ask about. I never do.

“I parked in the brush,” he says finally, voice low and dry as gravel. “Didn’t want to spook the wrong eyes.”

Smart. Glacier Hollow’s too quiet lately. The kind of quiet that feels like a setup. I gesture to the small kitchen table and drop the packet of evidence I pulled from the burn site—phones, beacon, encrypted field log, all carefully bagged and labeled.

“Found these two days ago. Back behind the shack. Hidden panel, clean drop. Didn’t smell like local work.”

Caleb sits, eyes narrowing as he pulls the GPS unit from the bag and turns it in his hand. “This is military-spec. Modified, but not cheap. Not the kind of gear you leave behind unless you’re planning to come back.”

He says it like a fact. Like it’s already proven. He’s not wrong.

“Any activity near the site?” he asks, flipping open the field log. “You run the boot prints?”

“Matched them to Joe Hanley. Gas station. But he’s not smart enough to be running this. At most, he’s a runner. Maybe a watcher. The kind of guy who sells fuel to whoever’s passing through and doesn’t ask questions as long as his tank stays full.”

Caleb scans the coded shorthand on the page, his brow furrowing slightly—an expression that, for him, might as well be a shout. “This is a courier log. Routes, weights, dates. No names. But this symbol—” he taps the corner of the page “—I’ve seen that before. In a cartel drop zone outside Sitka.”

My jaw tightens. “You think they’re using this town?”

“I think they’re testing it,” he replies. “Smaller population. Fewer patrols. High tree cover. Ideal for ATV runs and short-range flights.”

I nod. It lines up. The fresh tire tracks. The staggered drop patterns. The camera blackouts. “Any chance they’re tied to Anchorage?”

Caleb hesitates. “Possible. But I doubt it. Anchorage runs bigger ops. Too visible. This is backdoor work. Move it through the trees, load it on small planes, then vanish. Your girl…”

“Careful,” I warn.

He meets my eyes without flinching. “Sadie,” he corrects, slowly, like he knows exactly what line he just stepped up to. “She’s a variable. Either she saw something, or someone’s using her café as a test point.”

My jaw ticks. “She knows nothing.”

“Doesn’t matter. She’s being watched.” He sets the logbook down and leans forward, elbows braced on his knees. “If it’s this Adam guy—or whoever he’s working for—they’re trying to send a message. Proximity’s deliberate.”

I pace to the window, arms crossed, watching the dark curl of mist off the pines beyond town. “They’re getting too close. First the notes. Then the print behind her place. Now surveillance gaps that line up to the minute.”

“You think she’s in the center,” Caleb says, not asking.

“I know she is.” I turn back, tone flat. “And if they keep circling, it will not be a warning next time. It’s going to be a test. See how far they can push before I push back.”

Caleb doesn’t blink. “Then you better be ready to break something when they do.”

He means it. And I already am.

I grab my phone, pull up the feed from the backup camera I installed across from Sadie’s back fence—discreet, hidden under a gutted power box. This one stayed online the night the others blacked out. And sure enough, there’s a flicker of movement just before the time stamps disappear. A green blur. A vehicle.

“Green truck,” I say, showing him the footage. “Adam or someone driving for him. Circles once, then gone.”

Caleb’s voice is low, but sharp. “This has the feel of someone establishing dominance. Not an attack—yet. But close.”

“He left a mark on her wrist,” I say. “That was the first move. That was personal.”

“And the last one he’s going to get.”

We lock eyes. It’s not a threat. It’s a statement. Caleb nods once, then picks up the burner phones. “I’ll take these back to my place. See if I can pull anything from the logs. Most guys who think they’re smart still forget Bluetooth syncs and cached text. I’ll gut ’em and call you in twenty-four.”

“You good staying in the trees?”

“I was born in the trees,” he mutters.

And with that, he’s gone—silent as ever, leaving nothing behind but tension and the sharp bite of cold air through the open door. I close it behind him, lock it, then grab my coat and gun. If Sadie’s in the crosshairs, then I’m going hunting.

And I’m not coming back empty-handed.

* * *

The next morning, I don’t give myself time to think or to stew. I take the stairs two at a time, give Sadie a quick kiss, throw on my jacket, and head straight for Hal Burton’s office before I can talk myself out of it.

The mayor’s building sits just off Main, tucked between the post office and an antique shop that only opens for four hours a day and never on Tuesdays. No one’s in the lobby, but I hear voices drifting from Hal’s office. I don’t knock. He ends the speaker call and looks up fast when I push the door open. His expression shifts from annoyed to rattled in under a second, and I know I’ve already got him.

“Sheriff,” he says, trying for breezy. “You could have called.”

“And you could’ve told me the truth,” I reply, shutting the door behind me with a quiet click that sounds a hell of a lot louder in the tight room. I move to his desk and drop the printed copies of the encrypted GPS logs between us. Pages scatter slightly—Caleb’s markings highlighted in red, my annotations boxed in black. Hal blinks, then glances down at the pages like they might catch fire.

“What is this?” he asks, voice tight.

“You tell me.”

I stay standing. Arms crossed. Silent.

Hal wets his lips. His hands go to the papers, but he doesn’t touch them. Just stares. “Look, Zeke, you know I hired you, and I’ve got your back… I’ve got the whole town’s best interest in mind…”

I cut him off. “Spare me the politics. You knew someone was using Glacier Hollow as a transit point. You took money. I’m betting under the table. And I’m betting you didn’t ask too many questions about where it came from or what they were moving through that trail.”

Hal flinches. Just a hair. Then the crack widens.

“I thought it was just smuggling,” he says. “Backwoods crap. Cigarettes, maybe liquor. Nothing major. I didn’t ask for details.”

“You didn’t ask because you didn’t want to know. That’s not the same thing.”

He sinks back into his chair like I just punched him in the gut. “They came to me during the budget freeze last winter. Said they’d help fund emergency road repair for keeping my eyes off some old trails. That’s it. Said it was just short-term. Just ‘off-the-grid’ logistics.”

“Who’s they?”

Hal shakes his head. “Never got a name. Just a phone number that doesn’t work anymore. And a guy who came in with a contractor’s badge and a thick envelope. I figured it was shady, but we were going under. No state support. Tom was already gone.”

“Wrong,” I snap, stepping in. “Tom didn’t vanish. They erased him. No records, no reports, no backup. You buried his file. Or someone made you do it.”

Hal’s face drains of color. He doesn’t deny it.

I lean down, palms on his desk. “Tell me this ends with cigarette runs and under-the-table snowplow contracts, Hal. Tell me this doesn’t end with someone putting eyes on Sadie Callahan’s front porch.”

His mouth opens, closes. For the first time, I see it—shame, real and sharp, cutting deeper than politics ever could.

“I didn’t know about her,” he says finally. “I swear. I wouldn’t…”

“You did. Maybe not her name. But you knew someone was watching something. And you let it happen.”

He bows his head. “What happens now?”

I straighten. “You’re going to give me everything. Names. Phone numbers. Bank records. You’re going to tell the town you approved an audit of past accounts, effective immediately.”

“And if I don’t?”

I smile, cold and tight. “Then I bring the state in. And when they find out you blocked a sheriff’s missing person report and accepted funds from an untraceable source, you won’t just lose the office—you’ll lose your pension and spend some time as a guest of the State… maybe even the Feds.”

Hal nods slowly. “I’ll get the files.”

“Good,” I say, already turning. “Because we’re out of time.”

I’m halfway down the steps of the municipal building when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I recognize the encrypted signature before I swipe.

Caleb’s voice is low and crisp. “We’ve got a problem.”

I stop walking, step into the alley between buildings to keep out of sight. “Talk.”

“I’m behind Joe’s. Been here for two hours. Thought he was solo until ten minutes ago. Someone came out the back—tall, lean, black parka. Moves like he’s used to not being seen.”

My heart spikes.

“Face?”

“I didn’t get a clean angle, but he turned when he hit the tree line. I recognized him.”

“Who?”

“The guy from the picture: Adam.”

I grip the phone tighter, every muscle going tight and ready. “You’re sure?”

“Positive. I never forget the face of someone who tailgates a woman like she owes him something.”

A beat of silence. Then Caleb adds, “He was carrying a pack. Heavy. Hunched right. Like it had weight.”

Drugs. Weapons. Something worse. I exhale slow.

“You tailing?”

“Already moving. You want him brought in?”

“No. Not yet,” I say. “I want to know where he sleeps. Who he reports to. Then we burn it down.”

“You got it. I’ll check in again at midnight. Hey, could you save me one of those cinnamon rolls? They sure smelled good.”

He hangs up, and I smile. I stay in the alley for another second, letting the cold bite into my skin, the tension winding tighter in my spine. Adam. Back in town. Moving out of Joe’s backdoor like he owns it. Like Sadie didn’t already tell him to stay away with every trembling inch of her voice.

He’s about to find out exactly what that costs. I pocket the phone, step back into the street, and head straight for the café. Because tonight, I’m not waiting to be needed… to show her she needs protection. Tonight, I’m going to show her she already has it.

* * *

The walk to Sadie’s place is quieter than usual, but not in the brittle, guarded way it used to be. Her arm brushes mine a little more than it needs to. She keeps glancing up at me like she wants to say something and can’t find the shape of it. I don’t push. Not with her. I learned quick—Sadie doesn’t respond to pressure. She opens when she’s ready. Not a second before.

She unlocks her front door, then pauses with her hand on the knob, snow melting in her hair. The porch light catches the curve of her cheekbone, the pink in her nose from the cold. When she looks at me, there’s something softer in her eyes than I’ve seen before.

“Thank you,” she says. Simple. Direct. But it lands like a damn sledgehammer.

“For walking you home?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

Her lips twitch, almost a smile. “For not making me feel weak when I needed you.”

I step closer. Not touching. Just there. “Needing someone doesn’t make you weak, Sadie.”

She nods once, then pushes it open. Warmth spills out—vanilla and cinnamon, faint remnants of the café clinging to her space.

“You want to come in for a minute?” she asks. “I was going to make some tea.”

I should say no. I should walk away and give her space to breathe. But something in her voice makes that impossible. There’s no fear in it. No performance. Just an open door and an offer.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll stay.”

Inside, she moves easily, like having me here doesn’t throw her off anymore. I notice the little things. How she fills the kettle without asking what kind I want. How she pulls two mugs from the cupboard, not just one. The place is small—kitchen table near the front window, a reading chair in the corner, knit blanket tossed over the arm like she just got up from it.

I sit at the table. She joins me a minute later, brushing stray flour off one of the mugs as if she’s embarrassed. I don’t care. I’d drink it off her fingers if she let me.

“So,” she says, cupping her hands around the steaming mug. “How bad is it out there?”

I know what she means. She’s not asking about the weather. She’s asking about Adam. About the man she told me about—the one who had no business being near her then or now.

I don’t lie. “It’s escalating.”

Her jaw tightens, but she nods. Accepts it.

“Adam’s back?” she asks, voice quieter.

I meet her gaze. “Yeah. Caleb saw him.”

“You know Caleb?”

“I served with him. How do you know him?”

She grins. “I’ve lived here more than four years, remember? He’s had a meal at the café more than once. Interesting guy.”

I chuckle. “That’s one word for him. In any event, he came out of Joe’s back entrance this afternoon. Oh he told me I’m supposed to bring him one of your cinnamon rolls.”

Her mug wobbles slightly. She sets it down before it sloshes over. “He can have as many as he likes, any time he likes. So it is Brent. He really is involved.”

“Yeah,” I say again. “And I’m handling it.”

She nods, then looks down at her hands. “I don’t want him to scare me.”

“He doesn’t get that power anymore,” I say, leaning forward. “You’re not the woman he knew. And you’re not alone.”

Her eyes lift, and for a second, the air thickens. We sit like that—just watching each other, breathing in the same charged space. I should say more. I don’t. I just hold her stare and let the weight between us settle.

After a while, I stand. “I should go.”

She stands too. Quickly. Too quickly. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to stay,” I say. “But if I do—” I pause, step in just a little closer, enough that her breath catches. “I won’t pretend it’s just tea.”

She steps into me. Not all the way. Just enough. Her hand rises slowly, fingers brushing the front of my jacket like she’s grounding herself.

“Then don’t,” she whispers.

I start to turn. I have to. But her hand curls in my sleeve. And then her lips are on mine.

Soft. Deliberate. She kisses me like it’s a choice she’s thought about for too long—and now she’s done waiting. It’s not desperate. It’s not tentative. It’s a confirmation. A spark lit with purpose.

I kiss her back, deepening it, angling her jaw with one hand as the other curls around her waist. Her warmth and softness mold perfectly against me; it feels as though I was made to hold her.

But I stop. I don’t want to. Every muscle in my body screams not to. But I ease back just enough to breathe against her lips.

“Not like this,” I murmur.

She blinks up at me, dazed and open and beautiful as hell.

“When I take you, Sadie...” I let the words come slow, weighted with everything I haven’t said yet. “You’ll know it’s real.”

Her breath shudders. “It already feels real.”

My thumb brushes her cheek. “Then we do this right. I brought nothing with me.”

“That’s all right. If you tell me you’re clean, I’ll believe you. I’m clean too and have been on birth control since I was in my teens.”

Every practical detail blurs into insignificance as I lean in to kiss her with fervent urgency—slowly yet deliberately, relishing the gravity of the moment. Her lips are a blazing softness, igniting a deep-seated reminder of everything I hold dear. As I retreat, my hand clings to her hip with a fierce promise, a silent vow that pulses in the air between us, charged with an electrifying blend of reassurance and fervent tenderness.

“I have to meet Caleb. You lock up after me. Don’t go near the door or the windows until I call and give you the all clear.”

She kisses me again and nods as she watches me go, and this time, I don’t feel like I’m leaving something unfinished.

Because when this fire starts to burn, it won’t be an accident. It’ll be a goddamn reckoning.