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ZEKE

T he plane lands on a strip of cleared dirt about the width of a decent driveway and the length of a bad idea. No tower. No hangar. Just a rusted-out fuel tank and a shed that could fall over if I breathe too hard on it.

Welcome to Glacier Hollow, Alaska.

The propeller sputters to a stop. I grab my duffel, slide the door open, and hop out onto solid ground. Cold air bites through my clothing, sharp and clean. No city stink. No diesel fumes. Just trees, sky, and quiet.

A man waits by an idling SUV, hands shoved deep into the pockets of a canvas coat. Late fifties, maybe early sixties. Clean shaven, but with the kind of face that’s lived too long in the gray. That must be Hal Burton—the mayor who answered my email with a thirteen-word reply: If you want it, the job is yours. I’ll be waiting. Later I wonder if that unlucky number would define Glacier Hollow.

“Sheriff,” he says, voice mild like he’s greeting a friend instead of the stranger who’s about to take over law enforcement for his entire town. He steps forward, offers a hand. “Hal Burton. Appreciate you coming all this way.”

I shake it. Firm grip, too firm—overcompensating. His eyes do that thing weak men’s eyes do when they meet someone who won’t look away: they measure and recalculate.

“How many applied?” I ask.

He chuckles, awkward. “Just you.”

Figures.

We don’t waste time on small talk. I toss my duffel into the back of the SUV and climb in.

The drive into town takes ten minutes. Gravel road, tree-lined curves, occasional tire tracks where they don’t belong. Every instinct I have is already working. Watching. Sizing up.

We pass the first houses—small, sturdy. Weathered. Curtains drawn, even in daylight. One woman watering her porch plants looks up, sees us, and turns away fast. A kid on a bike freezes when he spots the sheriff’s decal on the side of the SUV. He bolts down a side street without waving.

Something’s wrong here.

Hal keeps talking. “Town’s quiet these days. Gets a little stir-crazy in winter, sure, but folks mostly keep to themselves.”

“Drawn curtains and locked doors in the middle of the day,” I say. “That normal?”

He pauses. “We’ve had…incidents. Wildlife. Some petty stuff. Vandalism.”

“And the last sheriff?”

“Tom Davies. Good man. Went out hunting before the first snow. Didn’t come back.”

“That happen a lot?”

Another pause. This one’s longer. “Not really.”

We drive up to a squat brick building with an old, hand-painted sign that says GLACIER HOLLOW SHERIFF’S OFFICE . The windows are dark.

Hal hands me a key ring with exactly four keys and a tag that reads DOOR / FILES / CELL / SUV.

“Place is yours,” he says. “We cleaned it out as best we could. There’s a cot in the back if you need to stay the night, though Sadie rents a nice studio over her café, The Hollow Hearth.”

Mentally, I make a note of that. A studio apartment over a café. That might be just the ticket, especially if I can negotiate meals being included in my rent.

He hesitates again, then adds, “Look, I know this town’s not much, and it’s not perfect. But we’ve been without a sheriff going on three months now. Just having you here—well, it’ll help.”

“Help what?”

Another smile that doesn’t match the eyes. “Keep folks calm.”

Calm. Right. I nod once and step out. The keys are cold in my palm. Hal doesn’t follow me inside and hurries down the sidewalk, presumably to the mayor’s office.

The office smells like pine cleaner and old secrets. It’s dark, dusty, with a desk that’s seen better decades and a filing cabinet that lists to one side like it’s drunk. There’s a bulletin board on the wall with faded wanted posters, a town map, and a note written in shaky handwriting.

Check the ridge. Again.

It’s not signed.

I check the drawers—nothing useful. No laptop, no comms gear. Just a half-used notebook and a rusted-out Smith people’s movements, their halting conversations when I approach, and the gutted, useless sheriff’s office all point to something being wrong.

And it’s in her. Sadie Callahan—sharp, wary, doing her damnedest to look unbothered. But I saw it. The kind of guarded that’s earned, not chosen.

Still, when she looked at me, there was a flicker, as if some part of her still believed that someone might actually be worth trusting. I’m going to prove she’s right. If someone in this town is making her feel unsafe, they’ll find out real fast what it means to cross the wrong man.

I catch myself chuckling. Funny how fast it’s all turned. I’ve gone from not giving a damn about anything or anyone to feeling like this town—and Sadie—might actually be worth something. Worth everything .

She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s the reason I’m stepping back into life. And I don’t walk away from what’s mine.