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5

ZEKE

T he mayor’s office smells like stale coffee and cheap wood polish. I don’t sit. Hal’s already behind his desk, leaning back like he’s trying too hard to look comfortable, like he thinks if he smiles wide enough, I’ll stop asking questions.

He’s wrong.

I drop the stack of printed photos on his desk. GPS coordinates handwritten across the top page. He doesn’t look at them right away.

“You find something?” he asks, tone light.

“I found activity,” I reply, watching his expression with a sniper’s patience. “Off-trail, unmarked routes through federal land. Fresh tire tracks. A burned-out structure that was occupied in the last forty-eight hours. Looks like a transit point.”

He flips through the photos with a sigh that’s too practiced. “Probably kids. Maybe some local loggers moving gear without permits. Happens more often than you think.”

I let the silence stretch long enough to make him squirm. Then I lean forward, hands braced on the edge of his desk.

“Don’t insult my intelligence.”

Hal’s smile wavers.

“This wasn’t kids screwing around in the woods. The paths are too clean. Too strategic. They follow tactical cover, lead to blind ridges and cut through choke points. You know who moves like that?” I ask, voice low, deliberate. “Someone who knows how to avoid being seen.”

He exhales, like he’s tired of the game he started. “Zeke, we’re a town of a couple hundred people. You think someone’s running a smuggling ring through our backyard with no one noticing?”

“Someone is noticing,” I say, standing upright again. “They’re just too scared to say anything.”

Hal’s face closes up. Not defensive. Guarded. There’s a difference.

“Look,” he says, folding his hands together. “We’ve had… tensions in the past. A few folks with bad habits. I’m not denying something’s been brewing. But unless you’ve got bodies or a name, I can’t run to the state police with trail dust and ghost stories.”

I nod once, slow. File him under what he just told me without saying a word—complicit or scared. Maybe both. Either way, I can’t trust him. Not yet.

I leave without another word. I’ve learned over the years—truth rarely comes from confrontation. It’s what people do when they think you’ve stopped looking that gives them away.

Back out on the street, the wind’s sharper, the sky already tipping toward gray. Another storm is coming. I feel it in my bones.

I should head to the ridge again. Push farther west. But my boots turn toward the café, not because I need coffee, but because she’s there. I don’t make excuses. I don’t explain myself. And I sure as hell don’t ask permission.

I walk the perimeter twice. Slow. Purposeful. Not hurried. Just visible enough that anyone watching will know—she’s not alone. Not anymore.

The people in this town will start noticing—if they haven’t already. A woman at the gas station watches me from behind the glass, lips pressed thin. She doesn’t smile, doesn’t nod, just stares.

Joe narrows his eyes as he fills two five-gallon containers while I walk by. “You sure do a lot of walking, Sheriff,” he says, toothpick shifting between his teeth. “Might give folks the idea you’re sniffing around where you don’t belong.”

"Maybe I am," I say.

He takes the toothpick from his mouth and spits to one side. "And maybe you oughta leave well enough alone."

He heads inside without another word. I make a note of the boots he’s wearing. Same tread I saw in the snow by Sadie’s alley two nights ago.

A teenager riding his bike slows down when he sees me standing across from the café’s front door. Even Ada, the librarian, squints out from behind her owl-patterned scarf as she walks past, her expression unreadable.

Good. Let them whisper. Let them wonder if I’m staying too close, watching too long, standing too still. I am.

Something’s off in this town. Because I can’t shake the tension that settled in me last night after I dropped Sadie off, that stayed through the night, through the morning, through every minute I spent walking Glacier Hollow like I already owned it.

She’s under my skin now. Not like a distraction. Not like weakness, more like a reason. I’d never thought I’d have another reason. I thought I’d come up here and hide—knock a few heads together on Saturday night and lose myself in the Alaskan wilderness.

At noon, I take a slow loop around the café’s back alley and stop near the dumpster. A cigarette butt lies half-buried in the snow. Still fresh. No lipstick, so not hers. Sadie doesn’t smoke.

I scan the fence line. Tracks. Barely visible, leading out toward the trees behind the row of buildings. Someone’s been watching. Or worse—circling.

I mark it. Mental note. I take out my cell phone and take a picture. Putting my phone back in my pocket, I file it under the same list I keep in my head—things I’ll deal with when the time comes.

The café door swings open and two people who look like locals walk out hand-in-hand as I approach the front. Sadie stands behind the counter, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hands dusted with flour. She looks up, sees me through the glass, and something flickers behind her eyes. Not surprise. Something more dangerous. Relief.

She doesn’t wave. Doesn’t smile. Just holds my gaze like she knows exactly why I’m here, and she’s not about to ask me to stop; she won’t have to. I won’t stop until it’s done.

The sky’s gone heavy by the time I loop back toward the café again. Wind cutting lower, carrying that dry bite that always comes before real cold. Main Street’s half-dead—just a few lights still burning, a couple of trucks parked in front of the bar, and the flicker of static from the bait shop’s old TV bouncing off the window glass.

I see her before she sees me. Sadie stands just inside the doorway, her back to the street, apron already off, her hair pulled back tighter than usual. She’s moving slowly, deliberately. The way people do when they’re pretending they’re not tired. When they’re used to doing everything alone.

She shuts off the front light. Turns the lock. I move across the street, slow and silent. She doesn’t jump when she sees me, but her breath catches. Just enough for me to clock it.

“You walking home?” I ask, voice low.

She hesitates. Not out of fear. Out of calculation. “It’s only four blocks,” she says.

“Too far.”

She crosses her arms. “You offering me a ride?”

“No.” I keep my eyes on hers. “I’ll walk you.”

Her lips twitch like she wants to challenge me, but doesn’t quite get the words out fast enough. “You’re not asking, are you?”

“Not even a little.”

She exhales through her nose. Frustrated. Amused. Maybe both. She pulls her coat tighter around her shoulders and steps out, letting the door fall shut behind her with a click. I lock it, double check it, and fall into step beside her as if it’s already been decided—which, let’s be clear, it has.

The wind cuts between buildings, snapping down the side streets like it’s chasing something. She pulls her scarf up, face half-hidden. Her boots crunch against the gravel, steady, but she walks fast, like she’s trying to stay one step ahead of whatever’s been breathing down her neck lately.

I don’t talk. Don’t fill the air just to hear myself, neither does she. But the silence this time isn’t awkward. It’s tense. Like a coiled wire between us—tight, humming with something sharp. Awareness. Hesitation. Heat.

When we turn the corner onto her street, she slows. Finally she asks, “You always this protective?”

“Only when I think someone needs it.”

“And you’ve decided I do?”

“I don’t decide. I observe. You’re jumpy. You don’t ask for help. You flinch when someone touches you—even when it’s gentle. You pretend to be okay even when you’re not.” I glance over at her. “That’s need, Sadie. Doesn’t make you weak. Makes you a target.”

She’s quiet for a long beat. Then, “So I’m a target?”

I nod. “And someone’s hoping you’ll break.”

Her mouth opens. Then closes again. I let it hang.

We walk another half block in silence before she breaks it again. “You don’t talk about yourself much, do you?”

I shrug. “Nothing to say.”

“You’ve got the look of a man who’s got a lot to say.”

I give her the barest glance. “Are you asking, deflecting, or fishing?”

Her shoulders rise like she’s laughing without a sound. “Just trying to even the field. You push. You watch. You show up when I don’t ask you to.”

“You’re not telling me to stop.”

“Maybe I should.”

“Then do it.”

She doesn’t.

We reach the edge of her walkway. The porch light is on, casting a low amber glow across the slats. The wind’s stronger here, coming in off the bay behind her house. Her hair has come loose in the front. One stubborn curl brushes her cheek. I want to tuck it behind her ear, but I don’t… not yet.

Instead, I say, “Who left the note?”

She goes still.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says, but it’s too fast. Too clipped.

“You’re a terrible liar. Besides, trying to lie to me is futile.”

She turns her face away, jaw tight. “It was nothing.”

“Nothing leaves ink that red and letters that angry.”

She stiffens.

“I saw you fold it and put it in your pocket last night.”

Her eyes flick to mine. “You were watching me?”

“I’m always watching. Especially when it matters.”

She swallows, throat working. “I didn’t want to make it a thing.”

“Somebody made it a thing the second they threatened you.”

“I’ve dealt with worse.”

“That’s not the point.”

She doesn’t answer.

I take a step closer. Not looming. Just enough to make her feel it. The shift in pressure. The choice.

“You said you’ve got people who want you invisible,” I say. “I need to know who they are. Or you’re gonna wake up one day and find they’ve made you disappear entirely.”

Her eyes shine, not from tears, but from the effort it takes to not let them fall.

“You don’t know what you’re walking into, Zeke,” she whispers.

I keep my voice low. Steel wrapped in calm. “I know what I’m not walking away from.”

She looks at me like she’s not sure whether to push me back or pull me in.

Then she says, “You’re dangerous.”

I let that settle, then nod once. “Only to people who forget who I’m protecting.”

We stand at the bottom step of her porch. The wind’s ripping harder now, coming off the bay in gusts that cut through coats and settle straight in your bones. Sadie doesn’t shiver, but I see her hand tighten around the key in her pocket like she’s holding onto more than just metal. She walks up ahead of me, shoulders squared. I follow her, scanning the shadows, the tree line across the street, the shape of the car that hasn’t moved in two days near the bend.

She pauses in front of the door. Pulls the keys out. Fingers hesitate over the lock.

“You always this bossy?” she asks, trying for light, but the weight’s still in her voice. She wants to distract me. Or herself.

“Only when I care if someone ends up dead,” I say. I don’t smile when I say it, because I’m not joking. And she knows that.

Her breath hitches, almost like she wants to respond but doesn’t quite have the words. She turns the key and pushes the door open. Warmth spills out from inside, the faint scent of clove and cinnamon still lingering in the air. Something lived-in and clean. A space that feels like her.

I don’t follow her in. Not yet.

She stops just over the threshold. Glances back. “You’re going to make me check the house, aren’t you?”

“No,” I say, stepping closer. “I’m going to do it.”

I move past her, slow and steady, my eyes tracking everything. No signs of entry. No broken windows. The furniture’s undisturbed, and the curtains are closed like she left them. Still, I walk the perimeter—kitchen, living room, small hallway, bathroom, bedroom. Every door. Every closet. Every window lock. I don’t speak until I’ve finished. Then I come back to the front door, where she’s standing with one arm wrapped around her middle like she’s trying to hold something in.

“Clear,” I say.

She exhales through her nose. Doesn’t say thank you this time. Just watches me, eyes searching mine like she’s trying to figure out what kind of man walks into someone else’s home like this and doesn’t flinch at the intimacy.

I step into her space again. Not touching. Just close enough that she can feel the heat coming off me. My voice drops. “Lock it. Top and bottom.”

Her eyes flick to the locks. She hesitates, then reaches out. Her hand is steady until she gets to the deadbolt. That’s when I see it—the tiniest shake in her fingers. Like her nerves are vibrating just beneath the surface.

I say nothing.

She slides the bolt home with a soft click.

“Good,” I murmur. “Again tomorrow. And every night after.”

She nods, but her gaze doesn’t lift from the lock. Her fingers hover there like she wants to keep them busy. Like the stillness is suddenly too loud.

“You saw the note,” she says quietly.

I nod. “I did.”

She swallows. “It’s not the first.”

That lands with weight I wasn’t expecting. “You said it was nothing.”

“It felt safer to pretend.”

I study her, every line in her face, the edges of her fear hidden under practiced calm. “Safer for whom?”

She doesn’t answer.

“I need the truth, Sadie.”

“I know.”

“I don’t mean eventually. I mean now.”

Her shoulders draw tighter. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is,” I say, my tone sharpening. “You either trust me, or you don’t.”

Her head lifts then. Eyes locked on mine, fierce despite the tremble I saw seconds ago. “You think it’s about trust?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t need another man telling me what I owe him,” she says, voice low and steady. “Even if he’s wearing a badge.”

I nod slowly. “Good. Because I don’t need you to owe me anything. I need you alive.”

She looks away, jaw clenched.

I don’t crowd her. Don’t reach for her. I’ve pushed enough for one night. But the tension between us is thicker now. Hotter. Like a wire strung too tight.

“You’re not the only one carrying damage, Sadie,” I say, voice softer now, more steel than smoke. “I just don’t let mine walk with me every minute of every day.”

She flinches, just barely. But she doesn’t step back. She unlocks the deadbolt and cracks the door open, allowing me to exit. She doesn’t close the door.

I turn before she can answer. Move down the steps, boots crunching gravel. I don’t look back until I hit the edge of the street and glance over my shoulder.

She’s still standing there in the doorway—one hand resting against the edge of the door. Her silhouette framed in the soft light from behind.

Watching me. Waiting. And then finally closing the door with the almost inaudible sound of the deadbolt being relocked. I file it all away—the tremble, the fight, the part of her that still opens the door. Because whoever left that note thinks they’re scaring her into silence.

They’re wrong. She’s not breaking. She’s waking up. And whoever they are? They just made the list of wrongs I mean to right.