Page 5

FOUR

SHERIFF HUDSON

I shake my head at the sight of him standing in front of the inmate calling station with a phone pressed firmly to his ear. He leans against the cinder-block wall to keep himself upright. One of my deputies is positioned off to the side, arms crossed, waiting for the inmate to finish. He was brought in early Tuesday morning. It’s Wednesday now, and he’s finally woken up from his bender.

My hands ball into fists, but I steal a quick, deep breath and flex my fingers, my knuckles cracking as I bend and straighten them. He’s lucky I’ve got a better handle on my emotions these days. Besides, he’s already in a world of hurt, so I don’t need to do any further damage, no matter how pissed I am—not only at him but also at myself. If I hadn’t given him so many chances, this never would have happened. My deputy makes eye contact with me and stands a little taller, inflating his chest.

“I got it from here,” I say, relieving him of his duty.

“Yes, Sheriff.” He nods and leaves the room just as the inmate hangs up the phone, his head lolling forward.

I rest my hand on Ryan’s shoulder, applying a small amount of pressure. “Let’s go, man.”

Former sheriff Ryan Stevens lets out a heavy exhale and briefly glances over his shoulder at me. His hair is shaggy and unkempt, going in all directions. Rosacea colors his cheeks, and there’s a tinge of yellow to his bloodshot eyes. He drops his gaze, looking down at his feet.

It used to be him giving the commands around here. But not anymore. Things change, and apparently, so do people—for the worse, that is. Ryan was slipping for a while there. Then about a year ago, he started spiraling out of control, and it didn’t take long for the community to notice their sheriff was a drunk. At first, they took pity on him, but that didn’t last long either. There was a petition, a protest, and finally a recall around five months ago. He was out, and shortly thereafter, I was elected as the new sheriff.

I motion for him to walk, and Ryan obliges, barely lifting his feet as he trudges down the hallway. He’s quiet other than his labored breaths and his shoes scuffling across the epoxy floor.

When we reach the holding area, he asks, “How long was I out for?”

It’s our song and dance, but unfortunately, there’s no more music.

“Nearly thirty hours.” I unlock the door to his cell; its hinges squeak as I pull it open. Ryan shuffles in, rubbing at his forehead.

“Jesus,” he says as he plops onto the two-inch-thick mattress covering the metal bunk. He slumps forward, resting his elbows on his legs.

I widen my stance. “They’re gonna bring you in for processing shortly.”

Ryan twists his lips, and his brows shove together. “What do you mean ‘processing’?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“I thought you had my back,” he says, his head wobbling back and forth.

“Not this time, Ryan.”

“Why not this time?” His eyes are unsteady, skirting all over the place, like he’s realizing this six-by-nine cell could be home for the foreseeable future.

“Because you hit someone with your truck.”

His jaw goes lax, and he takes a few beats to speak. “I... I don’t know what happened.”

“I do. You got shit-faced drunk... again , got behind the wheel, and plowed into a woman out on an early-morning run.” My remarks come out louder and harsher than I intended.

“Is she all right?” His voice cracks, signaling his fear.

“No, Ryan... she’s dead.”

He sits motionless as the words hang in the air, swirling over his head. I’m waiting for him to realize the severity of his actions, to understand nothing will ever be the same again. He should be full of shame and guilt and despair because he killed someone, whether he remembers doing it or not.

Finally, his eyes widen as the words worm their way into his brain. “No, that—that can’t be true,” he stammers.

“It is,” I say, shaking my head.

Ryan buries his face into his hands and a cry begins from deep within him.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs.

“Yeah, so am I.”

If I hadn’t kept giving Ryan the benefit of the doubt and letting him off with warnings each time he was picked up for DUI, an innocent woman would still be alive. I’m just as guilty as he is.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

I’ve heard that sound before.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

It’s a woman’s heels. Obviously, a lot of women wear heels that make that clicking sound. But this is different. This is slow and methodical. This is a woman walking with purpose. She moves like she has someplace to be, but that place doesn’t matter until she occupies it.

I turn to see the figure increasing in size as she comes down the corridor, escorted by a deputy. Her chin is held high. It always is. Her long blond hair slightly curls at the ends, bouncing with each step. She wears clothes perfectly tailored for her body with not a wrinkle in sight.

Sarah Morgan.

“You called Sarah?” I ask, incredulous.

Ryan stares back at me but doesn’t say a word. The tears have stopped, and his self-pity is quickly morphing into desperation.

It’s been a while since I’ve occupied the same room as Sarah Morgan. I’ve seen her in passing, but we haven’t really spoken. I know she founded a charity because I’ve read the puff pieces in the newspaper. I just don’t trust her. I never have, and that’s why I’ve kept my distance. Ryan would be wise to do the same.

“Deputy Hudson,” Sarah’s voice calls over my shoulder. I turn to find her standing in the doorway, her verdant eyes skimming over me in assessment.

“It’s Sheriff now,” I correct.

I’m sure she already knew that, and this is just one of her power plays. She observes the badge pinned to my chest before meeting my gaze. “So it would seem. Congratulations.”

I simply nod in return because talking to Sarah is like talking to the police during an interrogation—the less you say, the better.

“But as sheriff,” she adds, “you must know that speaking to my client without his attorney present is a violation of his constitutional rights.” Her scarlet-painted lips form a hard line.

My chest tightens and the skin beneath my collar starts to perspire. A droplet of sweat trickles down the length of my back, sending a shiver through my spine. “Right. I was just leaving,” I say as I step aside and head for the door.