Page 12

Chapter Six

Nova

I check my rearview mirror like it's part of my morning routine along with coffee, incident reports, and paranoia. Diesel's bike holds position three cars back, careful distancing himself. The same distancing he's kept all week.

This is my new reality. I can't grab coffee without spotting someone watching, can't drive to a crime scene without catching a glimpse of Ash's massive frame leaning against some building nearby, or the orc I've learned is a prospect named Knox camped outside the station and my apartment. They think they're subtle. They're not.

I slam the cruiser door harder than necessary outside the sheriff's station, frustration boiling beneath my controlled composure.

A week of MC members materializing wherever I go, always close enough to respond to threats that haven't surfaced, always far enough away to maintain plausible deniability, is grating on my last nerve.

"Morning, Sheriff," Santos calls as I push through the front door. He looks up from the dispatch desk where he's covering for Roberta, who called in sick again. Exhaustion has carved lines around his eyes, evidence of another sleepless shift covering Morris's abandoned responsibilities.

"Any word from our missing deputy?" I ask, though we both know the answer.

"No ma'am. Three more days and it becomes an official AWOL." Santos hesitates. "Though there might be something you want to see."

I follow him toward the back offices. His shoulders stay rigid, and he won't quite meet my eyes. "What kind of something?"

"Morris cleaned out his locker. His desk. Everything personal." Santos stops beside Morris's desk. The photos are gone. Personal items, too. "Security cameras didn't catch a thing."

Morris knows this building's blind spots better than anyone. He knows which angles the cameras miss and which routes avoid detection. He could have spent hours here in the dark, methodically erasing any trace of his presence.

"When?" I ask, though the timeline doesn't matter as much as his message.

"Between midnight and dawn, based on when the cleaning crew left and when I arrived. Everything department-issued is still here—badge, radio, duty weapon still in the gun safe. But the personal stuff? Gone."

I study the empty desk and the bare walls where Morris's certificates used to hang. He didn't just walk away—he erased himself. This wasn't some emotional breakdown or sudden decision—Morris planned this.

"I'll file the paperwork," I tell Santos. "Make it official. Get him off the payroll so we can hire someone to take his place and give you and Walker a break."

"Yes, ma'am."

I head for my office, my mind already cataloging the implications of Morris's midnight departure. Another piece of the puzzle sliding into place, another connection between Dawson's corrupt regime and whatever's happening now.

My desk looks exactly as I left it yesterday. Files are in neat stacks, my coffee mug is positioned beside my computer, and my pen cup is arranged within easy reach. Everything is in its place except for one addition that stops me cold.

A printout, folded once, sits dead center on my keyboard.

My hands tremble as I unfold it, dread pooling in my stomach. The headline from six years ago burns across my vision: "Local Woman Found Dead in Apparent Drug Deal Gone Wrong." Below it, Carman's smiling face stares back at me, younger, hopeful, alive.

The official story. The lie that buried her truth.

I drop into my chair, my legs suddenly unsteady. Fresh ink on printer paper. Someone pulled this from an online archive, researched me, found my weakness, and decided to exploit it.

Morris. Has to be Morris. But how does he know about Carman? About the connection between a dead girl in Atlanta and a sheriff in Shadow Ridge?

Unless someone told him.

I fold the article carefully, sliding it into my drawer under the Bauer files. They've done their research. They know exactly how to hurt me.

But they're wrong about one thing. Carman isn't a weakness they can exploit. She's the reason I'm here, the fuel that's driven every decision since I pinned on this badge. They think they're threatening me.

They're reminding me why I fight.

Santos appears in my doorway. "Sheriff? Judge Hendricks moved up the Bauer foreclosure hearing. You wanted to be there."

Right. The elderly couple whose farmland Royce has been circling like a vulture. Mr. Bauer called yesterday, voice shaking with desperation, explaining how they couldn't afford a lawyer but heard the new sheriff might help.

"What time?" I ask, checking my watch.

"Ten minutes ago. The courthouse is running behind, but you should probably head over."

I grab my jacket and keys, shoving thoughts of printed articles and missing deputies into the compartment where I keep things that can't be solved immediately. Right now, an elderly couple needs someone in their corner.

The ride to the courthouse takes twelve minutes, and I spot Diesel's bike following at a careful distance before I'm halfway there.

By now, the surveillance has become routine, predictable enough that I've started timing their shifts, noting their patterns.

Knox handles most shifts as the prospect.

Diesel covers midday. Ash fills in whenever he deems necessary.

Surveillance dressed up as safety.

Inside the courthouse, I head for Judge Hendricks's courtroom, nodding to the bailiff who recognizes me from previous hearings.

The Bauer case should be straightforward, an elderly couple trying to fight an improper foreclosure, armed with nothing but righteous indignation and a case file thinner than tissue paper.

I slip into the gallery just as proceedings begin, scanning the courtroom for familiar faces.

The Bauers sit in the front row, he in an ill-fitting suit, she clutching a worn purse like a lifeline.

Across the aisle, Royce's legal team spreads across a full bench, briefcases and suits worth more than most Shadow Ridge residents make in a year.

And at the defendant's table, broad shoulders unmistakable even in a tailored jacket, sits Ash.

He's traded his leather cut for courtroom attire, but nothing can disguise the controlled power in his posture or the way other attorneys give him a wide berth.

This is Ash in his element, not the brawler from Murphy's parking lot, but the orc who tried to manage me under the guise of protection just days ago. Same control. Different battlefield.

"Your Honor," the lead attorney for the foreclosure company begins, "this is a simple matter of contract default. The defendants failed to meet their financial obligations as outlined in—"

"Objection." Ash's voice cuts through the courtroom, silencing everyone. He rises slowly, and even in civilian clothes, he dominates the space. "Counsel is misrepresenting the facts. My clients were never in default because the loan modification they were promised was never processed."

Judge Hendricks adjusts his glasses, jaw tight as he studies Ash with obvious distaste. "Mr. Thornshade, can you substantiate that claim?"

"I can, Your Honor." Ash produces a folder thick with documentation. "Bank records show my clients made every required payment during the modification period. The foreclosure proceedings were initiated in error."

I watch him work, and it's like watching a master craftsman. Every gesture deliberate, every word calculated for maximum impact. He presents evidence with the same precision he probably used to dismantle Victor Hargrove's empire, methodical, thorough, devastating.

But what catches me off guard isn't his legal acumen. It's the moment he turns to explain something to Mrs. Bauer, voice dropping to something gentle, patient. He takes her weathered hand in his massive one, speaking slowly, making sure she understands every step of the process.

This isn't performance. You can't fake that kind of care. The gentleness, the genuine care in his expression, it's the same quality I glimpsed that night at Murphy's when he held back his violence despite having every excuse to unleash it.

"Furthermore, Your Honor," Ash continues, returning his attention to the judge, "the foreclosure company violated state notification requirements. My clients were never properly informed of their right to request a hearing."

The opposing counsel scrambles, shuffling papers, clearly unprepared for this level of resistance. They expected an elderly couple with no representation, an easy victory in an ongoing campaign to strip away everything of value in Shadow Ridge.

But then the lead attorney rallies. "Your Honor, while Mr. Thornshade raises procedural concerns, the fundamental issue remains unchanged. The defendants signed a loan agreement with specific terms and have failed to meet their obligations."

Judge Hendricks nods, studying the paperwork before him. "Mr. Thornshade, the loan application is quite clear about the payment schedule your clients agreed to."

Mrs. Bauer makes a small, distressed sound. "But that's not what we signed," she whispers to her husband, loud enough for the courtroom to hear.

Ash reaches into his briefcase, his movements unhurried despite the tension in the room."Your Honor, I'd like to submit the defendant's original copy of the loan application."

The change in the room is immediate. Opposing counsel goes rigid. Judge Hendricks takes the document, comparing it to what he'd been reviewing.

"The terms are substantially different," the judge says slowly. "Interest rate, payment schedule, late fee provisions, none of this matches."

"It appears someone created fraudulent documentation to facilitate an illegal foreclosure," Ash says, his voice carrying the weight of absolute certainty.

When Judge Hendricks finally bangs his gavel, dismissing the case with prejudice, Mrs. Bauer bursts into tears. Her husband's hands shake as he grips the back of the pew in front of him.