Page 4

The words are innocent enough, but there's something underneath them—a challenge, maybe, or a warning. Our eyes lock, and for a heartbeat, I'm back in that parking lot, remembering the way he'd looked at me like he was deciding whether I was prey or predator.

"I'm sure we can find a way to work together," I manage, then look at Diesel. "I'll be in touch."

I turn to leave, but Helen's not done. "Oh, and Sheriff? The boys do a lot of good around here. Community outreach, keeping troublemakers in line. You'll see."

"I'm sure I will," I say, not looking back at Ash.

But I feel his attention on me all the way to the door, and this time it feels less like dismissal and more like evaluation.

Or a threat.

I'm not sure there's a difference.

The Shadow Ridge Sheriff's Office sits just off the main highway on the opposite end of town from Greene's. The sign out front still reads "Sheriff R. Dawson" in faded letters, another item on my growing list of things nobody bothered to fix.

I push through the front door. The smell hits me first—stale coffee, old paperwork, and something damp. Recycled air that's been circulating too long in a place that's slowly falling apart.

"Morning, Sheriff." Deputy Santos looks up from the front desk, with dark circles under his eyes. He's maybe thirty, with a compact build, the kind of cop who keeps his head down and does his job without asking uncomfortable questions.

"Santos." I nod toward the empty desk beside his. "Still no word from Morris?"

"No ma'am. Three days now." He doesn't meet my eyes when he says it, finding something fascinating about the duty roster instead. "I've been covering his patrol sectors, but—"

"But you can't be two places at once." I study his profile, noting the tension in his jaw. "Any idea where he might be?"

Santos shrugs, the gesture unconvincing. “Morris keeps to himself. Could be sick, could be fishing. Could be anywhere."

Morris isn't sick or fishing, and we both know it. The question is whether Santos is protecting him or is scared of him. Either way, this is exactly the kind of casual insubordination Dawson must have tolerated. I won't be making the same mistake.

"When Deputy Morris decides to check in, have him report to me directly."

Santos nods in understanding.

I head to my office, leaving Santos to his reports. After a week of sorting through what GBI left behind, one thing's clear—Dawson took anything that mattered and left me with scraps.

I settle into my chair—springs shot, upholstery cracked—and start sorting through what's left. Traffic citations from two years ago. Property dispute forms with no resolution notes. Incident reports that stop mid-sentence, as if whoever wrote them simply gave up.

But what's missing tells the real story. There are no arrest records for the past six months, investigation files on any of the foreclosures plaguing the county, or documentation of the corruption everyone whispers about but nobody wants to elaborate on.

I pull out the bottom drawer, expecting more of the same, when my fingers find something Dawson missed: a manila folder wedged behind other files.

I work it free and flip it open, revealing photocopies of bank statements, property deeds, and correspondence between Sheriff Dawson and someone identified only as "RC. "

I flip through the papers slowly. Bank statements showing regular deposits to Dawson's account—always the same amount, always from "RC Consulting.

" Property deeds with Dawson's signature, but the sale prices are too low for the current market.

And letters—short, formal correspondence about "mutual interests" and "community development projects. "

It takes me three passes through the documents before the pattern becomes clear.

Royce Carvello. RC. Victor Hargrove's nephew, continuing the family operation.

And now I'm wearing the badge he paid to control, wondering how deep this goes.

A knock interrupts my investigation. Santos appears in the doorway, coffee mug in hand, wariness written across his face.

"Thought you might need this," he says, setting the mug on my desk.

"Thanks." I close the folder, noting how his gaze tracks the movement. "Santos, how long have you been working here?"

"Four years next month."

"You must have seen a lot of Dawson's... management style."

His jaw tightens. "Sheriff Dawson ran things his way."

"And Morris? How long's he been around?"

"About the same." Santos shifts his weight, clearly uncomfortable. "Look, Sheriff, I know things weren't ideal before you arrived. But some of us tried to do the job right, even when it wasn't the preferred method."

Some of us. Not all of us. The implication only adds to my assumptions.

"I'm not here to judge the past," I tell him, though we both know that's exactly why I'm here. "I just need to know who I can count on moving forward."

Santos meets my eyes for the first time all morning. "You can count on me, Sheriff. Whatever you need."

"What about the MC? The Ironborn?" I watch his face carefully. "Can I count on them?"

He hesitates, choosing his words carefully.

"I want to say they're solid. They've done good things for this town, helped people when the system failed them.

But they don't exactly coordinate with local law enforcement.

" His voice drops. "I've been kept out of whatever arrangements they had with Dawson.

So honestly, I don't know how they'll work with you. "

I study his face, looking for the lie, the evasion. Nothing. At least he's not covering for anyone.

"Fair enough. But right now, you're all I've got." I gesture toward the chaos surrounding us. "So we've got work to do. Starting with figuring out what happened to all these missing files."

Santos straightens despite the exhaustion written across his face, something like relief flickering in his eyes. "What do you need me to do?"

"Take a look around the office. See if you can find any recent reports on property disputes, foreclosures, anything with the initials RC." I tap the folder on my desk. "Check everywhere—file cabinets, storage rooms, even Morris's desk if you have to."

"RC?" Santos frowns. "Why those initials specifically?"

"I wish I knew," I admit. "But it's the only lead I have."

He nods, understanding. "I'll turn this place upside down if I have to."

"That's exactly what I need to hear." Finally, a deputy willing to actually investigate. "Start with Morris's desk. If he's been hiding, there might be a reason."

After Santos heads out to search, I sit alone in the wreckage of Dawson's office, surrounded by evidence of coordinated corruption. The uniform that felt like armor this morning now feels like a target, marking me as the threat to everything Royce Carvello built here.

I spread the remaining files across my desk, creating some semblance of order from Dawson's chaos. All of it pointing to the same coordinated corruption. But as I sort through the papers, questions start forming about the bigger picture.

Where do the Ironborn fit into all this? Helen made it clear that the town sees them as saviors, but what if they are just better at managing the racket than Victor was? What if they've simply replaced one form of control with another?

If they're running their own game, I need to understand what I'm really dealing with—starting with their VP.

The way Ash moved in that parking lot keeps replaying in my mind—precise, efficient, deadly. Most criminals I've dealt with fight dirty, fight desperate. They throw wild punches and hope something connects. But Ash? He fought like someone trained to inflict maximum damage with minimum effort.

And then he stopped.

That's what keeps eating at me. When those men went down, he didn't kick them while they were vulnerable. Didn't lose himself to rage or adrenaline. He just stopped, picked up the knife and waited.

What kind of man exercises that level of restraint in the middle of violence?

I pull another folder toward me, trying to focus on foreclosure notices dated three months ago.

The Hendersons on Blufton Street are behind on their mortgage and facing eviction.

The paperwork is standard, except... I frown, flipping through the documents.

The signatures are missing from half the required forms, and the court order lacks a judge's seal.

This isn't right.

I reach for my phone and dial the county clerk's office. "Hi, this is Sheriff Reyes in Shadow Ridge. I need to check the status of a property foreclosure. 247 Blufton, owners Henderson."

While I wait on hold, my thoughts drift back to the parking lot. The way Ash looked at me after I told him to drop the knife. Not with fear or resentment, but with recognition. Like he saw past the badge to the woman underneath.

Like he was deciding whether I was worth trusting.

"Sheriff?" The clerk's voice pulls me back. "I'm showing that property as occupied. There are no foreclosure proceedings on file."

"That can't be right. I'm looking at eviction papers dated three months ago."

"Hold on... let me check with the courthouse." A pause, keyboard clicking. "No, ma'am. No eviction order was ever issued for that address. If someone's been removed from the property, it wasn't through legal channels."

My stomach drops. "Thank you."

I hang up and immediately start digging through more files. The Bauer family on Clarence Court. The Garcias on Highway 76. Property after property, all with the same pattern—incomplete paperwork, missing signatures, families evicted without the proper legal process.

They were forced from their homes based on fraudulent documentation.

My blood runs cold, but I force myself to think beyond the emotion. This is bigger than I initially thought, which means I need to be smarter about how I handle it. One wrong move, one premature accusation, and whoever's behind this will destroy what little evidence remains.

I've been here before. How many times have I sat in rooms like this, staring at evidence that should have been enough, knowing that somewhere the truth was buried under layers of corruption and lies?

Carman's case files are locked away in my storage unit back in Atlanta, but the frustration feels exactly the same—families destroyed while the system fails them.

I need allies—people I can trust. My GBI contact in Atlanta might be able to help with the legal side, trace the fake documents back to their source.

But for local intelligence, to understand how deep this goes and who else might be involved, I need Helen.

She said herself that news travels fast in Shadow Ridge.

She'd know which families were affected, maybe even who helped carry out the evictions.

I glance at the clock—almost noon—perfect excuse for an early lunch.

"Santos!" I call out, gathering the most damning files into a secure folder. "I'm heading out for a bit. Call me if you find anything else or if you need backup."

"Will do, Sheriff." His voice echoes from somewhere in the back storage room.

I lock the evidence in my desk drawer and head for the door, but pause on the threshold.

My reflection stares back from the glass—badge straight, uniform pressed, expression all focus.

This is who I need to be right now. Sheriff Reyes, not the woman who spent the morning thinking about amber eyes and dangerous restraint.

I don't have time for complications—for analyzing what Ash Thornshade represents or whether his restraint extends beyond physical confrontation. I've got a job to do in Shadow Ridge, and it's becoming clear that it will require all my focus and skill to deliver justice.

The families who were illegally forced from their homes deserve a sheriff who stays focused on the law, not one who gets distracted by motorcycle club politics. And I will make sure they get exactly that, regardless of who I have to investigate.