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Chapter Four

Nova

A nother sleepless night means I'm at the sheriff's station before dawn.

The station is dead quiet. No dispatch chatter, no phones ringing, no deputies shuffling paperwork.

Just me and the mess Dawson left behind.

I flip the lights on, illuminating dust motes that dance in the half-darkness.

The floor creaks beneath my boots as I head for the break room.

It's the perfect time to clear my head. Santos won't be back from night patrol for at least an hour, Walker's not due in until the afternoon shift, and Roberta, our part-time dispatcher, won't drag herself in until eight. I've got the place to myself.

I dump stale grounds from yesterday's coffee filter and measure fresh ones, the familiar ritual grounding me.

With only three hours of sleep and a full day of damage control ahead, I'll need the caffeine.

The ancient pot hisses and sputters to life as I hit the switch, the smell of brewing coffee slowly replacing the lingering scent of industrial cleaner from the night janitor.

While it percolates, I head to my office.

Another box of files waits by the door—evidence of Dawson's corruption that I still haven't finished sorting through.

I drag it to my desk and drop it with a thud that echoes through the empty building.

The Henderson foreclosure file sits on top, the manila folder worn at the edges, the pages inside crisp with official stamps that don't match the forged signatures.

I sink into my chair and pull the file open. Columns of numbers blur before my gaze. My brain refuses to focus, drifting instead to the town meeting a few nights ago—specifically, the bomb I dropped about the foreclosure fraud.

I can still see the shock rippling through the crowd when I laid out seventeen properties with fraudulent documentation.

Conversations died mid-sentence, replaced by angry murmurs and pointed stares.

Mayor Bartlett's face went pale, then red, when he realized I'd bypassed his office entirely and taken the evidence straight to the public.

"You should have consulted with the council first," he'd said after the meeting, tone tight with frustration.

I should have. I should have played nice, worked through proper channels, given Royce's people time to bury evidence and intimidate witnesses, like every other sheriff who'd tried to clean the house and ended up burying themselves.

But it was worth it for the look on Ash's face. Not shock like the rest of them. A smirk. Pure appreciation for a well-executed power play. Like he knew exactly what I was doing and approved.

Because I did know exactly what I was doing—putting everyone on notice. Royce, his lawyers, and anyone in this town still carrying water for his operation. I'm not here to play politics or work within a system designed to protect the guilty. I'm here to clean house, and I'm not afraid of anyone.

But thinking about that meeting brings me right back to him—back to Ash, back to his gaze.

The way it held mine when I froze at that podium. How it felt like an anchor when I was drowning in a sea of unfamiliar faces. How it seemed to push me forward when my words caught in my throat.

No. I shake my head, trying to refocus on the files. I can't afford to waste time getting distracted by complicated orcs. I used him that night—found his face in the crowd when panic tried to shut me down. Nothing more.

But when I think about that moment again—standing there with the microphone in my hand and a room full of people waiting for me to speak—I remember how the setup hit me. Microphone, crowd, all those waiting faces—it was just like Carman's press conference.

Six years ago, the microphone felt the same. The crowd staring, waiting. For a split second at that town meeting, I wasn't Sheriff Nova Reyes with a badge and evidence to destroy Royce Callo. I was twenty-two again, watching powerful men in uniforms lie about my sister while cameras rolled.

My parents holding each other, fighting back tears. The police chief reading lies from a script. Camera flashes blinding me. Microphones shoved in my face like weapons.

So many people gathered there, so much power concentrated in one place, and the memory of how not one of them gave a damn about the truth still burns.

When I stood at that town meeting podium, the memory blindsided me. For a second, I was drowning in it, helpless. I needed something, anything, to remind me where I was and who I'd become. My gaze swept the room, desperate for an anchor.

And it landed on Ash.

Those amber irises didn't see a woman falling apart. They saw power. In that look, something shifted in my chest—the panic loosened, my breathing steadied. For a heartbeat, I wasn't a victim. I was Sheriff Nova Reyes.

It was enough. Hell, maybe I'd even made it up.

I shake my head again and tell myself I have better things to do than daydream about orcs—things like finding the connection between these foreclosures and Royce Carvello, like figuring out where Deputy Morris disappeared to, like doing my actual job instead of replaying that moment when his stare saw right through me.

I force my attention back to the Henderson file, determined to make progress on something concrete.

The station's front door opens, hinges protesting with a long creak. Heavy footsteps cross the bullpen.

"Sheriff?" Santos calls out.

I close the file, pushing thoughts of Ash back into the locked compartment where they belong. "In here."

Santos appears in my doorway, uniform wrinkled from a twelve-hour shift, dark circles carved beneath his gaze. He leans against the door frame.

"Morris is still a no-show," he says, not bothering with good mornings. "Checked his place last night before my shift. Car's gone. Mail's piling up."

I push the file aside. "Any calls to his cell?"

"Straight to voicemail." Santos rubs his jaw where stubble has grown past regulation length. "I put in his patrol reports for the week. Filled in the blanks as best I could between me and Walker."

"Good, but you look like hell." The words come out sharper than intended, but Santos just shrugs.

"Double shifts'll do that." He attempts a wary grin. "Nothing I can't handle."

My stomach tightens as I watch him. His exhaustion is written in every line of his face, but I keep my expression neutral.

Santos didn't ask for this mess—a missing deputy, a new sheriff with an agenda, a town balanced on the edge of implosion.

Even with Walker picking up extra shifts, we're stretched too thin with Morris gone.

"This can't continue," I say, shuffling papers to avoid meeting his gaze. "You'll run yourself into the ground covering for Morris."

"Someone's gotta patrol the west quadrant."

"I'll take it today." I hold up a hand when he starts to protest. "You're off shift. Go home. Sleep. I need at least one functioning deputy in this department."

Santos straightens slightly, uncertainty crossing his face. Not quite suspicion, but close. "You know the west quadrant runs right along Ironborn territory."

"I'm aware." I meet his stare directly, challenging the unspoken question. "Is that a problem?"

"No, ma'am." He shifts his weight, hesitating.

"First thing we're doing when the council frees up more funds is getting you more backup," I say, changing the subject. "Real backup, not just Roberta answering phones whenever she bothers to show up."

Santos's mouth twists into a smirk. "Heard that before. Dawson promised two more deputies last spring. Then one last summer. Never materialized."

"I'm not Dawson."

"No, ma'am. You're not." His tone stays carefully neutral, but something shifts in his expression. A question he's not going to ask.

I like Santos. He's competent, loyal to the badge if not necessarily to me. But there's something in his careful answers about Morris, in the way he watches me when we discuss the MC, that makes me wonder exactly what he knows and isn't saying.

"Get some rest," I tell him, softening my words. "I'll handle Morris when he decides to show his face again."

Santos nods, pushing off from the doorframe. "10-4." He turns to go, then pauses. "Oh, almost forgot. Helen called. Said she needs to talk to you when you get a chance. Sounded important."

I pause, pen halfway to paper. "Did she say what about?"

"No." Santos shrugs. "Just that she'd be at the diner all morning."

After he leaves, I sit in the silence, staring at my coffee mug.

The Henderson file isn't getting any clearer, and every time I try to focus, my brain keeps drifting back to those amber irises and that damned smirk.

I could use some decent coffee instead of whatever motor oil I brewed earlier.

Might as well see what Helen wants. Better than sitting here with my thoughts running in circles.

The bell over Greene's door announces my arrival, and every head turns my way. Conversations pause, then resume slightly louder. They were talking about me.

Helen spots me from behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. She gestures to an empty booth in the corner, away from curious ears.

"Morning, Sheriff," she says, sliding a mug in front of me as I settle into the vinyl seat. "Santos, pass along my message?"

"Said you needed to talk." I watch her pour coffee without asking, the dark liquid steaming in the chipped mug. "Sounded important."

Helen glances over her shoulder, checking who's within earshot. The diner's half-full—truckers passing through, farmers grabbing breakfast before heading to their fields, the regulars who come for the gossip as much as the food. Silas Jenkins is in his usual spot.

Helen leans in, words dropping. "Town's split down the middle after the town hall meeting."

"About the foreclosures?" I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into my palms.