From my vantage point,tucked away behind the weathered exterior of the Moonhaven café, a charming little establishment worn soft with age, I intently observe Ellie as she retraces her steps that lead purposefully toward the sprawling municipal building of town hall.
I’m spying with a veneer of duty—merely a security oversight—but the truth? The pure notion of delegating grates against something much more raw and primal nestled deep within me.
I don’t want anyone else watching her.
As the sheriff of this close-knit community, my role demands that I see but remain unseen, a silent guardian watching over the lives of those around me.
“Ellie Carter,” I find myself murmuring, testing her name on my tongue as if it were a half-remembered tune. A myriad of questions and chaotic scenarios swirl, unfurling like smoke around her current investigation. An inward groan escapes mylips, as I feel my resolve tighten around me uncomfortably, like a noose pulling tighter with each thought.
What pushes back the hardest, though, is my wolf—an untamed spirit that bristles against my self-imposed chains, howling silently for the freedom I have restricted. The distance I keep from Ellie becomes an irrational hurdle; worse still, it frays the brittle peace within me that I desperately try to maintain.
"You are not helpful," I think to myself, the reprimand echoing inside my mind, half-serious yet tinged with frustration.
Just as I am lost in this internal tumult, a voice breaks through.
“Sheriff, morning!” The cheerful exclamation leaps forth from Gregson, who appears at my side as if summoned by the gravity of the moment.
“Morning," I reply, my voice steady as I refuse to tear my eyes away from Ellie’s retreating figure, now becoming a mere silhouette against the backdrop of mundane life. She steps out of view, leaving behind a tendril of unresolved curiosity that dances in the air.
Gregson tilts his head slightly, curious. “Keeping an eye on the outsider?”
My wolf stirs, restless at the crack in the routine my deputy has unwittingly created.
“Outsider? Just a journalist, really,” I downplay casually, forcing a lightness into my tone that feels somewhat disingenuous.
“Hmm, journalist or mole?” Gregson shoots back, cutting his eyes toward the town hall again, and a startled laugh escapes me—a reflex I barely manage to choke down, as it echoes just a fraction too loud in the otherwise tranquil morning air.
Beneath my professional facade, my wolf continues to wrestle against the leash of duty I’ve fastened firmly; I can almost feel its fur bristling invisibly beneath my skin.
“No moles here,” I mutter, letting my voice drop low and edgy, and I watch as Gregson raises an eyebrow in mock skepticism.
“Is that really a stakeout?” Gregson’s innocent question slices through the thin veil of my facade, prying at the seams I am desperately trying to maintain.
“Just self-allocated fieldwork,” I offer in a voice that aims for casualness that’s clearly cracked at the edges.
“Gotcha. Surveillance,” he declares matter-of-factly and begins to saunter away, his footsteps unconcerned and unhurried, a steadfast cog in the reliable machine that is our precinct.
Surveillance, indeed. The reality of what I am doing might veer into something seductively rational tomorrow. Yet today’s intentions claw at me. What if merely watching her is somehow equating to a union of hearts? My gaze remains unwavering, fixed on the horizon where she vanished.
The midday sunfilters through the blinds of my office, casting zebra-striped shadows on a stack of incomplete reports. My fingers trace over the coffee mug's handle. The staff thought it was clever giving me a white mug with big black letters announcing that I am alone wolfas a birthday gift.
“Sheriff, you got a minute?”
Gregson leans in the doorway, his voice making every attempt to remain casual despite the ribbon of urgency running through it.
“Yeah, come in.” I wave him over, setting the mug aside.
He slides into the chair opposite my desk, eyes scanning the reports instinctively. “I overheard something interesting last night. Our journalist friend’s getting chatty about Karen Jenkins. Asking questions.”
"Word travels fast." I lean back, my chair creaking under the shifting tension.
"Doesn't matter where you bury the bones, soon as someone starts digging..." Gregson lifts an eyebrow.
His metaphor lands heavy, tugging at the truth I promised to shield. "Ellie's tenacious. More so than I anticipated."
“She’s lodged a formal request for records,” Gregson adds, a note underlined in concern. "So it seems she’s under your skin.”
"Ellie's not here to play tourist, that much we’ve seen," I reply. Her line of questioning’s a bulldozer in a minefield. “It’s time we had a chat.”