Islide the deadbolt home and lean against the door, listening to his footsteps fade down the hallway. The silence that follows feels heavier than the break-in, weighted with all the things neither of us said.
The laptop screen still glows on the table, browser history open like evidence of my own naivety. Someone violated my space, rifled through my work, made it clear they know exactly who I am. And when I needed an ally, when I thought maybe…
Oh, boo-hoo. Are you really that surprised?
No. I stop that line of thinking before it can take root.
I fill the electric kettle, hands steadier than they have any right to be. The ritual gives me something to focus on while I sort through what just happened. Caleb's careful distance. His professional tone. The way he left without looking back.
The water boils, and I make tea I don't want, wrapping my fingers around the mug for warmth that has nothing to do with temperature.
"Be careful who you trust," I repeat his parting words to the empty room. "Right back at you, Sheriff."
The encounter plays on repeat in my mind, and with each viewing, the details sharpen into something clearer and more damning. His quick exit. The way he wouldn't meet my eyes when he warned me off. How easily he slipped back into professional mode after I thought we'd moved past that.
I was temporary. Why wouldn’t I be?
Temporary is easier to swallow when you call it practical. When you dress it up as circumstance. Bad timing. Wrong place.
The truth is uglier. Temporary is what happens when people decide you’re useful in the moment but inconvenient in the long run.
I’ve learned how to live inside that space. How to be interesting without being threatening. Present without taking up too much room.
It’s a skill set no one puts on a résumé, but it’s saved me more times than I care to admit.
Besides, no man wants someone like me forever. I’m at best a stepping stone to something better. A holdover while you look for absolutely anything else.
And professionally, I’m just a problem to be managed, not a person to be trusted.
These realizations settle in my chest like a stone, familiar and cold. How many times have I made this mistake? Mistaking attention for interest, proximity for connection, professional courtesy for something more personal?
The heat starts in my chest—that awful, spreading warmth that signals the approach of shame. It's the same sensation I felt seeing that awful photo of myself for the first time. The realization that I was being recognized not as a professional with achievements but as a subject of ridicule.
I set the mug down harder than necessary, tea sloshing over the rim.
"Stupid." The word comes out sharper than I intended. "So bloody stupid."
Because that's what this is, isn't it?
Yep. Same shit. Different Day.
I misread the situation, expected more than was reasonable, and now I'm sitting here feeling foolish for thinking a sheriff in a small town might actually see me as anything other than… well… anything.
The laptop screen dims, then brightens again as I move the mouse. My research stares back at me—timelines, inconsistencies, questions that still need answers. Real work. Measurable progress. Things I can actually control.
I pull up a new document and start typing.
"Focus," I tell myself. "This is what you came here for."
The break-in wasn't random. Someone wanted me to know they'd been here, wanted me to understand that my presence hasn't gone unnoticed. But instead of scaring me off, they've given me confirmation that I'm on the right track.
I delete three peripheral leads from my notes, streamlining my approach. No more chasing every loose thread or hoping local sources will warm up to me. No more waiting for Sheriff Hart to decide I'm worth trusting. I'll work with what I have and build from there.
The missing file from the county records office. The witness accounts that don't match the official reports. The pattern of disappearances that clusters around specific locations and times of year. These are facts, not feelings. Evidence, not expectations.
Facts don’t care if you’re liked.
They don’t flinch when people withdraw or smile politely while steering you away from the point. Facts sit there, stubborn and patient, waiting for someone to notice when they stop making sense.