Uneasy alliance. But it works.
Still, there's always something. That's what I've learned about this job. There's always someone who needs help, always a problem that needs solving, always a reason to stay late at the office instead of going home to an empty house.
I turn onto Main Street and park outside Murphy's. Haven't eaten since breakfast, and my stomach's been complaining for the past hour. The lunch crowd has already cleared out, which means I might actually get a table without fielding twenty questions about the new billionaire in town.
Inside, Murphy waves at me from behind the counter. He's a big man, now bald as an egg, and a yellow smile that could sell sand in a desert. "Tom! The usual?"
"Yeah. And coffee. Strong."
"Coming right up."
I slide into my regular booth by the window and pull out my phone. Three missed calls from the office, all non-urgent according to the follow-up texts. A reminder about the town council meeting next week. An email from my sister in Montana asking when I'm going to visit.
Soon, I type back. Same answer I always give.
Through the window, I watch the town go about its afternoon business. Mrs. Patterson walking her ancient golden retriever. The group of teenagers skateboarding in the parking lot across the street. I'll have to talk to them about that later, beforesomeone gets hurt. Old Mr. Derryl sweeping the sidewalk outside his hardware store, same as he does every day at three o'clock.
This is what I wanted. This quiet, steady rhythm of small-town life. So why does it feel like something's missing?
Murphy brings my coffee and burger, chatting for a few minutes about the weather, the baseball game last night, his daughter's upcoming wedding. I listen, nod in the right places, and make the appropriate comments. It's comfortable. Easy.
Empty.
I finish my meal and leave cash on the table, more than enough to cover the bill plus a generous tip. Murphy's been feeding me since I first arrived in Blackwater Falls, back when I didn't know anyone and the whole town looked at me like I was an outsider.
The clouds have gotten darker. The air smells like rain now. I should get back to the office, finish up the paperwork from this morning, maybe actually leave at a reasonable hour for once.
Instead, I find myself driving toward the edge of town, past the last of the shops and houses, out where the properties get bigger and more spread out. I tell myself I'm just doing a patrol. Checking on things. Making sure everything's in order.
The truth is simpler. I don't want to go home yet.
Home is a small house on a quiet street, neat and clean and absolutely silent. Jazz records and thriller novels and a comfortable chair by the window. It should be enough. For years, it was enough.
But lately, the silence has started to feel less like peace and more like loneliness.
I'm forty-three years old. Never married. No kids. A handful of relationships over the years that never quite fit,never lasted. The women I dated were good people—kind, attractive, interesting. But something was always missing. Some connection I couldn't name or find.
Now I watch my friends with their families, their children, their full and complicated lives, and I feel the absence of something I never had. Murphy talks about his daughter's wedding, and I smile and nod while wondering what it would be like to walk a daughter down the aisle. To teach a son how to throw a ball. To have someone waiting at home who actually wants me there.
The window's closing. I know that. Every year, the possibility of that life gets further away.
My phone buzzes. Text from one of the deputies.
*Got a call about the old Harlow place. Someone actually rented it.*
I stare at the message for a long moment. The Harlow place has been empty for four years, ever since the water damage and mold made it basically unlivable. The landlord, some guy in Chicago who inherited it from his grandmother, never bothered to fix it. Just left it to rot and kept listing it online with pictures from a decade ago.
Every few months, someone sees those pictures and gets suckered in. They show up expecting a charming small-town rental and find a house that smells like death and decay. Usually, they're back on the road within hours, demanding refunds and threatening lawsuits.
I change direction, heading toward the Harlow place. Whoever rented it is going to need help, even if it's just pointing them toward somewhere else to stay.
The house sits at the end of a long dirt road, separated from its nearest neighbors by a good quarter mile of overgrown field. AsI pull up, I can already see the problem. The porch is sagging. The paint is peeling in long strips. One of the front windows has a crack running through it like a jagged scar.
And standing in front of it all, struggling with an impossible load of bags, is a woman I've never seen before.
She's trying to carry everything at once: four duffel bags, two backpacks, her arms straining with the weight. It's a losing battle. One of the bags keeps slipping, and every time she adjusts, another one threatens to fall.
I'm out of the truck before I fully register what I'm doing.