Page 3 of The Rogue

He sucks his teeth. “I’m in college. Everyone smokes in college.”

I pull out my phone.

“What?” he sighs melodramatically.

“I’m fact-checking you.”

“Well, don’t. I don’t need all of you to keep parenting me just because you all got nothin’ better to do.”

“I’m messin’ with you. Just keep it to a minimum, okay? I’d like to keep you—and your lungs—around for a long time.”

“I’m fine.”

“Thanks for watchin’ him for me again.”

He shrugs. “It’s all good. Dad and I were expecting him. See you later.”

Worry gnaws at me as I drive away, and I need to remind myself this isn’t the same thing. I’m not abandoning my son the way my ex-wife did. The wayDaddid.

But these drop-offs are becoming too frequent and it’s only a matter of time before Jackson notices. Before he starts thinking I don’t have time for him.

Thatanythingis more important than him.

It’s not.

Nothing will ever be more important than him and keeping him safe.

Part of my meeting with the sheriff today is to see how the Reeves family can help keep crime down. The other is finding out exactly what preventative measures they have in place. Because if anyone with an ounce of no-good shows up in my town, I will personally run them out.

“Little late for lunch.” Hideaway Springs town sheriff, Wyatt Bradshaw, grumbles as I hop out of my truck and walk toward the police station.

“Did you at least save me any donuts?” I ask as I follow him into the air-conditioned building. It’s modest, like everything else in Hideaway Springs, but serves its purpose.

The smell of bad coffee and a burnt-out copy machine fills the lobby as we make our way to his office.

“You get quotes for the new security system?” I jump to the point of my visit.

Wyatt shakes his head with a grunt. “We uh…we’ll need to put that off for a while.”

“Put it off? Thought you said you’d fit it into next month’s budget?”

“We were counting on funds from parking violation payments, speeding tickets and such to cover the cost.”

“And?”

“There aren’t any,” he answers tightly.

That doesn’t add up. “Isn’t that a good thing? I mean on the bright side—”

“No bright side. We had over a hundred and fifty tickets last month. All gone.”

“I’m not following.”

He glances at the glass-enclosed room. Several tan-uniformed officers crowd a young woman. I can’t see her face since she’s sitting in a chair facing away from us.

But the situation is as clear as the glass wall—she’s being interrogated.

I remove my hat. Legs pulled in her direction. Wild and curly auburn hair hangs down to the middle of her back. And when she pushes off her chair, my eyes dip down the rest of her.

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