Page 45 of Her Wild Coast Promise

At the next light, I stare at the row ofSETH DALTON FOR SHERIFF, EXPERIENCE MATTERSsigns rising from the grass median.

Behind me, a chorus of horns blare, snapping me back to the green light and my purpose. I accelerate, hoping the people behind me don’t make the connection.

The photo Cora chose from the photo shoot last Tuesday isn’t bad or even unflattering. It’s just plain weird. Cheesy.

Though I did like the way Cora looked at me during the one-hour session, and the way she made me laugh so that—according to her—I didn’t look constipated in the photos.

What if I am constipated?I shot back.

She just rolled her eyes, but I enjoyed the way they sparkled.

I turn left at the high school. Mixed in with a handful of school board election posters are a dozen of mine. At every intersection, there are more.

How the hell has Cora mobilized so quickly? I’ll have to remember to ask her tonight.

Spending the evening with her after weeks of working fourteen-hour shifts to cover staffing shortages is a welcome change of pace, even though it’s a campaign function. I can spin her around the dance floor, make her laugh.

The thought of enjoying myself brings up a weird form of guilt. I’m no closer to solving Terrilynn or Hayden Cole’s murder, and though the new autopsy results are interesting, they aren’t getting me closer to Jane Doe’s identity or finding her killer.

Then there’s my unfinished work uncovering Kalle Jensen’s real identity. The Blackstone Task Force meets again in a week, and I Special Agent Snow hinted an update regarding the damaged UDP chip. Cleaning up the images requires the help of a specialist in D.C. which will take a while, but Agent Snow shared that she and her team are working on two audio files.

The source is unclear. Voicemails? A wire tap? That Gregory McCabe hid this information inside his wife’s locket suggests a level of organization and secrecy that would be better suited to a spy novel than a guy working in passport security. What was Gregory McCabe protecting? Was he a whistleblower? Or was he gathering intel as insurance, a way to protect himself in case of some kind of crackdown? Maybe those files Agent Snow’s team is working on will have the answers.

When I arrive home to get ready for the gala, I’m late enough that I know I should hurry inside. Instead, I sit in the dark, staring through the windshield. My gut is tight from holding everything in and my jaw hurts, like I’m clenching my teeth again. I used to do it when I was younger, but since I left the military, I don’t think it happens as much. I try taking deep breaths, but I just fog up the windows.

With a groan, I step from my rig and walk the lit path to the house and let myself in. Rosie zooms down the stairs to greet me.

“Hey girl,” I coo, grounding myself in her soft fur. When I sit to take off my shoes, she rests her chin on the valley between my knees, looking up at me with her soulful brown eyes. I kiss the top of her head. When I adopted her from the bomb squad, the K-9 sergeant said she was becoming reluctant to go to work, likely because of something she experienced in the line of duty. I made Rosie a promise—no more workdays—and we’ve been besties ever since.

“Hey,” Cora says from the top of the stairs. “Everything is hanging in your closet. How much time do you need?”

I glance up, unprepared for the sight of her in a pair of leggings and a zip hoodie, her blonde hair tamed into loose curls that frame her gorgeous face. Her fingers drape casually over the railing, the nails painted a warm, bright red.

“Is that what you’re wearing?” I tease.

“No, silly,” she says with a laugh. “The dress goes on last.”

It’s impossible not to think of her slipping into her gown. Asking if her panties are joining us is on the tip of my tongue, but I manage to bite the words back. Maybe tonight I’ll finally get the nerve to ask why she doesn’t like underwear. Does she always feel this way, or is it based on the occasion? The time of day? Then again, knowing the answers might work against me.

“I’ll just hop in the shower,” I manage, hoping she can’t see the conflicting feelings spinning inside me.

“Meet you downstairs,” she says, and whirls away. “We can talk strategy on the drive.”

“Strategy,” I mutter, striding for my bedroom. Like how we could skip the gala altogether and stay home instead? Start with slow kisses and dancing in the kitchen and see where it leads us?

Under the hot water, I refocus. Tonight is about supporting a cause I believe in. There’s a part of me that’s excited about engaging with the people who want to encourage our youth. To connect and build support for ways in which we can solve problems, and to build a future that’s safe and prosperous. Sure, I’m running for sheriff and yes, I’m hoping to pick up some votes, but this is much bigger than me. It’s about community.

But I’m much more excited to have Cora by my side tonight. Her belief in me is humbling, and in a way, giving me strength.

I wish there was a way I could return the favor. She’s bright and creative and smart. She deserves to pursue a career doing what she loves, where she feels appreciated. Maybe I can write a glowing referral letter when my campaign is over? That feels completely inadequate, yet I’m lost as to what else I can do to help her.

After I shave, I dry off and hurry into my bedroom. Cora has my Class A uniform hanging on my closet door. It reminds me of my academy graduation ceremony and the vanilla cake my parents and I ate together in the reception hall. There’s a picture of us three on that day—why haven’t I framed it? It’s a good memory, one that makes me proud to be a cop.

When I emerge from my room, thesnapof my dress shoes echoing in the hallway, I swallow my nerves. I’ve rehearsed my speech, tightened up my points of future betterment if someone tonight should ask, and brushed my teeth.

All I need is Cora, and everything will be fine.

When I get to the entryway, she is hurrying down the stairs, a black wool coat folded over her arm. “Can you zip me?” She spins away, her curls rustling, revealing her bare shoulders and the pale blue dress held up by two thin straps. The zipper in the center is parted two inches.

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