Page 21 of Redeeming Melodies

The porch light clicked off, leaving just the glow of upstairs windows. In one of them, a shadow moved - Elliot settling into whatever room Clara had given him. For a moment, I imagined him standing there, looking out over our quiet town, maybe feeling that same peace that had drawn me back here years ago.

Fuck. What was I doing, sitting here watching some stranger's window like a rookie on his first stakeout? I had rounds to finish, a town to patrol, actual work to do.

But as I pulled away from Oak Street, I couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted tonight. Like Oakwood Grove had drawn another lost soul into its orbit, the way it had done with me when I needed it most.

My radio crackled - a reminder that the real world was still turning. "Sheriff Thompson, everything quiet out there?"

I keyed the mic, eyes flicking to my rearview mirror where Clara's Place was disappearing into the night. "Yeah, all quiet. Just a routine traffic stop."

LOST AND FOUND

Sunlight crept through unfamiliar curtains, waking me to a room that definitely wasn't my hotel suite. The bed creaked as I sat up - a real, honest-to-God creak, like something from my grandmother's house. No memory foam mattresses at Clara's Place, that's for damn sure.

My phone lay face-down on the nightstand where I'd thrown it last night, probably filled with missed calls and messages I couldn't deal with yet. Cassidy was going to kill me for disappearing. And somewhere out there, Vanessa was probably enjoying every second of my public meltdown.

The room's window offered a view of Main Street coming to life below. Not that there was much life to come to - a few early risers heading to what looked like the local diner, the hardware store owner sweeping his sidewalk, your typical small-town morning routine. No paparazzi, no reporters shoving microphones in faces, no carefully crafted images to maintain.

My reflection in the bathroom mirror told quite a story - designer clothes wrinkled from sleeping in them, hair a mess, dark circles under my eyes. Some hotshot racer I was now. The bruises on my knuckles had darkened overnight, a nice reminderof my wall-punching session. Real mature, Blue. Really showing that stability Vanessa keeps questioning.

Clara had left fresh towels outside my door - thick, soft ones that smelled like actual sunshine instead of whatever designer bullshit the high-end hotels used. The shower's water pressure wasn't great, but it was hot and steady, washing away some of yesterday's chaos.

Clean but wearing yesterday's clothes, I made my way downstairs. The inn's lobby smelled like coffee and something sweet baking. Clara looked up from her crossword puzzle, glasses perched on her nose.

"Morning, stranger. Sleep well?"

"Better than I expected," I admitted. "Thanks for taking me in so late."

"Sheriff Thompson's word is good enough for me." She gestured toward the kitchen. "Coffee's fresh if you want some."

Sheriff Thompson. Right. The tall, dark, and authoritative guy who'd caught me acting like an idiot on his roads last night. Who'd offered help instead of a ticket, despite my best efforts to piss him off.

"Thanks, but I think I'll check out that diner he mentioned." I needed to walk, to think, to figure out what the hell I was doing in this town that looked like it fell out of a Hallmark movie.

The morning air hit me like a wake-up call - clean, crisp, carrying scents of fresh bread and coffee from somewhere down the street. No exhaust fumes, no pressure of cameras waiting to catch my next fuck-up. Just quiet streets and people going about their business.

My feet carried me past storefronts that probably hadn't changed in decades. Sarah's Diner glowed invitingly, already half-full with locals who probably sat in the same booths every morning, drinking the same coffee, living their predictable, peaceful lives.

What the hell was I doing here?

I pulled out my phone, finally facing the screen. Dozens of missed calls, hundreds of messages. But the one that caught my eye was from Tommy. I seriously don’t know when he had learned how to text.

Tommy:

"Dad, are you okay? Mom says you're taking a break to think about stuff. Can I still call you?"

Some father I was, running away to small-town nowhere while my kid worried about whether he could still call me. But the thought of going back, of facing the media circus Vanessa had created, of trying to prove my stability while cameras caught every expression...

A truck rumbled past - someone heading to work, living their normal life where divorce proceedings didn't make national news. The driver nodded at me, just another friendly local gesture. He probably had no idea who I was, didn't care about my latest PR disaster or my custody battle.

The anonymity felt like a gift.

The diner's bell chimed as I pushed through the door. Coffee scent hit me full force, along with the sound of actual conversations - not networking, not image-managing, just people talking about weather and crops and whatever else mattered in a town like this.

"Grab any seat, honey," a waitress called out. "Coffee's hot and the pancakes are fresh."

Part of me knew I should leave. Drive back to the city, face the mess I'd left behind, be the responsible adult everyone expected. But another part, the part that was tired of performing for cameras and fighting losing battles, wanted to sink into one of these worn booths and just... exist.

Maybe that's what Sheriff Thompson had seen last night - not just another rich asshole breaking his speed limits, but someone running on empty, needing a place to refuel.

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