Page 64 of Redeeming Melodies

Liam's handwriting shook across the page: "Found him by the old stable. So much blood."

Caleb's statement read steadier, but the coffee stains on the corner told their own story: "Security camera caught movement at 2:47 AM. Night guard heard something at 3:02 AM."

Fifteen minutes. Fifteen fucking minutes where Jimmy lay bleeding while his attacker walked away.

My coffee had gone cold, third cup forgotten like the others. The clock on my wall ticked past midnight, each second taking Jimmy further from whoever he was before someone decided to crack his skull open.

A knock cut through my dark thoughts. Smith stood in the doorway, manila envelope in one hand, flash drive in the other. Good kid, Smith. Steady. Reliable. Everything a deputy should be.

"Got something, Sheriff." He crossed to my desk, movements careful like he was delivering explosives instead of evidence. "Footage from Nina's, plus statements from every bartender on shift."

The flash drive felt heavy as I plugged it into my computer. Smith hovered, hands clasped behind his back - parade rest, old military habit he never quite broke.

"Show me."

The video quality sucked, but Nina's parking lot appeared in grainy black and white. Timestamp read 11:47 PM. Jimmy sat at the bar, nursing what looked like his usual whiskey neat. Nothing unusual there.

Then someone slid onto the stool beside him.

"Wait." I leaned closer, something cold settling in my gut. "Can you enhance that?"

Smith was already typing, zooming in on the stranger's face. Except-

"Son of a bitch."

Not a stranger at all. That scar - the one that curved from temple to jaw like a question mark - I'd seen it every day for the past two years. Across the briefing room. In the break room. At every morning meeting.

Ramirez.

My deputy.

"Sir?" Smith's voice sounded distant. “Isn’t that?”

"Ramirez." The word tasted like ash. "Keep playing."

The footage rolled on. Jimmy and Ramirez talked, body language growing tenser by the minute. At one point, Ramirez leaned in close - threatening or conspiring, couldn't tell which. Jimmy pushed back from the bar, stood unsteadily.

12:03 AM: Jimmy stumbled toward the exit.

12:04 AM: Ramirez followed, casual as a fucking shadow.

12:05 AM: Both disappeared from frame.

"There's more." Smith pulled up another video - street camera this time. "Two blocks over."

Jimmy weaved down the sidewalk. Ramirez trailed fifteen feet behind, phone pressed to his ear. Making a call? Receiving orders?

"Got the cell records?"

Smith nodded, sliding another paper across my desk. "Tower pinged Ramirez's phone moving from Nina's toward the ranch between midnight and one AM. Then nothing until 3:30 AM when it reactivated near his house."

Dead zone. Or a burner phone.

My hands curled into fists, nails biting into palms. Two years. Two fucking years Ramirez had sat across from me at briefings, joked about coffee runs, been part of this department. This town.

"Phone records show multiple calls to a number in New York." Smith kept his voice neutral, professional. "Started about a month ago, increased in frequency last week."

New York. Jimmy's old stomping grounds before Oakwood Grove.

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