Page 22 of Protector of Talon Mountain

Hal’s face closes up. Not defensive. Guarded. There’s a difference.

“Look,” he says, folding his hands together. “We’ve had… tensions in the past. A few folks with bad habits. I’m not denying something’s been brewing. But unless you’ve got bodies or a name, I can’t run to the state police with trail dust and ghost stories.”

I nod once, slow. File him under what he just told me without saying a word—complicit or scared. Maybe both. Either way, I can’t trust him. Not yet.

I leave without another word. I’ve learned over the years—truth rarely comes from confrontation. It’s what people do when they think you’ve stopped looking that gives them away.

Back out on the street, the wind’s sharper, the sky already tipping toward gray. Another storm is coming. I feel it in my bones.

I should head to the ridge again. Push farther west. But my boots turn toward the café, not because I need coffee, but because she’s there. I don’t make excuses. I don’t explain myself. And I sure as hell don’t ask permission.

I walk the perimeter twice. Slow. Purposeful. Not hurried. Just visible enough that anyone watching will know—she’s not alone. Not anymore.

The people in this town will start noticing—if they haven’t already. A woman at the gas station watches me from behind the glass, lips pressed thin. She doesn’t smile, doesn’t nod, just stares.

Joe narrows his eyes as he fills two five-gallon containers while I walk by. “You sure do a lot of walking, Sheriff,” he says, toothpick shifting between his teeth. “Might give folks the idea you’re sniffing around where you don’t belong.”

"Maybe I am," I say.

He takes the toothpick from his mouth and spits to one side. "And maybe you oughta leave well enough alone."

He heads inside without another word. I make a note of the boots he’s wearing. Same tread I saw in the snow by Sadie’s alley two nights ago.

A teenager riding his bike slows down when he sees me standing across from the café’s front door. Even Ada, the librarian, squints out from behind her owl-patterned scarf as she walks past, her expression unreadable.

Good. Let them whisper. Let them wonder if I’m staying too close, watching too long, standing too still. I am.

Something’s off in this town. Because I can’t shake the tension that settled in me last night after I dropped Sadie off, that stayed through the night, through the morning, through every minute I spent walking Glacier Hollow like I already owned it.

She’s under my skin now. Not like a distraction. Not like weakness, more like a reason. I’d never thought I’d have another reason. I thought I’d come up here and hide—knock a few heads together on Saturday night and lose myself in the Alaskan wilderness.

At noon, I take a slow loop around the café’s back alley and stop near the dumpster. A cigarette butt lies half-buried in the snow. Still fresh. No lipstick, so not hers. Sadie doesn’t smoke.

I scan the fence line. Tracks. Barely visible, leading out toward the trees behind the row of buildings. Someone’s been watching. Or worse—circling.

I mark it. Mental note. I take out my cell phone and take a picture. Putting my phone back in my pocket, I file it under the same list I keep in my head—things I’ll deal with when the time comes.

The café door swings open and two people who look like locals walk out hand-in-hand as I approach the front. Sadie stands behind the counter, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hands dusted with flour. She looks up, sees me through the glass, and something flickers behind her eyes. Not surprise. Something more dangerous. Relief.

She doesn’t wave. Doesn’t smile. Just holds my gaze like she knows exactly why I’m here, and she’s not about to ask me to stop; she won’t have to. I won’t stop until it’s done.

The sky’s gone heavy by the time I loop back toward the café again. Wind cutting lower, carrying that dry bite that always comes before real cold. Main Street’s half-dead—just a few lights still burning, a couple of trucks parked in front of the bar, and the flicker of static from the bait shop’s old TV bouncing off the window glass.

I see her before she sees me. Sadie stands just inside the doorway, her back to the street, apron already off, her hair pulled back tighter than usual. She’s moving slowly, deliberately. The way people do when they’re pretending they’re not tired. When they’re used to doing everything alone.

She shuts off the front light. Turns the lock. I move across the street, slow and silent. She doesn’t jump when she sees me, but her breath catches. Just enough for me to clock it.

“You walking home?” I ask, voice low.

She hesitates. Not out of fear. Out of calculation. “It’s only four blocks,” she says.

“Too far.”

She crosses her arms. “You offering me a ride?”

“No.” I keep my eyes on hers. “I’ll walk you.”

Her lips twitch like she wants to challenge me, but doesn’t quite get the words out fast enough. “You’re not asking, are you?”

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