Page 7 of Torgash

"Sheriff Nova Reyes," Helen continues, apparently oblivious to the sudden tension. "Meet Ash and Diesel from the Ironborn MC."

Diesel rises smoothly. He’s about Ash's age but built leaner, with an easy grin that makes his tusks look almost friendly. Where Ash is all focused intensity, this one radiates warmth. He extends his hand with a genuine welcome. "Sheriff. Welcome to Shadow Ridge."

I shake his hand, surprised by how my fingers disappear in his grip. His skin is deep green like pine trees, with gold flecks scattered across his knuckles. The firm handshake grounds me, even as I note how he studies my face. "Thank you."

Ash sets his coffee down with deliberate care but doesn't stand. Doesn't offer his hand. Just looks at me with the kind of careful stare that misses nothing.

"We've met," he says simply.

Helen's eyebrows shoot up. "Oh! Well, that's wonderful. I forgot you mentioned—"

"Briefly," I cut in, my voice steady despite the heat crawling up my neck. "Official capacity."

"Of course." Diesel's tone is diplomatic, but there's genuine curiosity there. "We should probably sit down soon and discuss coordinating efforts. The club's been helping maintain order inShadow Ridge for almost two years now. Might be beneficial to talk strategy so we don’t overlap.”

It's not really a suggestion. It's a polite way of saying we need to talk about territory, about who's really in charge here, about whether I'm a threat they need to neutralize.

Ash finally speaks, his voice low and even. "Wouldn't want to step on any toes."

The words are innocent enough, but there's something underneath them—a challenge, maybe, or a warning. Our eyes lock, and for a heartbeat, I'm back in that parking lot, remembering the way he'd looked at me like he was deciding whether I was prey or predator.

"I'm sure we can find a way to work together," I manage, then look at Diesel. "I'll be in touch."

I turn to leave, but Helen's not done. "Oh, and Sheriff? The boys do a lot of good around here. Community outreach, keeping troublemakers in line. You'll see."

"I'm sure I will," I say, not looking back at Ash.

But I feel his attention on me all the way to the door, and this time it feels less like dismissal and more like evaluation.

Or a threat.

I'm not sure there's a difference.

The Shadow Ridge Sheriff's Office sits just off the main highway on the opposite end of town from Greene's. The sign out front still reads "Sheriff R. Dawson" in faded letters, another item on my growing list of things nobody bothered to fix.

I push through the front door. The smell hits me first—stale coffee, old paperwork, and something damp. Recycled air that's been circulating too long in a place that's slowly falling apart.

"Morning, Sheriff." Deputy Santos looks up from the front desk, with dark circles under his eyes. He's maybe thirty, with a compact build, the kind of cop who keeps his head down and does his job without asking uncomfortable questions.

"Santos." I nod toward the empty desk beside his. "Still no word from Morris?"

"No ma'am. Three days now." He doesn't meet my eyes when he says it, finding something fascinating about the duty roster instead. "I've been covering his patrol sectors, but—"

"But you can't be two places at once." I study his profile, noting the tension in his jaw. "Any idea where he might be?"

Santos shrugs, the gesture unconvincing. “Morris keeps to himself. Could be sick, could be fishing. Could be anywhere."

Morris isn't sick or fishing, and we both know it. The question is whether Santos is protecting him or is scared of him. Either way, this is exactly the kind of casual insubordination Dawson must have tolerated. I won't be making the same mistake.

"When Deputy Morris decides to check in, have him report to me directly."

Santos nods in understanding.

I head to my office, leaving Santos to his reports. After a week of sorting through what GBI left behind, one thing's clear—Dawson took anything that mattered and left me with scraps.

I settle into my chair—springs shot, upholstery cracked—and start sorting through what's left. Traffic citations from two years ago. Property dispute forms with no resolution notes. Incident reports that stop mid-sentence, as if whoever wrote them simply gave up.

But what's missing tells the real story. There are no arrest records for the past six months, investigation files on any of the foreclosures plaguing the county, or documentation ofthe corruption everyone whispers about but nobody wants to elaborate on.

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