Page 10 of The County Line
The short drive to my duplex is like everything else in Whitewood Creek—scenic, picturesque, idyllic. At least on the surface. But if you’ve lived here long enough, you know where the cracks start to show. The places the mayor tries to keep hidden, the quiet struggles that don’t make it on to the postcard version of town.
Even so, Whitewood Creek has held on to its small-town charm. People still wave when they pass by, still show up when you need them. It’s the kind of place where doors stay unlocked, where folks offer a helping hand without being asked.
I smile as I watch out the window as the scenery whizzes by. My thoughts drift back to Colt easily as I recall his surprise at seeing me. He’s different now—bigger, stronger, the sharp angles of hisface even more defined. The buzz cut and tattoos make him look tougher, more hardened. They were stories, warnings, shields etched into his skin—covering his arms, hands, and knuckles. Every inch of skin that was exposed seemed to be covered. But his hazel eyes? They’re the same. Warm and familiar, pulling me back to the boy I once knew. He’d always been handsome, but now? Now he’s the kind of good-looking that steals your breath, that makes people stop and stare.
I wonder if being home feels like freedom to him—or just another kind of confinement. If prison left scars deeper than the ones I can see.
And why didn’t Regan tell me he was home?
I pull into the narrow driveway of the duplex I share with my elusive neighbors, who are as strange as they are private. Every time I’ve tried to introduce myself, they’ve darted inside like I’m carrying the plague. I think there are two of them, but occasionally a third person comes and goes. It’s hard to say for sure. Their beat up van is home when I leave for work in the morning and when I come home at night. I try not think about what it is that they’re doing next door.
I note that Regan’s car is already parked in the driveway, but she isn’t inside it.
“How the—? How the hell did you get in here?” I ask, dropping my bag of shears on to the front steps as I enter the home. Half the gummy worms I’d bought are already gone, their crinkly bag hanging loosely between two fingers.
Regan shrugs, smirking as she reaches out and plucks one from the bag. She pops it into her mouth with a grin as she carefully paints another coat of sage green on the trim of my living room wall. “I have four brothers, and did you forget how we used to break into homes when we were younger?”
I nod because that’s explanation enough.
“Well, thanks for getting started without me. It’s already looking good.” My eyes scan what she’s done and how the green brings life to this room.
“Thanks!” she chirps with a smile before planting her hands on her hips.
“So… Were you ever going to tell me that Colt was back?” The words tumble out, edged with a hint of frustration. It was, without a doubt, the shock of my life. Sure, I’ve always admired him, but it’s been years since I’ve thought about him. He’d always held a special place in my heart and my memories, but seeing him today? It was like a punch to the gut I didn’t know I needed.
He’d always had a wild streak like Maverick, but he’d been the smarter one out of their duet. The one who I never thought would get in serious trouble. Prison has clearly changed him, forged him into something new.
I know I shouldn’t be thinking about him like this. He’s my brother’s best friend, my best friend Regan's twin brother, and a convicted felon. And I’m supposed to be the law-abiding one, sworn to protect and serve. It’s a web too tangled to even attempt to unravel. Besides, he’s always treated me like I was a fragile kid that he needed to protect, not as equals.
But that didn’t stop me from checking out his ass when he walked away with Roxy today.
Regan shrugs, her expression annoyingly casual. “It was a last-minute decision. He wasn’t supposed to be released until April, but the date got pushed up.”
“Are you not…I don’t know, excited? Wouldn't you rather be catching up with him than painting right now?” I stretch out thebag of gummy worms to her again as she takes another, popping it in her mouth absentmindedly as she stares out the window of my new home.
“I think he hates me." She puffs out a deep breath.
I step back, furrowing my brows at my tiny, fiery friend. Regan and I have known each other for two decades, even though we’ve spent the last one apart. She'd been shy and a bit reserved when we were younger, but after coming back from college, she’d broken out of her tight shell. Something had shifted inside of her, she’d shared. She'd found herself out from under living with her four brothers and father on the family farm.
“That’s not true. It’d be impossible for him to hate you.”
She shakes her head, dipping her brush back into the paint and returning to the steady strokes against the wall. “I wouldn’t blame him if he did. I mean, I didn’t visit him. Not even once. Four and a half years in prison, and I couldn’t bring myself to see him in those conditions.”
Her confession hangs heavy in the air, and I watch as the brush she’s using glides back and forth. The old, dingy gray paint covered in scratch marks slowly disappears under a bright, cheerful new color.
I don’t want to make her feel worse, but Colt isn’t just her brother—he’s her twin. They’ve been inseparable since birth, the kind of siblings who shared every secret. Even if I'd been in town during that time, I’d have made an effort to visit him. Especially for what I’d heard was a wrongful conviction.
“Not even once?” I ask, softly.
Regan slams the brush down, hard. Paint splatters across the drop cloth like an inkblot test of her guilt. “Sorry,” she mutters as she wipes her forehead with her sleeve.
“It’s okay. Really, it’s fine,” I assure her quickly.
Regan isn’t someone who gets upset easily. She’s always been the upbeat one in every room, the kind of person whose joy is contagious. She used to make up holidays for us to celebrate. Silly ones likewalk backwards day,andtry something new and scary,day.
Seeing her like this? It’s jarring. I step closer, wrapping my arms around her tightly and brushing her dark, auburn hair with my hand. “He doesn’t hate you, Regan. I promise. But you do need to talk to him. I’ve worked with formerly incarcerated people before, and the thing they need most is to feel like they’ve got people in their corner. He needs you—your friendship, your trust. Especially now.”
She nods against my shoulder, her thick hair brushing against my face as she exhales a heavy sigh, her entire body sinking into the hug. “I know. I will. But... will you come with me? He’s always liked you a lot. Maybe you can break the ice. I don’t even know where to start.”
