Page 1 of An Unfinished Memory

One

Wilder

Saturday nights used to be for drinking, fishing, or fucking, depending on my age and marital status. At almost forty and newly divorced, I wasn’t doing any of the three. I was on the doorstep of an elderly couple, two people who’d known me my entire life and had lived in this small, square home since before I was born, and the guy looked at me like he’d never seen me before.

Saturday nights could be goddamn depressing these days.

I tucked my trusty ballpoint pen in my uniform shirt pocket. “All right, Mr. McCormick. I’ll keep an eye out and give you a call. Don’t worry, we’ll find your truck.”

Guy McCormick’s lined face was drawn, worry thick in his eyes. “Thank you, Deputy Knight. Maybe I can?—”

“No, sir.” I didn’t need an elderly man with dementia roaming town for a pickup that was sold years ago. “Thebest thing you can do is stay here. I need to know where I can reach you in case I find it.”

Delilah, his wife, nodded and tugged at his arm. “Go sit by the phone, Guy. I’ll show the deputy out.”

Guy turned into the house. He stopped and nodded in my direction. “Thank you, Wilder.”

Just like that, I was back to being Wilder to him. One of the Knight boys. To him, I was probably still eighteen and racing too fast through town in an old ranch truck. To be fair, I could still be that guy, only I could get away with it now.

“Sure thing.” I stepped back, and Delilah crowded onto the stoop with me. The top of her silver-haired head didn’t come to my armpits, but she looked at me as if I was nothing more than the four-foot-tall little boy who skipped a rock right into her camper window.

She glanced behind her. Guy disappeared around a wall. The kitchen and their landline was on the other side. I could picture him at the mighty oak dining room table, waiting for a report from me. Later, Delilah would coax him into bed, and in the morning, he’d forget about thinking his pickup was gone.

“When do you want me to call?” I asked her. Sometimes a call reassuring Guy we were in full investigation mode calmed him. I usually checked with Delilah. She knew him best and how these episodes went.

She shook her head and squeezed her eyes closed for a heartbeat. “God, I don’t know, Wilder. In five minutes, he might forget about it all and remember why the pickup’s gone.”

Or he might go out and search for the vehicle. Our little slice of Montana was in full summer, but an elderly man shouldn’t be wandering the county searching for apickup he hadn’t owned for years. Delilah used to go with him, but after he harassed an unfamiliar teen boy who was in town visiting relatives, she tried to keep him home.

There were times Guy still confronted me about that window I busted. I’d paid for a thirty-year-old broken window five times in the last three years. The next day Delilah would always return the money. The best way to deal with Guy was with routine. Guy had Delilah. Delilah had me.

I had this job. “Shoot me a message or call dispatch. Let me know what you need me to do.”

She let out a gusty sigh. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Her pale-blue eyes misted over. “This is so damn hard.”

I gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. Delilah was a proud woman, and she didn’t want a fuss made when she teared up. “You know how to reach me.”

I got back into my black SUV with the standard word “Sheriff” emblazoned across the side. I wasn’t the sheriff. If I was, I’d have today off, and I wouldn’t be watching the clock. I’d have seen my niece and nephew perform their second-annual dance recital instead of missing it when I said I’d be there. My oldest brother Cody’s new wife was doing a dance number, too, and given she was seven months pregnant, I would’ve liked to have seen that. I would’ve liked to have seen Cody’s reaction to watching her. The guy was stupid in love, and I never thought I’d see him so happy. Which sucked to say when he was a widower, but he and his first wife had been more like resigned partners, and when she passed away, I’d worried about him.

Now he was worried about me. My brothers wouldn’t tell me, but since my divorce, they texted more.They called. They left messages. My sister too. My siblings were a pain in the ass. Every one of them.

As I pulled away from the McCormicks’ place, my phone buzzed. Since it was my personal phone, I ignored it as I called in my encounter with dispatch.

When I was done, my phone buzzed again. I looked at the caller. Eliot, my youngest brother. “Yeah?” I answered, irritated because he was going to give me shit about missing the performance.

The drive to Crocus Valley was just under three hours. Two and a half with no pee breaks or road construction and going a few miles per hour over the limit.

“Where the hell are you?” he asked. Laughter filtered in from the background. My family. Having a great time.

“Working.”

“I thought you were coming?”

“I told you I had to work.” I was a broken record, but it was the truth. I didn’t have a job I could just walk away from.

“You’re missing the barbeque. What about the street dance?”

“I don’t know, man.” I checked the time again. Hadn’t I been making calculations in my head the entire day?If I left now, I could get to the recital. That time came and went.If I left now, I could make the family cookout.That time was rapidly passing.If I left now, I could make the street dance.To be determined.

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