Page 52 of The Worst Possible Plan

Ten seconds later, I found myself slowing at the intersection that led toward downtown. My hands stayed loose on the steering wheel, but my eyes drifted toward the left-turn lane before I consciously realized they had. I frowned at the windshield.

“What the hell am I doing?”

I let out a slow breath. I should go home. Take a shower. Get some sleep. Tomorrow was festival day, which meant I’d probably spend twelve straight hours dealing with parking complaints, lost children, noise complaints, and at least one person convinced somebody else had stolen their lawn chair. If history was any indication, I’d also get at least three questions that had absolutely nothing to do with law enforcement. Where’s the nearest ATM? Did anyone turn in my sunglasses? Can you settle an argument about whether alpacas spit because they’re happy? Small towns had a way of making the sheriff responsible for everything except the weather. Even that was occasionally negotiable.

Instead, my turn signal clicked.

Left.

I looked at it, surprised. “When did that happen?” My hand was still resting on the steering wheel exactly where it’d been five seconds earlier, which meant I’d made an executive decision without inviting the rest of me to the meeting.

That was the story I was going with. It was either that or admit I was voluntarily driving toward the woman my poker buddies had spent two hours teasing me about, and I wasn’t giving them the satisfaction. Even if they weren’t there to witness it, somehow they’d still know. Middle-aged men had an unsettling instinct for these things.

Three minutes later I rolled slowly down Main Road. The tires hummed softly over familiar pavement, storefronts reflecting across the windshield as I passed the bakery, the bookstore, and the little barber shop that still closed every Thursday because Frank insisted fishing was good for business, somehow.

The café lights Hartwell and the volunteers had hung glowed warmly above the empty square, swaying gently in the breeze. They cast soft pools of golden light across the sidewalks, making the whole place look less like a construction zone and more like the postcard Maplewood Falls liked to pretend it always was.

It looked… good. Better than I expected. Better than it had any right to after the last two days. Somehow the scattered ladders, tangled extension cords, panicked volunteers, and wandering livestock had transformed into something people would actually want to visit.

The food trucks sat where they belonged. Barricades were stacked neatly. Vendor tents waited for morning. Even the flower pots looked better.

I wasn’t about to spend time figuring out why.

She’d done it.

Or at least she’d gotten a whole lot closer than I’d expected forty-eight hours ago.

She hadn’t quit. I respected that.

I smiled to myself. It wasn’t a big smile. Just enough to surprise me when I caught my reflection in the windshield.

That needed to stop.

Then movement caught my eye behind the community center.

The animal pen.

I eased my foot off the accelerator out of instinct, habit, or curiosity. Probably all three. Anything moving around temporary fencing the night before a festival automatically earned a second look.

A figure sat on a hay bale inside the enclosure.

Blonde hair. Surrounded by animals. Talking to them like they were old friends.

It should’ve seemed odd. Instead, it seemed... about right.

I pulled the truck against the curb and shut off the engine. The silence settled around me almost immediately, broken only by the breeze stirring the leaves and the soft ticking of the cooling engine.

What was she doing there? Probably checking the animals. Responsible.

Good.

I climbed out, closing the door carefully behind me. Years on patrol had taught me how to move without announcing myself.

The evening air carried salt water, fresh-cut grass, and hay from the temporary pens. A light breeze moved through the square. It was quiet. Finally.

I walked toward the fencing. Not because of Hartwell. Because the sheriff checked on things. Temporary animal enclosures. Gates. Fencing. Public safety. If that inspection happened to include one slightly chaotic event planner sitting in the middle of a petting zoo after dark… well, that was purely coincidental. Or at least that was the explanation I intended to stick with.

Especially temporary animal enclosures. That was all.