Page 98 of The Worst Possible Plan

“I’ve got to check on something.” Technically true. Just strategically incomplete. Sheriffs occasionally specialized in carefully edited versions of the truth.

“The animals?” She didn’t even look surprised. Just curious enough to confirm the answer she already seemed fairly certain of.

“Yeah.” Again. Technically true. Also not the entire story. I’d become remarkably skilled at half-truths over the last twenty-four hours.

The corner of her mouth lifted—not smug, just knowing—enough to tell me she knew that wasn’t the whole truth. Jenna had spent too many years reading suspects, witnesses, victims, and fellow deputies to miss something as obvious as me.

She was smart enough not to say it, which I appreciated. Mostly because I wasn’t entirely ready to admit it out loud myself.

“Dr. Keller called,” she added before I reached the front door. “Everyone checked out healthy. They were picked up about twenty minutes ago.” She glanced down at a note beside her keyboard.

I stopped. My hand tightened around the keys before I even realized I’d done it. “Where’d they take them?”

“They’re staying temporarily at Hills Farm. Route Twelve.” She paused before adding, “Dr. Keller said the Petersons agreed to help until the handler finishes another job.”

I nodded once. Hills Farm. Route Twelve. My brain filed away both pieces of information before the rest of me had caught up.

“Thanks.”

Outside, the afternoon sun hit me square in the face, bright enough that I had to squint for a second. The parking lot shimmered with summer heat while somebody across the street unloaded fertilizer bags from the back of a pickup truck.

I climbed into my SUV, shut the door, and sat there for a second with both hands resting on the steering wheel. The familiar black leather felt reassuring beneath my palms, unlike the conversation currently taking place inside my head.

The engine wasn’t even running yet. Somehow that felt appropriate. My truck seemed to be waiting for me to decide where I actually intended to go.

The silence felt louder than the jail had. Funny how quiet worked. Sometimes it settled around you peacefully. Other times it seemed to ask uncomfortable questions you weren’t ready to answer.

I started the truck. The dashboard lit up as the engine turned over smoothly. The familiar rumble settled around me, and I backed out of the parking space, turning toward Route Twelve. Muscle memory took over while my mind wandered somewhere several miles behind the vehicle.

This wasn’t necessary. I repeated it with enough conviction that it almost sounded believable.

That’s what I kept telling myself. Over and over. Like repetition alone could somehow transform avoidance into wisdom.

The animals were safe. That part mattered. It genuinely did. Dr. Keller had checked them over. They weren’t hurt. They weren’t sick. They had somewhere to stay for now.

The handler wasn’t pressing charges. Another problem solved before it had the chance to become something much worse. Hartwell wouldn’t have a record. Dottie wouldn’t either. That should’ve been enough to let everyone move on.

Everything had been handled. Reports completed. Statements taken. Property recovered. From a law enforcement perspective, the file practically closed itself.

That’s what it should’ve been. One unusual incident among hundreds of others I’d dealt with over the years. Strange. Memorable. Finished.

Except it didn’t feel closed, mostly because every time I mentally stamped the word closed across the situation, Hartwell’s face appeared underneath it looking hurt, confused, and stubborn enough to ignore the stamp entirely.

Not even close. In fact, if I was finally being honest with myself… it felt like something had only just begun.

The tires hummed against the pavement as Main Road slipped past my windows. The familiar rhythm usually helped clear my head, but today it simply gave my mind something steady to argue over.

Hartwell occupied every second thought. Sometimes every thought. She’d somehow wedged herself into the spaces between routine and responsibility with alarming efficiency. I’d catch myself looking at the road and somehow end up remembering the way she’d laughed with the goat or rolled her eyes at me or looked completely horrified after kissing me.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. Not because the road required it. Because admitting that out loud—even if only to myself—felt dangerous.

This was exactly why I’d avoided getting involved for so long. Because eventually feelings stopped respecting schedules, common sense, or professional boundaries.

They became complicated. Nothing stayed neatly labeled once emotions got involved. Every simple answer suddenly acquired footnotes.

Things became messy. And unlike paperwork, there wasn’t a filing cabinet for messy.

I knew that better than most. Experience had a habit of teaching lessons you never particularly wanted.