Page 25 of Where the Fields Don’t Reach

September 2026

Tuesday – 8:54 am

The Cane County Sheriff’s Department occupied the first floor of a sandstone building on Magnolia Street. The structure had been a bank in its first life and a feed store in its second. The county clerks had taken the upper level in a renovation ten years back, and the sheriff’s department had remained on the ground floor, leaving Hadley to merely push through the glass entrance to reach her destination. She walked past the elevator, which seemed to predate the makeover, with the cardboard cup carrier balanced in her left hand and her keys in her right.

The reception window just inside the entrance was manned by a woman in her late fifties whom Hadley had met once before, in the days after Reed’s death. Doris Pemberton wore reading glasses on a beaded chain around her neck and a department-issued polo shirt one size too large for her. She glanced up from her keyboard before a welcoming smile lit up her face.

“Chief Dawkins,” Doris said as she reached up and removed her glasses. “I didn’t expect to see you in Emberwood this morning. Is the sheriff expecting you?”

“He isn’t, Doris,” Hadley admitted, lifting the cup carrier slightly in front of her chest. “I was hoping to catch him for a few minutes, though. I brought coffee.”

“That’ll do it,” Doris replied with a knowing laugh. She buzzed Hadley through the security door with a push of a button under the counter. “He’s in his office. Pull the door closed behind you if you want any privacy. The boys can hear everything through these paper-thin walls.”

The bullpen sat behind the reception window in a long rectangular room with eight desks, four against each long wall, lit by fluorescent overheads. Two deputies were at their desks. The first was a young man, maybe two years out of the academy, with a buzz cut and a uniform that still appeared starched. The nameplate on the corner of his desk read DEP. BRADY HOLT. He glanced up at Hadley as she crossed the chipped tiles and nodded once her way.

The second deputy was a woman in her mid-thirties with her hair pulled back in a low bun and the weathered face of someone who had worked a foot beat in real weather. DEP. CARLA STRICKLAND was engraved into her nameplate. She was on the phone, taking notes longhand on a yellow legal pad, and she lifted two fingers in greeting.

Hadley returned both acknowledgments as she continued toward the open door at the far end. Nick’s office was set in the back corner of the floor, with a window facing the side street running along the south side of the building. The door stood open, but Hadley still knocked once on the frame before stepping in.

Nick was at his desk with a stack of incident reports in front of him and what appeared to be a half-empty mug of office coffee at his elbow. He shifted his gaze when she stepped in. His surprise at her appearance was evident.

He was a broad-chested man with dark hair and a jawline that hadn’t been shaved since at least yesterday. The lines around his eyes had formed more from weather and laughter than age, and the slight bump across the bridge of his nose suggested it had been broken once.

“Hadley.” Nick’s gaze dropped to the drink carrier. “Please tell me one of those is for me.”

“Black, no sugar.” Hadley pulled the second coffee out of the carrier as she crossed to his desk. She handed it to him. “You’re always complaining about the coffee here, so I figured a little pick-me-up might be in order.”

“Doris brews it strong enough to dissolve a spoon,” Nick replied wryly, lifting the lid on the cup and taking the first appreciative sip. “I keep telling her to ease up. She keeps telling me I’ll thank her in the long run.”

He tossed the lid in the small trash bin next to his desk. She did the same with the drink carrier, holding on to her own coffee as she took a seat in one of the guest chairs. She pressed her lips together as she made herself comfortable. She should have bought the ChapStick at the cafe when she’d had the chance.

Her gaze drifted to the framed photograph on the corner of Nick’s desk, angled just enough for her to make out the faces. The picture had been taken last spring, judging by Emma Turner’s age. She was nine now. In the photo, she stood on what appeared to be a back porch, in a pink leotard and a small tutu, her hands raised in a pose with Nick kneeling beside her. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt rather than the uniform, and the smile on his face exuded pride.

“How’s Emma?” Hadley asked, nodding toward the photograph.

Nick followed her gaze to the picture, and the same exact smile from the photograph found its way onto his face in real time.

“She turned nine in April.” Nick shook his head as if he couldn’t believe that time could pass by so quickly. “Her dance recital is in six weeks. She’s going to be a sunflower this year, which apparently requires a costume that costs twice what last year’s costume cost, but I’m told this is part of being a dance dad.”

The custody arrangement with his ex-wife, Karen, had been settled for about nine months. The legal back-and-forth had run on both sides of the dispute for most of last spring, and the settlement had taken Nick’s stress level down with it. He was more relaxed now than he had been at any point in the previous year. The handoffs in the Walmart parking lot were gone. The child support was fixed. And the constant renegotiation of which weekends he got with Emma had stopped, which was the part that mattered most to him.

“How’s your brother?” Nick asked as he leaned back, catching her slightly off guard. She should have assumed turnabout was fair play. “Things going okay for you on that front?”

“Mason is doing all right,” Hadley replied before taking a sip of her own coffee. She debated how much to share. “He’s building furniture and selling some pieces at the Bram County market until the settlement money comes in.”

Her response wasn’t exactly what he’d asked her, but he didn’t push for more. She appreciated his restraint. It was extremely difficult for her to speak about her relationship with Mason. To put her emotions into words.

“You’ve never brought me a coffee on a random Tuesday morning, Hadley. What did Warren Caldwell do now?”

Hadley relaxed a little, settling back in the chair. His question had her smiling, and this was a conversation she could have without weighing every word. As it stood, Doris’s previous statement had been turning over in Hadley’s mind ever since she’d entered Nick’s office.

What had she truly meant by closing the door for privacy?

“Before we get to Warren,” Hadley said, ignoring the subtle implication that her relationship with Nick might be more than merely professional, “I have a question about the Telfort case I’d like to put to you first.”

Nick frowned, but he nodded for her to proceed.

“Do you recall a trench coat being recovered from the property?” Hadley asked over the ringing of his phone. He reached out and pressed a button to quiet the noise. “Or any coat, for that matter?”