Page 7 of Saved By the Ex-Military Sheriff

I spend the next hour doing paperwork that doesn't need my immediate attention, trying to focus on budget reports and shift schedules. My mind keeps drifting back to Lyla. To the way she wrapped both hands around that coffee mug like she needed something to hold onto. To the stack of design magazines in her cottage, the laptop open on the kitchen table, the evidence of a life she's trying to build here.

To the fact that Trevor found her anyway.

At two o'clock I give up pretending I'm accomplishing anything useful.

"I'm heading out," I tell Ethan.

"Let me guess. Welfare check?"

"Community policing."

"Right. That what we're calling it now?"

I flip him off on my way out the door.

The drive back to Maple Ridge feels longer than it should.

The October afternoon is clear and bright, leaves turning gold and red in the trees, the kind of day that usually makes me glad I came back to Bloomfield. Today I'm just impatient to get there.

When I pull into her driveway, I see her through the window. She's at the small kitchen table with her laptop open, chewing on her thumbnail and staring at the screen like it personally offended her.

I knock, and she startles badly enough that I feel guilty.

She opens the door wearing leggings and an oversized burgundy sweater that hangs off one shoulder. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy knot, and she's barefoot.

"Hi," she says, and there's surprise in her voice but not wariness.

"Hi. Just wanted to check in, make sure everything's okay."

She studies me for a second, and I can see her trying to figure out if this is normal sheriff behavior or something else. Then she steps back from the door.

"You want to come in? I just made coffee. Well, I made it an hour ago, but it's probably still drinkable."

"Yeah. Thanks."

The cottage is warmer than it was earlier, the wood stove giving off steady heat. Her laptop is still open on the table, some kind of design software on screen with logos in various stages of completion.

She pours two mugs of coffee and hands me one.

"You want to sit on the porch?" she asks. "It's nice out."

We end up in two weathered chairs on the front porch, the afternoon sun filtering through the trees. It's cool but not cold, and the air smells like pine and earth and autumn.

She tucks her legs up under her and wraps both hands around her mug, looking out at the woods.

"This is nice," I say after a minute.

"It is. I thought I wanted the isolation when I rented this place. Now I'm not so sure."

"Second-guessing it?"

"A little. It felt safe when I first got here. Now it just feels far away from everything."

I take a sip of coffee. It's not great, but it's hot. "How long have you been in Bloomfield?"

"Three days now." She glances at me. "Not very long."

"What made you pick here?"