Page 9

"Sounds like a good sister."

"She is."

A breeze moves through the trees, scattering leaves across the driveway. Somewhere in the distance a dog barks. It's peaceful in a way I haven't experienced in a long time. Just sitting here with someone, not needing to fill the silence.

"Can I ask you something?" Lyla says after a while.

"Yeah."

"What happens now? With Trevor. Does he just leave and that's it?"

"If he's smart, yeah. But guys like him usually aren't smart. They're persistent." I turn to look at her. "I'll keep an eye out. Make sure he actually left town. And if he shows up again, we'll handle it."

"How?"

"Arrest him, restraining order... Whatever it takes to make sure he leaves you alone."

"And if that doesn't work?"

"It'll work."

She looks at me like she's trying to decide whether to believe me. "You sound very sure."

"I am sure."

"Why?"

Because I'm not going to let him hurt you. Because I've only known you for a few hours and I'm already thinking about you in ways I shouldn't be. Because something about you makes me want to step between you and anything that might hurt you.

I don't say any of that.

"Because it's my job," I say instead.

She nods slowly, and I can see her processing that. Then she sets her mug down and stands up.

"You want to show me the town?" she asks. "I've only seen Main Street and Ray's store. If I'm going to stay here, I should probably know where things are."

"You sure you want me as a tour guide?"

"Unless you have better things to do."

I think about the paperwork waiting at the station, the budget reports and shift schedules and emails I'm supposed to answer. Then I look at Lyla standing there in her too-big sweater with her hair falling out of its knot, and I make a decision.

"No," I say. "Nothing better than this."

The drive into town takes about ten minutes. I point out landmarks as we pass them. The turn for the hiking trails that wind up into the mountains. The old church that's been here since the eighteen hundreds. The elementary school where I went as a kid. She asks questions about everything, and I answer them, and it feels easy in a way I didn't expect.

When we hit Main Street, it's busier than this morning. A few cars parked outside the diner, people walking in and out of shops, the afternoon sun casting everything in warm light.

"It really is like a postcard," Lyla says, looking out the window.

"Wait until you see it in full autumn. Another week or two and the mountains will be covered in color."

I show her the library, the town hall, the small park with the gazebo where they host concerts in summer. The fire station run by volunteers, half of whom I went to high school with. She's paying attention, asking follow-up questions, and I realize she's not just being polite. She's actually interested.

"You hungry?" I ask when we've made a full loop back to Main Street.

"Starving, actually."