wayne connell was on your case.

why you were deployed to this isolated rural town in the middle of nowhere was beyond you. as the head of the law enforcement department was on maternity leave, and your recent promotion to deputy hung over your head, obviously you were first in line to investigate concerning reports down yonder.

you had never harboured affection for villages of the close-knit and provincial sort—perhaps owing to your youth amongst superstitious grandmothers and unlimited access to the early internet, but the moment your car left the spry woods that separated the town from the looming mountains into the clear, every little woe seemed all the more familiar.

the fortnight went by in a blur. the report handed to you by your manager detailed a missing person’s case–laurel james and her unnamed roommate–having completely cut off contact to the outside work since their move. rogue university students were one thing, but the grim set of his brow when paper met hand told you that something else must have been at play.

that is why you met sheriff connell. he was to be your partner in inquiry, a son of the town who had presided over its folk for fifteen years or more—a tall, clean-cut figure in his late thirties, his gaze of steely azure fixed upon you with unnerving exactitude while mrs. williams fabricated deceptively welcoming anecdotes to distract you from the perpetual eerie feeling that shivered your timbers.

even after a month–fruitless, mind you–he remained an enigma to you. wayne was terse, clipped during your meetings, evidently convinced that you were more of a hindrance than a help. you also knew he spent his evenings in the local bar, every sunday with the congregation. he didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve by any means–honestly, it was more likely he’d dropped it down a gutter to eliminate a liability.

what confounded you most was not his reticence, but the stillness of the investigation. the man was competent, you were certain of it, yet no one around you appeared as if they wanted said incident to be anything but a cold case for the shelves. there was no missing the hushed whispers whenever you carried out your interviews, scoured the vacant property where the victims had resided.

and not to be a conspiracy theorist, your gut was telling you that the sheriff was attempting to divert your nosy self from the truth. the fences were too white for everything to appear as it seemed.

“–i’d wager a storm is rolling in. why don’t you clock out for the day.” wayne’s low voice carried across the small office, where you had been pouring over the work landline. dust flecked your uniform from your attic excursion, and it was a wonder that your sinuses hadn’t imploded.

the phone wasn’t working.

his hair was black and unruly, cut short at the sides but left longer on top, where it tumbled forward in storm-swept abandon. a loose strand slipped across his brow, giving him the look of someone who hadn’t bothered with polish but somehow managed to appear deliberate all the same. those electric blue eyes did not even bother raising from the monitor he had been pouring over.

his brows furrowed to himself, however, as you reached for the file cabinet. “take a hint, deputy. i don’t know what they’ve been telling you back home, but a case as…worrisome as this should be left to the professionals.” a pause marred the air, lingering with the acidity of cigarettes from the break room. “no rush to call your employers. if the signal is busted, it’s busted.”