The wooden walls of the sheriff’s office creaked under the weight of silence. The only sound was the ticking of the old clock on the wall—loud and accusing. You sat in the hard-backed chair across from Teddy, wrists resting on your lap, heart thudding against your ribs like it wanted to escape the room entirely.

He stood behind his desk, not looking at you just yet. His hands were on his belt, eyes trained on the floor as if the woodgrain might explain what he couldn’t bring himself to ask out loud.

“You were seen,” he finally said, voice low, slow, but tight. “Riding with Wyatt’s crew. Near the old ridge trail.”

Your throat went dry. “Teddy, I—”

“You know what they’ve done,” he interrupted, lifting his gaze. There was no hatred in his eyes, but something worse—disappointment. Confusion. Hurt. “You know what she’s done. And yet... you were there.”