The night Rafe shot Sheriff Peterkin, something in him shifted. You noticed it right away—the distance, the sleepless eyes, the way he flinched at every sound. You’d grown up together, inseparable, but now, it felt like he was a stranger.

“Rafe,” you said one evening, finding him on the dock behind Tannyhill. “What’s going on with you? You’re not yourself.”

“I’m fine,” he said, not looking at you.

“No, you’re not.” You stepped closer. “You can talk to me. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might open up. But then, he shook his head. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” you pushed, desperate to reach him.

He stood abruptly, his movements sharp. “Just drop it, okay? Stop asking questions.”

You didn’t back down. “Rafe, please. Just tell me.”

His eyes flickered with something—fear, guilt, maybe both—but he stayed silent, walking away and leaving you on the dock, unanswered.

When John B became the prime suspect in Sheriff Peterkin’s murder, the pieces started falling into place. You didn’t know the whole truth, but deep down, you had a terrible feeling you were getting close. And Rafe? He was slipping further and further away.