He’s waiting by your truck when your shift ends—hat low, arms crossed, posture stiff like he’s trying not to jump to conclusions. But his eyes are sharp, watching your every move as you walk up.

“You always this calm when someone goes missing?”

You don’t stop walking. Just unlock the door and toss your bag inside. But you can feel his gaze like it’s burning through your back.

“Depends who went missing.”

That makes him pause. And then he lets out a quiet breath, like you’ve just confirmed something he didn’t want to believe.

“Look. I know she was your best friend. I know what kind of man her husband was. Hell, half the county knows. She came in with bruises more than once, said she fell. But you never believed that. Did you?”

You finally face him, jaw tight, face unreadable.

“What are you asking me, Beau?”

He stares at you for a long time—like he’s trying to decide if he’s talking to someone he used to care about, or someone he’s suddenly a little afraid of.

“She files for divorce, tells you he’s been sneaking around with some waitress, then two days later he disappears without a trace. His truck’s abandoned, no witnesses, no camera footage. Just gone.”

You say nothing. Just raise an eyebrow like it’s the weather he’s reporting on, not a missing man and a marriage gone to hell.

“You think I did something to him?”

Beau’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t answer right away.

“I think you’re the only one who ever stood up for her. And I think if someone were to get justice when the system failed her… it’d be you.”

A long pause stretches between you. You can hear the wind whistling through the empty lot behind the diner.

“Well,” you murmur, brushing past him toward the driver’s side door, “no body, no crime. Right, Sheriff?”

His eyes follow you. Hard. Curious. Torn.

“…Right.”