Royce
“Iam really not happy with you,” Royce hissed as he and Raine crossed the street together.
The population of Rexville was somewhere around twelve to thirteen thousand. Of course, that didn’t include those who lived on unincorporated land around town; if the person tallying people counted those folks, it brought the number closer to twenty thousand. Rexville needed a sheriff, a couple of deputies, and a dedicated dispatch, but Royce didn’t want to be the one who dragged the office into the twenty-first century.
“You think you’re mad at me. But honestly, Royce, who else is qualified for the job?”
The Sheriff’s Office was housed in a squat one-story building across the street from the auto shop and two doors down from the Utopia Motel. From its windows, Royce would be able to see a good chunk of Main Street, including the town’s main bar, the Tainted Crown, which tended to be a trouble spot on weekends. The tavern also was often packed during tulip season, when tourists traveled to the region to view the colorful flowers and spend their money—granted, mostly in Bridgeton with its bigger, nicer everything, but some spilled over to Rexville.
After Raine had dangled the keys to his new-to-him office, Topher, Bishop, and Caleb had wisely decided they had other pressing issues to take care of. Like discussing the paint samples for the walls of the new King Security offices—as if any of them cared. They all knew the walls would be white.
“Stop over at the Crown when you’re done?” Topher had suggested as they headed toward the tavern. “I’m heading out early to Denver tomorrow morning.”
Right, because King Security had jobs lined up already. Dammit, Raine.
“Hell, yes.” Royce was going to need a couple of beers once this day was over.
He pushed through the front door to see the reception desk where Marnie Jackson roosted, empty but tidy. A powered-off ten-year-old computer took up half the acreage of the desk and an old-fashioned phone log sat adjacent to the telephone with a ballpoint pen sitting next to it. The only other thing taking up space was a framed picture of what had to be Marnie’s grandkids or great-grandkids.
Royce stepped past the desk toward a short hallway with three doors leading off it. The first door opened to a room empty but for two desks. This must be where the non-existent deputies sat when they were in the office. The next door opened to stairs leading downward.
“This goes to the basement,” Royce said unnecessarily, letting the door fall shut again. His dad had threatened to lock Royce down there with the bloody butcher knives and ghost of the young woman who supposedly died down there in the early 1900s if he didn’t behave. Royce didn’t recall what he’d done to earn that threat, but he’d never forgotten it. Taking a deep breath, he moved past the basement door to the end of the hallway. He hadn’t been in this room since his father died.
“Let’s see what’s behind door number three,” Raine said from behind him. “And why am I nervous?”
The door was slightly ajar, and Royce pushed it open with his fingertips.
Holy shit.
“What did Sheriff Garrison do in here all day?” Raine asked, staring wide-eyed at the over-stuffed filing cabinets with drawers ajar, the stacks of papers flowing across the gunmetal gray desk, and the cardboard banker’s boxes stacked on the floor. “It didn’t look like this when Daddy was sheriff.”
True. Their father, Douglas King, had been a lot of things, beyond an abusive alcoholic and Sheriff of Rexville for twenty years, before he’d been found dead in a field outside of town, but he’d never been a slob. Like Royce, Douglas King had been ex-military. When he’d died, everything about the Rexville Sheriff’s Office had been neat and tidy, as ready as it ever would be for the next sheriff.
Stepping across to the desk that took up most of the floor space, Royce picked up a sheaf of papers that were stapled together. An arrest report from three months ago, with a brown coffee ring-shaped stain on the bottom.
“Sleeping, I’d guess?”
Raine shook her head—in disgust, Royce imagined. He released another heavy sigh, knowing he needed to step up. He hated fucking stepping up, it felt like he was the only one who ever stepped up sometimes.
“If I’m going to do this, then you need to talk to Jordan. I can’t keep covering for him at the shop. He’s the one who asked me to help him out, but I’m not carrying his ass on top of all this too.” And Royce was the one who wanted to assuage his regret, so even though he talked tough, Royce would help Jordan out when he needed it.
Raine stared at him and dammit, Royce knew what she was thinking, knew what she was about to say.
“This is a hard time of year for him.”
Jordan’s twin brother, Jesse, had disappeared ten years ago, just before their father died. Guilt still weighed heavily on Royce’s shoulders—he should have been here for his siblings. Maybe he should never have left them alone with Douglas King at all, but Royce hadn’t felt he’d had a choice at the time.
“It’s a hard damn time of year for all of us. He’s not the only one who lost a brother.”
“They’re twins, Royce. Jordan feels Jesse’s absence more than we do. I’ll talk to him though.”
Raine always used the present tense, refusing to believe that Jesse was dead. But if he wasn’t, why hadn’t he reached out? Why had he been silent for ten years? Since coming back home, Royce had tried to find their lost brother, but if he wasn’t dead, Jesse King sure didn’t want to be found.
“He’s not dead,” Raine said as if she was reading his mind.
“I just wish I’d been here.”
Royce had come home for their father’s funeral, but Jesse had already been gone and Royce hadn’t stayed, leaving town again the day after the service. Maybe he should have stayed, but he couldn’t turn back the clock. And no one, it seemed, knew the full story of what had happened the day Jesse disappeared.