Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 99604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
“Well, it is to me,” he said firmly. “I’ll testify to that in court.”
I exhaled, tension draining from my shoulders. “Thank you, Sheriff. That helps.”
“Of course,” he said. “Though Backleboff will probably point out that your grandmother and I have known each other for decades. Still, it can’t hurt.”
Very good point. “I can’t believe this could actually go to trial,” I said quietly.
“We’re a long way from that,” Franco replied. “Just take it one step at a time. If I can figure out who managed to sabotage the pie, we could make this go away. I’m checking all key replicating services throughout Idaho and Montana.”
“Thank you, Sheriff.”
Static hissed over the line, sharp enough to make me pull the phone from my ear.
“Shit,” Franco muttered.
I froze. “What?” Never in my life had I heard him swear.
There was a rough breath, and then a clatter.
“Sheriff?”
The phone crackled with a strange rhythmic noise, broken and uneven. Gunfire? Somebody was firing at the sheriff.
“Sheriff?” I said again, louder this time.
Aiden walked in from the kitchen, still drying his hands with a towel. My pulse jumped. I hit speaker so he could hear.
“Shots fired,” Franco said, his voice suddenly loud, raw, and panicked. “Shots fired—ah—” He gave a strangled hiss of pain.
“Sheriff,” I yelled. “Where are you?”
“Marker nineteen,” he gasped, the sound ragged, strained. “Close to the bend in the river.”
Gunfire erupted over the line, deafening and close, like the shots were coming from inside the cabin.
“Sheriff,” I shouted again, standing now, my breath catching in my throat.
“I’ve been shot,” he said, each word forced through a grimace of pain. More gunfire. A return shot. “Officer down.” Then silence.
Only the steady rain answered.
The fire popped. Brickhouse whined low in his throat.
Aiden was already reaching for his phone and his coat.
Chapter 16
I was already out of Aiden’s truck before he’d even screeched to a halt in the Silverville Hospital parking lot.
“Wait—” he yelled, but too late.
I was running.
The wind cut at my face, and the rain slapped my jacket as I bolted across the slick pavement toward the entrance. The sliding doors whooshed open, flooding me with the sterile brightness and sharp scent of antiseptic.
Aiden caught up to me easily, one hand at my back as I barreled past a line of uniformed deputies stationed in the entryway. I stopped just short of the reception desk, breath heaving.
“Is he okay?” I asked the first familiar face I saw.
Deputy McCracken looked up from his notepad. He was maybe three years younger than me, with sandy-blond hair and odd green eyes that always looked like they were trying to see two things at once. He was a genuinely nice guy, steady and soft-spoken.
“Well… yes. And no,” he said, his voice gentler than his words.
“What does that mean?” I breathed.
McCracken gave me a sympathetic pat on the arm, then glanced toward Aiden. “Thank you for calling it in when you did. We got the helicopter out fast. Got to him before he bled out too much.”
“How bad?” Aiden asked, rain still dripping from his hair, plastering it against his forehead.
McCracken grimaced. “He’s in surgery. Took two in the leg and one in the shoulder.”
My throat tightened. “Who shot him?”
He shook his head. “We don’t know. The scene’s secured. We called in the crime tech squad from Spokane—they’re on their way—but with this rain? We’ll be lucky if we find anything left to test.”
I swallowed hard, nodding like I understood. “I heard him return fire.”
“Yeah. We’ll check for hits, but it’s rough out there tonight.” McCracken exhaled, then motioned toward the waiting area. “Why don’t you two sit down? Doc said it’ll be a while.”
Aiden’s hand found mine as he steered me toward a row of vinyl-covered chairs. The waiting room was already half full with locals, deputies, and folks from around the valley. Sheriff Franco was more than law enforcement. He was Silverville. Everyone owed him something—help, advice, a break on a ticket, a lecture that had probably saved their necks.
The room buzzed with quiet tension, the fluorescent lights humming softly overhead. A TV mounted in the corner scrolled muted headlines none of us cared about.
I sat, my hands fidgeting in my lap, and stared at the double doors leading toward surgery.
Patsy Cabonni sat behind the reception counter, like usual. She looked over at us and gave a small, tired smile. She’d worked at the hospital forever. I’d known her since I was a kid. Patsy had the kind of warm, practical energy that could keep a whole town stitched together during chaos.
“I’ll let you know when we hear anything,” she said, her voice calm, grounded. “They’ve got the best team in there with him.”
I nodded my thanks, my throat too tight for words.
The minutes dragged, stretching like hours. Aiden sat beside me, still and quiet, one boot tapping lightly against the linoleum in rhythm with the rain. His eyes stayed fixed on the surgery doors, and the muscle in his jaw twitched every now and then.