Chapter 4: The Deputy's Visit
The coffee maker sputtered, the last dark drops falling into the carafe with a soft hiss. I reached for a mug from the cabinet, one of a mismatched set that had come with the house, a thick ceramic thing with a chip on the rim. I wrapped my fingers around the handle and poured, letting the steam rise against my face, breathing in the bitter scent like it might ground me.
And then I heard it.
A knock. Sharp, deliberate, three quick raps against the front door.
My pulse spiked so hard I nearly dropped the mug. My feet went cold against the floorboards, my whole body locking into that frozen, animal alertness I hadn't felt since the trial. The syndicate wouldn't knock. They wouldn't announce themselves. But the thought did nothing to slow my heart, which was hammering against my ribs in a rhythm that felt too fast for the body it was trapped in.
I set the mug down. My hands were shaking. I told myself to breathe.
The knock came again, patient but firm, and I forced myself to move. My bare feet carried me across the kitchen, through the living room, to the front door. I stopped with my hand on the latch, hesitating. I was wearing a grey tank top and shorts. No bra. No shoes. My hair was a tangled mess from sleep. I looked like I had just rolled out of bed, because I had.
I opened the door.
The man on the porch was tall, lean, with a square jaw and short dark hair that looked regulation-cut. He wore a pressed tan sheriff's uniform with a heavy leather belt, and a brass badge pinned to his chest caught the pale morning light and glinted. His eyes were a steady grey-flint color, and they swept over me in a single, quick motion, taking in my face, my bare shoulders, my chest, the length of my legs, before settling back on my eyes.
He smiled. It was a friendly smile, warm, the kind you'd give a neighbor you were genuinely glad to see. But there was something in the way his gaze lingered that made my skin prickle.
"Morning," he said. His voice was low and even, a cop's voice, steady and calm. "Sorry to bother you this early. I'm Deputy Cole, Allan Cole. I'm with the county sheriff's office."
He gestured vaguely back toward the road, where a patrol car sat parked at the end of the gravel drive. I hadn't heard it pull up. That would have to matter later.
"I heard we had a new face moving in," he went on, still smiling. "Wanted to come by and welcome you to town. Make sure you're settling in alright."
My mouth opened. My mind was a blank wall.
This was the first test. The first person to look at me, to hear my voice, to judge whether the story held. I was supposed to be Sabrina Parker, a young woman who had moved across the country to a quiet Vermont farmhouse after losing her parents. I was supposed to be scared but hopeful, a little shy, glad to see a friendly face.
There was a stirring low in my body, a warmth that had no business being there, that rose from somewhere deep and unfamiliar and spread outward, making my nipples tighten against the thin cotton of the tank top. I felt them harden, painfully obvious, pressing against the fabric, and Deputy Cole's eyes flicked downward for just a fraction of a second before returning to my face.
I was blushing. I could feel the heat crawling up my neck, into my cheeks, and I had no control over it, none at all.
"I, um," I said, and my voice came out soft and breathy, a stranger's voice, a woman who had just been caught off guard by a handsome man on her doorstep. "I'm settling in fine. The house is beautiful. I haven't really explored the town yet."
He nodded, his smile widening just a little. "It's a good town. Quiet. People look out for each other. You'll like it here."
I stood there in the doorway, feeling the morning air on my bare shoulders, feeling the weight of my own breasts against the tank top, feeling the slow, treacherous warmth between my legs that had no reason to exist and wouldn't go away.
"Would you," I heard myself say, and the words came out before I could stop them, "like some coffee? I just made a pot."
His eyes held mine for a moment, that steady grey gaze, and something shifted in his expression, a flicker of interest, of warmth, that made my stomach do a strange little turn.
"I'd like that," he said. "Thank you, Miss...?"
"Sabrina," I said. "Sabrina Parker."
"Sabrina," he repeated, tasting the name. "Nice to meet you, Sabrina."
I stepped back, holding the door open, and he came inside.
He stepped over the threshold, his boots heavy on the worn floorboards, and I caught the faint scent of soap and morning cold on his skin. I led him into the kitchen, my bare feet padding against the wood, hyperaware of the way his gaze drifted around the room, taking in the old cabinets, the mismatched mugs, the single chair pulled out at the table. The coffee pot was still warm. I grabbed another mug, the one with a hairline crack running through the glaze, and poured.
"Here you go," I said, setting it in front of him. My hand was steadier than I expected.
He wrapped his fingers around the mug, his knuckles brushing mine for just a second. "Thanks."
I sat down across from him, pulling my own mug close, wrapping my palms around the warmth. The silence stretched, soft and expectant, as he took a sip, watching me over the rim with those flint-grey eyes.
"So," he said. "What brings you to Vermont?"