HARPER
Ipull into the sheriff’s office parking lot at 5:47 a.m., when the sky is still that bruised purple gray that comes before dawn.
Dad won’t be here for another two hours. He never arrives before eight unless there’s an emergency, and even then he takes his time. Twenty years as sheriff has made him comfortable and predictable. Right now, I’m counting on that.
I kill the engine and sit for a moment, staring at the building. It’s a squat brick structure with narrow windows and a flagpole out front. I’ve been walking through those doors since I was a kid—bringing Dad lunch, doing ride-alongs, eventually wearing the uniform myself. It’s always felt like home.
This morning it feels like enemy territory.
I grab my coffee from the cupholder and force myself out of the car. The air is cold enough to sting, and my breath comes out in white clouds. I didn’t sleep. My eyes feel gritty and my head is pounding, but my cop brain is running hot, firing connections I can’t ignore.
I don’t want you caught up in whatever they’re doing.
Don’t get involved.
“Too late,” I mutter as I swipe my keycard at the front entrance.
The lock clicks open with a sound that feels too loud in the predawn quiet.
Inside, the office is dark except for the emergency exit signs casting red light down the hallways. It’s abnormally still. Our office manager doesn’t arrive until around seven a.m. and the deputy on duty is on patrol, so it’s just me and the ghosts of sheriffs past.
“Don’t freak yourself out,” I mumble with a shiver, making sure the door is closed firmly behind me.
Leaving the overhead lights off, I move through the familiar space with my phone’s flashlight, heading straight for the evidence room in the back. I almost expect my keycard not to work here, but of course it does.
The evidence room is exactly what you’d expect in a small-town sheriff’s office—metal shelving units lined with boxes, filing cabinets against the walls, a single desk with a computer for logging items in and out. Everything is labeled, organized, and cataloged.
Accessible.
I set my coffee down on the desk. I don’t bother with the computer. I had all night to think about it, so I know exactly where to start.
Five years ago, when I first started working here, there was some vandalism on Three Pines Ranch. At the time there’d been nothing conclusive. Dad had run the case back then.
I find the box of files from five years ago on the third shelf, back corner, and pull it down. It’s so dusty I can feel it coat my hands. There better not be spiders.
Making a face, I set it on the table in the center of the room and take the lid off.
It doesn’t take me very long to find the file:Robert MacKenzie, Three Pines Ranch.
Holding my breath, I take it out and open it.
MacKenzie filed a complaint about harassment—someone cutting his fences, poisoning his water supply, running off his livestock. The investigation went nowhere. No suspects identified. No arrests made.
“MacKenzie.” I frown at the report. I remember MacKenzie selling his ranch and moving away. I open a browser on my phone and do a quick search. Sure enough, five years ago there’s a sale recorded for Three Pines, at lower than market value. The buyer listed isClearwater Holdings LLC.
Another web search tells me Clearwater Holdings is registered in Delaware with no public ownership records.
I set the file aside and shift through the rest of this box before pulling down the next year. By the time I reach this year, I have a pattern.
Margaret Hale, Sunrise Ridge Property—died in a single-car accident on a county road two years ago. Her estate sold the land to settle debts. Buyer:Clearwater Holdings LLC.
David Ortega, High Timber Ranch.Arrested for drug possession—meth found in his truck during a routine traffic stop. Charges were dropped six months later, but by then he’d already lost the ranch to foreclosure. Buyer:Clearwater Holdings LLC.
James Pritchard, Blackfoot Meadows.Missing person report filed eighteen months ago. Pritchard, 67, supposedly left in the middle of the night. No evidence of foul play. Search called off after two weeks. His daughter inherited the property and sold it immediately—too traumatized to stay, the notes say. Buyer:Clearwater Holdings LLC.
Sarah and Michael Valencia, High Valley Ranch.House fire, origin undetermined, killed Sarah in her sleep. Michaelwas hospitalized with severe burns. The ranch was seized for unpaid property taxes that somehow went into arrears while Michael recovered in the hospital. Buyer:Clearwater Holdings LLC.
There’s a dozen in total. The last and final one is different, because the property hasn’t been bought. Yet.