Page 42 of In the Dark of the Past

We were holding something they could hurt us to get back.

A chill crawled up my spine. “You think the Fund was moving people there for reasons other than what it was built for?” I asked.

“Or moving them through there.”

The scanner beeped again. Outside, wind rattled the tall windows. The building suddenly felt very, very old.

I turned toward him. “Do you think⁠—?”

“I don’t know what I think anymore,” Finn said, cutting me off. “Something about the people we saw is still niggling at me. I think I recognized someone, but I haven’t been able to place it. And the threats…”

His voice wasn’t angry. Just tired. Bone-tired. The kind of tired that came from realizing the world you trusted might have been rotten all along.

Silence stretched between us. Then he said quietly, “You shouldn’t walk to your car alone tonight.”

I snorted softly. “Sheriff Callahan, are you implying Maple Ridge isn’t safe?”

His gaze lifted to mine. “No,” he said. “I’m saying someone has already tried to erase too many people.”

The humor drained right out of me. “Point taken.”

The last page slid through the scanner. I stacked the copies and slid them into my bag. When I straightened, Finn was still watching me. Not the pages. Me.

His eyes softened slightly. “You always did that,” he said.

“What?”

“Pretended you were fine while the world was burning down.”

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. “Funny,” I said. “I remember someone else doing that.”

His mouth twitched. “Yeah. But I was worse at it.”

The memory hovered between us. Late nights at this same library. Arguing about psychology theories and police procedure. Him pretending he didn’t care when he very obviously did. Back before everything shattered. Before my father. Before my mother. Before the Fund.

Finn pushed off the desk. “Come on,” he said.

“Where?”

“I told you. I’m walking you to your car.”

I grabbed my bag.

Outside, the night air smelled like rain. Clouds rolled low over the mountains, thick and heavy. The storm was coming. Finn walked beside me down the sidewalk, quiet but close enough that our shoulders brushed once. Neither of us moved away. At my vehicle in the lot, he paused.

“You text me when you get home,” he said.

“That an order, Sheriff?”

“Suggestion.”

I opened the driver’s door, then hesitated. “Finn?”

“Yeah.”

I turned back. “Thanks for…caring.” The words felt awkward. Too small for everything they meant.

But he understood anyway. He always had. His expression softened in a way I hadn’t seen in years.