Page 2 of Saved By the Ex-Military Sheriff

The man stops a few feet away. The sheriff, apparently.

He doesn't get between us, doesn't crowd Trevor's space. He just stands there, relaxed and completely still, and somehow that's more intimidating than any aggressive posture could be.

"She asked you to let go," he repeats. "You didn't. That makes it my concern."

Trevor's jaw tightens. "This is between me and my girlfriend."

"I'm not your girlfriend," I say, and I'm surprised by how steady my voice sounds. "I haven't been for months."

"Lyla..."

"I think it's time for you to leave." The sheriff's tone hasn't changed. Still calm, still even. But there's steel underneath it now.

It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Trevor looks at him, then at me, then back at him. Whatever he sees in the sheriff's face makes him take a step back.

"This isn't over," Trevor says to me.

"Yeah," the sheriff says. "It is."

There's a moment where I think Trevor might argue, might push back, but he doesn't. He turns and walks down the street toward a blue car I recognize too well.

I watch him get in, watch him pull away from the curb and drive toward the edge of town.

I don't realize I'm holding my breath until the car disappears around a corner.

"You okay?"

I look up at the sheriff. Up close, he's even bigger than I thought, but it doesn't feel threatening.

There's something about the way he's standing that makes it clear he's not going to crowd me. Hands loose at his sides. Giving me space.

"I think so," I say. "Thank you."

He nods once. "I'm Kieran Walsh. Town sheriff."

"Lyla." My voice sounds strange. Too light. "Lyla Brennan."

"You want to come to the station and tell me what that was about?"

I should thank him again, get in my car, and drive back to the little rental cottage on the outskirts of town.

But Trevor's words are still echoing in my head. This isn't over. And I know he meant it.

"Yeah," I say. "Okay."

The station is small and warm, with wood paneling and a couple of old desks that look like they've been here since the seventies.

There's a younger guy at one of them. Early thirties, blond, friendly face. He looks up when we walk in.

"Everything all right?" he asks Kieran.

"Fine. Just going to take a statement."

The blond guy's eyes flick to me with obvious curiosity, but he doesn't ask. Kieran gestures toward a door at the back, and I follow him into a small office that smells faintly of coffee and paper.

He motions to a chair across from his desk, and I sit while he moves around to the other side.