We’re both in short sleeves, and he’s wearing his hat to shield the top of his balding head from the sun. Even though it’s March, it never gets very cold in Eureka, and the sun is almost always shining.

  “I don’t think it’s about us.”

  “You want me to take it down?”

  My hands are on my hips, and I shake my head. “Leave it.”

  I have no idea who’s doing this, but they’re essentially positive messages. They started a little over three months ago with a single word, Happiness, painted in dark pink lettering on a thin strip of white board. They resemble the pickets from a fence.

  I haven’t been able to figure out any reason for them, no pattern or connection to particular dates. It’s like someone has a dream or gets an idea on a random day, and up goes a sign. Naturally, Edna is reading supernatural meanings into them.

  We left Happiness up, and after a few weeks, it disappeared and another one took its place in a different location. I forget what it said, but the last one read, You are rare, in dark purple lettering.

  It was hung near the only restaurant in Eureka, El Rio owned by Herve Garcia, and I had to wonder if it was a joke. For starters, Herve is one of the first to integrate Eureka, but he also makes a steak taco that will haunt your dreams at night—cooked rare.

  “It’s Sunday, so maybe it’s a reference to God?” Doug is still puzzling, but the sound of Shania Twain singing about feeling like a woman coming from behind us distracts me from this latest missive.

  The music is getting louder fast, and I look up just in time to see a beat-up orange Ford truck barreling around the corner with no sign of stopping.

  In a blink, I register three things: The truck is headed straight for us, the driver’s eyes are wide, and Doug isn’t looking or moving.

  “Doug!” Grabbing my deputy around the waist, I tackle him to the ground behind his SUV, and with a crunch of metal, the truck plows into the utility pole.

  Shit. I’m on my feet at once, expecting the worst. I pause briefly to be sure Doug’s okay. He’s shaking his head, but he’s not hurt. Then I hustle around to check on the runaway truck.

  The driver’s door opens with a loud pop, and a young woman in a white T-shirt, denim cutoffs, and cowboy boots stumbles out shaking her hands and walking in circles.

  “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God…” she chants, and a big dog barks from inside the cab. “Edward!”

  She dives into the vehicle again, climbing across the seat and unfastening the buckle that holds the hound in place.

  My eyes narrow as I approach the vehicle. “Miss…?”

  She backs out of the cab so fast she slams right into my chest. A little “Oof!” poofs from her lips, and the dog jumps out beside her, barking and trotting back and forth beside the truck as if to inspect the damage.

  I catch her before she loses her footing, and when she looks up at me, my stomach tightens. Britt Bailey’s bright green eyes meet mine, and her full pink lips part. It’s been six months since I’ve seen her, but her scent, the fresh flowers…

  “Aiden Stone!” Her voice is a dazed whisper. “Did you save me?”

  I release her at once, placing my hands on her upper arms and moving her arms-length away from me.

  “Are you hurt?” My tone is gruff, and I lean closer to inspect her pupils.

  They’re not dilated, and I step away again, giving her small, curvy body a cursory glance. Everything seems miraculously fine—if I believed in miracles.

  She shakes her blonde head. “I think I’m okay.”

  Anger and frustration war in my chest, and my tone is stern. “You could’ve killed somebody just now.”

  “The brakes went out! I was pumping them as hard as I could and trying to downshift…”

  Hesitating, I make sure she’s not going to collapse before leaving her beside the open door and walking to the front of the truck.

  A good-sized dent is on the right fender, and a loud Bang! makes me jump back. The new sign drops onto the hood, facing up like a portent. Who watches over you?

  “Lord have mercy, Britt? Is that you?” Doug scuffles around the back of the truck to where she’s standing. “You nearly flattened me like a pancake.”

  “Doug! I’m so sorry!” She rises on her toes to hug him, and I tear my eyes away from the edge of her cutoffs rising dangerously high on her perky ass.

  “What happened?” Doug continues, and the two of them walk to where I’m standing at the front of her orange death mobile.

  “My brakes went out,” she starts, then she gasps, clutching her hands. “Oh, no! My truck!”

  “When’s the last time you had this thing inspected?” Doug leans down to look inside the tires.

  Her nose wrinkles. “Is that a thing?”

  I shake my head. “Looks like you’re due for an upgrade.”

  “No! I can’t part with my truck! It belonged to my dad.”

  “Now, now.” Doug pats her shoulder. “Nobody’s making you get rid of your dad’s truck.”

  He’s treating her like she’s made of glass, and I exhale a growl of frustration. She’s just arrived in town, and the mayhem has already begun.

  “I couldn’t believe it when I hit the brakes, and it didn’t stop. I thought that only happened in movies.” She shakes her hands again. “I’m still kind-of… freaked out a little.”

  “You’ve had a shock. Come inside and have a glass of water.” Doug takes her arm. “We’ll call and see if Bud can tow it to his garage and give it a good once-over.”

  “All my stuff is in the back—”

  “Aiden’ll take care of it. Won’t you, Aiden?” Doug’s paternal tone is starting to annoy me.

  “Sure. I’m not doing anything.” I shake my head, lifting an enormous suitcase out of the truck bed.

  Turning, I catch Britt’s eyes fluttering from my shoulders down to my arms, and her cheeks flush pink.

  “I guess that’s what you call starting off with a bang?” She gives me a cautious smile that hits me in the chest in a way I don’t like.

  “It’s all good.” Doug nods to the sign on her hood. “Someone was watching over you.”

  It takes all my strength not to lose it entirely. That’s just the sort of shit Edna needs to hear.

  “I’ll meet you inside,” I grumble, rolling her suitcase into the courthouse while Edward trots along beside me.

  Glancing down, I can tell he’s part bloodhound from his long ears and droopy cheeks. He’s black and tan, and he looks like a good dog. I give his head a pat.

  Town offices are technically closed on Sundays, but I always come in to be sure everything’s calm. Holly Newton, our dispatcher, must’ve called Doug about the sign, because he normally goes to church. I pretty much let all that God stuff go the way of fairy tales and magic when my wife died. Finding that stack of love letters further solidified my position on the matter.

  “I didn’t intend to come to the office today.” Britt’s voice carries through the empty space. “I'd have dressed differently.”

  “I didn’t even know you were joining the team.” Doug’s shoulders bounce with his laugh. “I guess it’s classified information.”

  Returning to the main office, I level my gaze on them. “Edna thought we could use some extra hands with all that’s been happening lately. She was supposed to let me know your ETA.”

  Britt gives me another cautious smile. “They made it sound like an emergency, so I put in a request for leave.”

  “In that case, you can start tomorrow, eight a.m.” My tone is clipped. “After that, you and Doug can sort out your days off. I’m here every day, but if nothing’s happening, I don’t expect you to work more than five days a week.”

  “I like my Sundays off.” Doug shrugs. “Otherwise, I’m flexible.”

  “What if you take Sunday off, and I’ll take Saturday?” Her tone brightens.

  They do a little high-five, and I clear my throat. “Just work the other day out a few weeks in advance, so I know what to expect.”

  “Yes, sir, Sheriff.” Doug salutes, clearly feeling his oats with a pretty young woman in the office. He’s never so chipper.

  “And Britt.” I nod briefly at her torso. “You’re one of us now. You’ll need to think about how you appear in public.”

  Her face flames bright red, and she blinks quickly, which I’m picking up is something she does when she’s nervous or flustered.

  Still, a touch of defiance is in her reply. “I know the proper dress code for my job.”

  “Good.” She’s not made of glass, and I’m the boss. “I wasn’t sure what to think about your choices. The last time we spoke, you said you were never coming back to Eureka.”

  Her shoulders straighten, and she puts her hands on her hips. “As I’m sure you know, Sheriff Stone, I was asked to come back to Eureka because your department couldn’t handle the workload. I’ll stay until my help is no longer needed.”

  My smile tightens, and I cross my arms. “Are you making a comment about the quality of my team?”

  She smiles sweetly, but the sass hasn’t left her tone. “Not at all. I’m here because the mayor, my grandmother, asked me for a favor, and I think as we get older, we realize the importance of family and making time for the people we love.”

  “So you came back for your family?” I’m not liking the sound of this. I’d thought she was the sane one.

  “Of course. It’s important to help our loved ones when they need us.”

  My brow lowers. “Depending on the outcome.”

  Silence descends on the room and Doug looks from Britt to me and back again. “Did anyone call Bud? We need to get that truck off the street before church lets out. We might even need to have the utility company check that pole.”

  “Thanks, Doug. I’ll let you handle it. I’ve got to pick up Owen from Sunday school.” I turn and start for the door. “Call me if you need anything. And, Miss Bailey?”

  “Yes, Sheriff?” Our eyes strike like flint, and even if I don’t like it, my stomach heats in response.

  “I’ll see you in the morning, dressed to work a crime scene.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  “Whose truck crashed into the light pole?” Owen is on his knees looking out the window of my truck at Bud’s towing operation in progress.

  His dark hair is brushed neatly, and he’s dressed in a light-blue, short-sleeved shirt with a clip-on tie and khakis. Even if I don’t attend, my mother taught me how to dress for church.

  “It belongs to my new forensic photographer,” I grumble under my breath.

  Looks like Bud went to church this morning, which means a crowd of onlookers has gathered while he hitches the front of Britt’s truck to his tower.

  Owen drops onto his butt again, looking up at me with a frown. “What’s a forensic photographer?”

  “It’s a person who takes pictures of crime scenes to try and help us figure out what happened or who did it.”

  “Like a private investigator?”

  “Something like that, but with pictures.” I’m driving us slowly to my mother’s house for our weekly Sunday lunch.

  “You said facts are the only things that matter.”

  “That’s right.”

  “No magic.” He looks down at his hands, and I can tell something’s bothering him.

  “What’s on your mind, Froot Loop?”

  “Dad!” he groans loudly. “I told you not to call me that anymore!”

  “What? It was your favorite food for the first five years of your life.”

  “It’s not cool.”

  I glance in the mirror, wondering when he started worrying about being cool. He used to laugh at his nickname.

  “Sorry, I’ll try to remember that.”

  Quiet falls in the cab and an old Shania Twain song comes on the country station about boots being under beds. I reach forward to turn it off. I’ve had enough of her voice for one day.

  “Jesus walked on the water,” Owen blurts, and my brow furrows. “Miss Magee said so in Sunday school today. There was a bad, bad storm, and the disciples were all afraid, and they looked out and Jesus was walking on the water to their boat. How could that have happened if there’s no such thing as magic?”

  Shifting in my seat, I give the accelerator a little nudge to get us to my mom’s house quicker. I hadn’t expected to have this conversation with him so soon—or ever.

  “Well…” I start, wondering how the hell I’m going to answer him.

  “I said you don’t believe in magic, and Miss Magee said I should talk to you about it after church. Ryan said I’d better not.”

  “Don’t you listen to Ryan.” I’m quick to squash that notion. “If there’s something you want to know, you can always come and ask me. We don’t keep secrets from each other.”

  “Ryan said you’d get mad.” My son squints up at me. “You look mad.”

  “I’m not mad. I just didn’t expect to be talking about Jesus this morning.”

  “It’s Sunday, Dad.” He looks at me like duh. “Everybody’s talking about Jesus.”

  I don’t bother pointing out not everybody talks about Jesus on Sunday. We are in Eureka, after all.

  Pulling into the driveway of my mom’s large, white farmhouse. I look up at the wrap-around porch, the swing in the corner, and I wonder when my life got so complicated. I can remember sitting there, listening to the chain squeak as I talked to my dad about some problem, as we slowly rocked back and forth with the slightly briny, humid breeze wrapping around us.

  Damn, I miss that old man.

  Green, spiky palmettos line the space between the porch and the ground, and rising above it all is a giant live oak tree so old its black limbs reach almost to the ground. All my brothers and I had to take pictures with our dates before homecoming and prom and whatever else my mother deemed photo-worthy in front of that tree.

  My brother Alex’s Tesla is already in the drive, and with Owen’s question hanging in the air, I grimace at the sight of my youngest brother Adam’s Jetta.

  Adam’s as big a believer as the Baileys. I’d hoped being a pilot in the Navy would have worked some of that out of him, but it didn’t. In fact, I think it made him worse—flying helped him see the world from God’s perspective, he said.

  If I don’t wrap this up, I’m sure he’ll be glad to provide some outlandish answer to my son’s question.

  “Here’s the thing, Owen.” I shift in my seat. “The stories in the Bible are more about helping us understand how to live our lives better. You’re not supposed to try and sort out how everything in them happened word for word.”

  “How is Jesus walking on the water supposed to help us live our lives better?”

  Fuck. I’m trying to remember that damn story from when I was in Sunday school. “Remind me what happens.”

  “You don’t remember the Bible story?” His blue eyes cut up to me, very disappointed.

  “It’s been a while, and you just heard it. Refresh me.”

  “There was a big storm, and all Jesus’s friends were in a boat. So Jesus walked out on the water to where they were. Peter saw him and wanted to walk on water too, so Jesus said, ‘Do it!’ But Peter got scared when he stepped on the water, and he started to go under. So Jesus caught him and told him he didn’t have enough faith.”

  “Got it.” I jump in ready to salvage this. “So it’s a story about faith. Jesus told Peter he could do something, but Peter got scared when it looked impossible. It’s a metaphor. If you believe you can do hard things, you’ve got to have faith, even when it’s scary.”

  Damn, that’s pretty good, even if I did say it.

  “So it was magic?” Owen narrows his eyes. “Peter could walk on water because Jesus said he could? Like a magician?”

  “Jesus wasn’t a magician.” My mom will really let me have it if Owen whips that one out over Sunday dinner. “The story is about Peter. He wanted to do something he thought was impossible, but even when Jesus said he could do it, he still got scared. He just had to have faith. Have you learned about metaphors in school yet?”

  “I’m in second grade, Dad. We got a worksheet about it. Custard is happiness in a bowl.”

  “Or Froot Loops.” I reach over and scrub his head, and he pushes my hand.

  “No more Froot Loops.”

  “Yeah, no more Froot Loops.” I exhale. “The metaphor is walking on water. That’s impossible, right?”

  “Yeah…”

  “What’s something you think is impossible?”

  “Making a basket from the free-throw line,” he groans loudly.

  Mental note.

  “Okay, if you believe you can do it and you work hard, you can. Have faith, and don’t be afraid when it gets scary. Right?”

  His little brow furrows as he thinks, and my chest tightens. I remember the first time he tried sweet potatoes, and his brow furrowed just that way—only he was five years younger. Damn time is moving so fast.

  “Okay!” He nods, and I smile.

  “Look, there’s your Gram. Let’s get inside and have some fried chicken.”

  His eyes light, and he grabs the door handle. “Race you to the house!”

  I watch him run at top speed to where my mother is holding the glass door open and shaking her head as she smiles. She raised three boys, so she’s used to the tornado of a seven-year-old.

  I hesitate before stepping out of my truck, thinking about how much I sounded like Adam just then explaining that Bible story, and while I do believe in working hard and not backing down when things get tough, it’s also important to keep in mind there’s no invisible force that’s going to stop you from drowning when you’re in over your head.

  Or stop your otherwise healthy dad from dying of a heart attack at fifty-five.

  Or keep your cheating wife from being hit by a car.

  My jaw tightens when I remember myself at twenty-eight, praying with the minister before we got married, standing in the front of that church, making promises in front of God and everybody. Believing.

  Britt Bailey drifts through my mind. She’s twenty-eight. Her pretty green eyes are all full of faith and hope, and she doesn’t let me push her around, which was an unwelcome turn-on. She’s got a sassy mouth, shapely legs, and a cute ass. The image of her standing by that truck in short shorts and cowboy boots jumps to the front of my brain, and I immediately push it out of my head.