Page 1

CHAPTER 1

REG

“The question is not what you look at, but what you see.”—Henry David Thoreau

The siren seemed like overkill, but the white Ford pickup with Virginia license plates tearing up Belvedere either hadn’t noticed or had decided the blue flashing lights weren’t meant for them.

Nice try.

“I’ve got a lead foot with out-of-state plates hightailing it into town. V as in Victor, B as in Bravo, H as in Hotel.” I read the rest of the info to dispatch, adding a snarky, “Where are you, Petey? This one should have been yours.”

The radio crackled immediately. “Sorry, Chief. I’m on my way.”

“Finish your ham sandwich, man. I got this.”

I heard dispatch’s chuckle and almost felt bad for embarrassing my deputy…but not quite.

Everyone at WHPD knew Petey Adams was a creature of habit who ate lunch every day at noon on the dot. Mondays through Thursdays, his wife made him a sandwich wrapped in wax paper and sealed with a heart sticker. On Fridays, Petey sat at the counter at Log Cabin Diner and ordered Clancy’s chicken pot pie. The day of the week dictated the sandwich and since today was Wednesday, ham was a safe bet.

My radio crackled. “Plates belong to Waylon Gibbons, Clearwater, Virginia. Date of birth⁠—”

“That’s all right, Nancy. I’ll take it from here.” I silenced the siren as the Ford pulled to the shoulder beneath a behemoth evergreen with a hollowed niche compliments of the woodpeckers who’d claimed a large portion of the trees in the Wood Hollow forest.

“Hey, Chief. That’s the new guy at Mill Depot,” Petey chimed in on the radio around a mouthful of sandwich. “He’s the one Coop brought in as a lumber specialist. Should have hired a local, if you ask me.”

“I can’t believe he didn’t,” Nancy grunted indignantly.

“It makes no sense,” Petey agreed. “Loggers in these parts know their wood. We’re experts and coni-sours and⁠—”

“Okay, okay. Thanks for the background.” I rolled my eyes at Nancy’s twitter of amusement and Petey’s clueless sputtering as I unbuckled my seat belt and stepped out of the cruiser.

Welcome to the Four Forest area.

If our police radio activity was more reminiscent of a fictional town like Mayberry in The Andy Griffith Show than hardcore city action ala LAPD or NYPD, that was basically accurate. The crime rate in Wood Hollow, Pinecrest, Elmwood, and Fallbrook was low to nonexistent. And as chief of police, I was invested in keeping it that way.

There hadn’t been a murder in the books since 1965 when Mary Hilcox had walloped her abusive husband over the head with a cast-iron skillet. With Mr. Hilcox’s history of alcohol and drug issues, and the physical evidence collected at the scene, the incident had been ruled justifiable manslaughter and had resulted in the establishment of civic outreach and educational programs that were decades ahead of the nation as a whole.

Nowadays, my officers mainly dealt with traffic violations, public drunkenness, elderly welfare checks, lost animals, wayward wildlife, event security, and random petty theft accusations.

Our biggest issue by far was reckless drivers who didn’t quite understand that the winding roads with hairpin turns made for slow going in the Four Forest area. It could be frustrating for sure, especially if one happened to get stuck behind a logging truck packed to the gills with freshly milled timber from Wood Hollow.

Locals studiously avoided Belvedere Road during certain hours and took the longer route through Pinecrest in a pinch. But tourists and out-of-towners didn’t know the alternate paths or chose not to heed the signs posted liberally throughout the area. Understandable. However, anyone who worked and resided in these parts needed to learn that lesson quickly.

I approached the truck, tipping my chin in greeting as the driver lowered his window. “Good afternoon. License and registration, please.”

He handed me the info with a curt nod. “What seems to be the problem, Offic⁠—”

“Hi, Mr. Policeman!”

I glanced up from studying the license to the rear cab of the truck where a small boy with a shock of curly hair, freckles, and rosy cheeks was practically bouncing in his seat. “Hi, there.”

“Are we in trouble?” the kid asked.

My lips twitched in amusement.

“Not too much trouble. Just taking those curves a little too fast.” I aimed that last sentence at the man behind the wheel. “You’re Waylon?”

“I am.” Waylon Gibbons, assuming the plates and license matched, was six four, two hundred and twenty pounds of sheer muscle with dark hair, a thick beard, and intense brown eyes. And his voice was deep and as rough as sandpaper. He looked and sounded older than thirty-six—as if he’d collected more wisdom in three decades than most did in a lifetime.