CHAPTER 7
Shepard
It starts raining the second I turn off Main.
Classic Driftwood Cove.
Fall here is unpredictable—sunshine one minute, cold mist the next. The kind of weather that makes the air smell like salt and woodsmoke. Makes you wish you’d brought a jacket. Makes everything feel a little more cinematic than it is.
The wipers thump against the windshield as I drive back from the library. I’ve spent the last three hours with Marjorie in the archives, sorting through donation boxes full of water-damaged poetry chapbooks and old town council records scrawled on yellowing paper.
She told me stories about the town’s founding families between sips of chamomile and fussing with her sweater cuffs. I didn’t mind it. It was a good afternoon.
Which is why I almost miss it.
A truck, off to the side of Harbor Ridge Road.
Not just any truck.Hertruck.
Rust-orange. Dented near the tailgate. Tennessee plates.
I hit the brakes before my brain even catches up. Pull over. Hazard lights on. Adrenaline spikes hard and fast. My boots are soaked within seconds as I step out into the rain.
“Sadie?” I call out, jogging toward the truck.
No answer.
Shit.
My gut drops. I get closer and see her slumped forward, hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. There’s steam fogging the windows. I knock lightly, then pull the door open.
She’s muttering to herself, breathing shallow. Her hair’s a mess, damp strands stuck to her cheek. There’s blood on her temple—just a thin line, but enough to make my stomach twist.
“Sadie,” I say gently. “Can you hear me?”
She lifts her eyes slowly. Blinks at me. “Shepard?”
Thank fuck.
I exhale. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here. Hey, don’t move, okay? You might have a concussion. I’m going to call an ambulance?—”
“No.” Her voice is firm but raspy, the kind that’s fighting not to break.
“You were in an accident.”
“I can’t go to the hospital,” she says quickly. “If the mayor finds out, he might cancel the mural contract. I need this job. Please. I can’t lose this.”
Goddammit.
I look at her again. She’s pale. A little shaky. But alert.
Barely.
“You’re bleeding,” I point out.
“I’ve had worse,” she says, trying to sit straighter. Her hand trembles.
I swear under my breath. “Alright. Okay. No hospital. But I’m getting you out of here, and someone’s going to look at you. I know a guy.”
