plenty of time to hold hands or whatever it is you kids do. Can you do me a favor?"
"What?" she asked, exasperated.
"Remind him that I carry a gun," he said.
"Very funny."
"No later than 5:30, sweetheart. I'm not kidding about the gun."
She jumped in her seat and clapped her hands. He looked at her as she smiled at him. She reminded him of Stella and he had to conjure the hardest, coldest memory to stop himself from crying.
She put her arms around him. "I love you, daddy."
"I love you too. I'll take you to school."
He dropped Betty off at the high school and started making his way to the station and found himself turned around on Main Street. He had gone the wrong way back to the station and laughed at himself until he saw the Whispering Pines cemetery now sitting on his right. He pulled his cruiser over to the side of the road and into the grass and killed the ignition. He didn't know what had brought him here, but instead of starting the car and going to work, he got out and stood in the gravel drive that separated the graveyard into two sections.
The rows of headstones varied in size and decoration; the older, smaller ones populating most of the right hand side and the larger, more detailed ones residing mostly on the left. He looked at the names on them and saw the history of the town and the county—some of them a solemn reminder that he too would find his rest here like his ancestors before him. He would be next to his wife. It was a comforting thought on an otherwise difficult morning.
He turned left and walked between the more modern headstones until he came to an ordinary, upright slab of stone that had the name Hanes on it. His heart fluttered slightly as he knelt down and put his hand on it.
"How did I get here, Stella?"
The sun peaked through the white clouds and illuminated the countryside and the few shiny stones that stood on this side of the cemetery. He accidentally looked into the sun and then back at the stone, trying to blink away the bright spots. "Your daughter has discovered boys. She said you'd understand. I'm not stupid, though. I get it. She misses you, but she is so strong. She's really tough. Maybe too tough. I'm not sure she's mourned yet. She's a lot like you. You'd be proud of her."
He got to his feet and walked to his cruiser. He started the engine, turned the cruiser around, and drove to the station.
***
"Morning sheriff," Susan Byrd said when he walked into the office. "Can I get you a coffee?"
He nodded and went into his office that sat off the right of the entrance. It was a modest office, walled off half by wood on the lower part and glass on the top. He insisted on this design to ensure that everyone (which consisted of Susan Byrd and only Susan Byrd) in his office could see him at all times and that he could see them. He hated the title of sheriff and never much played into the politics of it, but he wanted to maintain a casual atmosphere. A transparent atmosphere. He settled into his chair and called Susan into his office. She arrived a few seconds later with a notepad and a pen, and sat in the chair across from his desk.
"I need you to pull some records from the hospital in Hampton. Last name Stump, fi r—"
"The family that was killed in the fire?" she asked.
"The same. I need to know how many children they had."
"I thought there was only the one. The baby that you found in the crate."
He nodded his head . "A young girl showed up in town that same morning. I went to see her last night. She's been staying at Mary Peterson's Boarding House. I think she let it slip out. But it appears her last name is Stump."
"Oh my," she said. "The woodsies do keep to themselves. Wouldn't she have school records too? How old is she?"
"About sixteen or so, but she's looks young for her age. I need you to keep this quiet. If it turns out to be nothing, I don't want the poor thing to get spooked and run. You know how it gets around here. People talk."
"I hate to ask, but do you
"What?" she asked, exasperated.
"Remind him that I carry a gun," he said.
"Very funny."
"No later than 5:30, sweetheart. I'm not kidding about the gun."
She jumped in her seat and clapped her hands. He looked at her as she smiled at him. She reminded him of Stella and he had to conjure the hardest, coldest memory to stop himself from crying.
She put her arms around him. "I love you, daddy."
"I love you too. I'll take you to school."
He dropped Betty off at the high school and started making his way to the station and found himself turned around on Main Street. He had gone the wrong way back to the station and laughed at himself until he saw the Whispering Pines cemetery now sitting on his right. He pulled his cruiser over to the side of the road and into the grass and killed the ignition. He didn't know what had brought him here, but instead of starting the car and going to work, he got out and stood in the gravel drive that separated the graveyard into two sections.
The rows of headstones varied in size and decoration; the older, smaller ones populating most of the right hand side and the larger, more detailed ones residing mostly on the left. He looked at the names on them and saw the history of the town and the county—some of them a solemn reminder that he too would find his rest here like his ancestors before him. He would be next to his wife. It was a comforting thought on an otherwise difficult morning.
He turned left and walked between the more modern headstones until he came to an ordinary, upright slab of stone that had the name Hanes on it. His heart fluttered slightly as he knelt down and put his hand on it.
"How did I get here, Stella?"
The sun peaked through the white clouds and illuminated the countryside and the few shiny stones that stood on this side of the cemetery. He accidentally looked into the sun and then back at the stone, trying to blink away the bright spots. "Your daughter has discovered boys. She said you'd understand. I'm not stupid, though. I get it. She misses you, but she is so strong. She's really tough. Maybe too tough. I'm not sure she's mourned yet. She's a lot like you. You'd be proud of her."
He got to his feet and walked to his cruiser. He started the engine, turned the cruiser around, and drove to the station.
***
"Morning sheriff," Susan Byrd said when he walked into the office. "Can I get you a coffee?"
He nodded and went into his office that sat off the right of the entrance. It was a modest office, walled off half by wood on the lower part and glass on the top. He insisted on this design to ensure that everyone (which consisted of Susan Byrd and only Susan Byrd) in his office could see him at all times and that he could see them. He hated the title of sheriff and never much played into the politics of it, but he wanted to maintain a casual atmosphere. A transparent atmosphere. He settled into his chair and called Susan into his office. She arrived a few seconds later with a notepad and a pen, and sat in the chair across from his desk.
"I need you to pull some records from the hospital in Hampton. Last name Stump, fi r—"
"The family that was killed in the fire?" she asked.
"The same. I need to know how many children they had."
"I thought there was only the one. The baby that you found in the crate."
He nodded his head . "A young girl showed up in town that same morning. I went to see her last night. She's been staying at Mary Peterson's Boarding House. I think she let it slip out. But it appears her last name is Stump."
"Oh my," she said. "The woodsies do keep to themselves. Wouldn't she have school records too? How old is she?"
"About sixteen or so, but she's looks young for her age. I need you to keep this quiet. If it turns out to be nothing, I don't want the poor thing to get spooked and run. You know how it gets around here. People talk."
"I hate to ask, but do you
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