The Return

I didn’t really care about the squatter, but somehow I was reluctant to see her go.

“Not much more than I already told you,” she said.

“Do you think you might come up here?” I pleaded, pointing to my ear. “So I can hear you better? I was caught up in a mortar attack in Afghanistan.”

I could hear her fine, by the way; the inner workings of my ear weren’t damaged in the blast, even if the outer part had been torn from my head. It’s just that I’m not above playing the sympathy card when I need to. I retreated to my rocker, hoping she hadn’t wondered why I seemed to be able to hear her without trouble only moments before. In the porch light, I saw her eyeing my scar before she finally started up the steps. When she reached the other rocker, she angled it toward me, while also sliding it back.

“I appreciate this,” I said.

She smiled, not overly warm, but enough for me to realize she did indeed have suspicions about my hearing and was still debating whether to stay. It was also a wide enough smile to notice her white and perfectly straight teeth.

“As I was saying…”

“Are you comfortable?” I asked. “Can I offer you something to drink?”

“I’m fine, thank you. I’m on duty, Mr. Benson.”

“Call me Trevor. And please—start at the beginning.”

She sighed, and I could have sworn I saw the trace of an eye roll.

“There was a series of electrical storms last November, after Carl passed away. A lot of lightning, and at the trailer park down the road, one of the trailers caught fire. The fire department responded, so did I, and not long after the fire was out, one of the guys mentioned that he likes to go hunting on the far side of the creek. It was just small talk, you know?”

I nodded, remembering the burned-out husk I’d noticed my first week here.

“Anyway, I happened to bump into him a couple of weeks later, and he mentioned that he’d noticed lights in your grandfather’s house, not just once, but two or three times. Like a candle being carried past the windows. He was kind of far away and I wondered if it had been his imagination, but since it kept happening and he knew that Carl had died, he thought he should mention it.”

“When would this have been?”

“Last December, maybe midmonth? There was a week or two there when it was really cold, so it wouldn’t have surprised me if someone broke in just to stay warm. The next time I was in the area I stopped by and saw that the back door was broken and the knob had almost fallen off. I went inside and did a quick search, but the place was empty. Aside from the broken door, I didn’t find evidence that anyone had been inside. There was no trash, and the beds were made; as far as I could tell, nothing appeared to be missing. But…”

She paused, frowning at the recollection. I took a sip of beer, waiting for her to go on.

“There were a pair of used candles on the counter with blackened wicks, and a half-empty box of candles as well. I also noticed that some of the dust had been wiped away at the kitchen table, like someone had eaten there. It also seemed like someone had been using one of the recliners in the family room because there was cleared space on the neighboring side table and it was the only piece of furniture in the living room that wasn’t dusty. It wasn’t anything I could prove, but just in case, I found some extra boards in the barn and sealed the back door.”

“Thanks for that,” I said.

Though she nodded, I could tell something about those memories was still bothering her. She went on. “Did you happen to notice whether anything was missing when you moved in?”

I thought about it before shaking my head. “Not that I could tell. Except for the funeral in October, I hadn’t been down here in a few years. And that week is a bit hazy in my memory.”

“Was the back door intact then?”

“I went in through the front, but I’m sure I checked all the locks when I left. I think I would have noticed if the back door was damaged. I know I spent time on the back porch.”

“When did you move in?”

“End of February.”

She digested that, her eyes flashing to the back door.

“You believe someone did break in, don’t you?” I finally asked.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Usually, when something like that occurs, things are broken and there’s trash strewn about. Bottles, food wrappers, detritus. And vagrants don’t usually make the bed before they leave.” She thrummed her fingers on the rocker. “Are you sure nothing was missing? Guns? Electronics? Did your grandfather keep cash around?”

“My grandfather didn’t have much in the way of electronics or cash, as far as I know. And his gun was in the closet when I moved in. It’s still there, by the way. It’s a small shotgun to keep the varmints away.”

“That makes it even stranger because usually, guns are the first things stolen.”

“What do you make of it?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Either no one was there or you were visited by the tidiest and most honest vagrant in history.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Have you seen or heard anyone creeping around the property since you’ve moved in?”

“No. And I’m frequently awake during the night.”

“Insomnia?”

“Some. But it’s getting better.”

“Good,” she said, adding nothing more. She smoothed the pants of her uniform. “But I’ve taken enough of your time. That’s all I can really tell you.”

“I appreciate you swinging by and telling me about all this. And for fixing the door.”

“It wasn’t much of a fix.”

“It did the job,” I said. “It was still boarded up when I got here. How much longer is your shift?”

She glanced at her watch. “Actually, believe it or not, it’s over now.”

“Then are you sure I can’t get you a drink?”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea. I still have to drive home.”

“Fair enough,” I said, “but before you go—and since you’re off, and I’m new in town—tell me what I need to know about New Bern these days. I haven’t been here in a while.”

She paused, arching an eyebrow. “Why would I do that?”

“Aren’t you supposed to protect and serve? Think of this as the serve part. Like fixing my door.” I tried out my most winning smile.

“I don’t think that being a welcoming committee is part of my job description,” she deadpanned.

Maybe not, I thought, but you haven’t left yet.

“All right,” I said. “Tell me what made you want to become a sheriff.”

With my question, she looked at me. Maybe, truly, for the first time, and again I found myself transfixed by the color of her eyes. They were like the waters of the Caribbean in an upscale travel magazine.

Hope

Hope stepped from the back deck to the walkway that led over the dune, trying to keep her coffee from spilling. Scottie—her aptly named Scottish terrier—strained at the leash, eager to reach the beach.

“Stop pulling,” she said.