Page 7 of In the Dark of the Past

Finn emerged from the shadows, and the sight of him was like the heel of a palm to the sternum. For a second, I couldn’t breathe. He stopped at the base of the stairs, his gaze sweeping the room and landing on me. He blinked once, and I saw the faintest flicker of something pass behind his eyes before his hard expression snapped back into place.

Controlled. Cold.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I muttered, the words slipping out before I could shove them back down.

Libby let out a breath from her spot at the copier. “River. Sweetie. I was going to tell you. I meant to. Honest. He’s our liaison for the department. I sort of mentioned it the other night, but I didn’t expect him to⁠—”

“To what? To show up? When he’s part of the group?” I said tightly, my gaze lasered on him before I shot her a look. “And don’t ‘sweetie’ me. You didn’t think maybe it was worth at least a heads-up? Like the run-in at the bar wasn’t bad enough to stir things up?”

“I wasn’t sure you’d come if you knew.”

“Probably a fair guess,” I mumbled.

Finn folded his arms across his chest like armor and cocked a hip. “I didn’t know you were part of this either. I should have guessed, given you were with everybody at the Oak, but…”

“Does it matter?” I shot back.

He didn’t answer, just stood there, jaw clenched. It honestly looked like every second he didn’t speak took calculated restraint.

“Sheriff,” Autumn said, breaking the moment. “Glad you could make it tonight. We were just going over the Jenkins case.” She was clearly trying to defuse the situation.

Finn looked at her and smiled, and something inside me broke a little. “I’ve told you a million times. Call me Finn.” Then, he nodded. “Yeah. Libby sent me an email. Said it’d probably end up being the one.”

His voice was still the same. Deep. Rough-edged. Unshakable. It hit like the scrape of a familiar scar—one I’d stopped running my fingers over years ago.

“Still sticking your nose into cases you shouldn’t be a part of, I see,” I spat. “Guess the promotion didn’t change much.”

Finn’s eyes locked with mine. “And you’re still psychoanalyzing people who don’t need it and didn’t ask you to.”

It landed like a slap. But I didn’t flinch.

Andra shifted uncomfortably. “Okay. Wow. Anyone else feel like ducking under the table?”

No one spoke. Even Rand and Cade didn’t make quips.

Finn looked away first. “I’m not here for a fight.”

“Of course, you’re not,” I muttered. “You never fought for much.”

“You left,” he said. Not loudly. Not accusingly. Just…factually. It was almost worse than if he’d screamed it.

It hit harder than expected.

“And you…” I started, then shook my head. “You know what? Never mind. I’m sure we both have things we regret.”

His mouth parted, just slightly, but whatever he’d been about to say never came.

“Okay!” Libby said cheerfully—too cheerfully—clapping her hands like a kindergarten teacher after she plunked a stack of now-full folders on the table. “I think this is the part where we remember we’re all here for a common goal. Justice, closure, community bonding…”

“Popcorn?” Rand added.

Cade cleared his throat, dropped his feet, and pulled out the empty chair next to him for Finn. “We were just talking about the mental-health angle and possible school board connections of the case, Finn. If you have any old personnel incident reports, notices of disciplinary actions⁠—”

“I’ll see what I can find,” Finn said, his tone clipped, his eyes never leaving the folders Libby had dropped on the table.

He moved closer, too close, his cedar-and-leather scent stirring memories I’d buried.

I leaned back in my chair, arms crossed. I wasn’t sure I could do this. But then I thought about everything he’d already taken from me and ruined and made a promise to myself.