Page 14 of The Sentinel

I turned.

A man stood near the entrance of the bullpen, arms crossed over his chest. He had sandy brown hair cropped short and a shadow of scruff on his jaw. He looked like the kind of man who’d been on the force long enough to be tired of it but not long enough to stop caring entirely.

He was watching me. Really watching me.

And my instincts screamed:this is something.

I took a slow step forward. “That depends,” I said. “You got real answers?”

The corner of his mouth curved slightly, but there was no humor in it. “I might.”

“Then I’m listening.”

He flicked a glance at the deputy behind the desk—who was very clearly pretending not to listen—before jerking his head toward the hallway.

“Walk with me.”

I didn’t hesitate.

Falling into step beside him, I kept my pace even, my expression neutral. The hallway was quieter here, the distant sound of ringing phones and low conversations fading as we moved toward the back of the station.

“You got a name?” I asked, cutting him a sideways glance.

The man smirked, a lazy tilt of his mouth that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Deputy Eric Norton.”

He was tall, lean but solid, with a sharp jawline and the kind of weariness that came from years of seeing too much. His uniform was slightly rumpled, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle.

I filed away the details. Everything about him said cop—the posture, the walk, the sharp, assessing way he glanced at the corners of the room. But there was something else, too. Something that felt … off.

“And you are?” he asked, giving me that same assessing look.

“Claire Dixon.”

Recognition flickered in his gaze. “The Unseen.”

I lifted a brow. “You listen?”

He shrugged. “I like the cases. Not always the commentary.”

I smirked. “That’s fair. But something tells me you’re not pulling me aside to critique my hosting style.”

His smirk widened, but it was brief. The seriousness settled back in just as quickly. “No, I’m not.”

I waited, pulse picking up slightly.

We moved past rows of desks, officers murmuring into radios, paperwork spread across cluttered surfaces. The sheriff’s office had that well-worn feel of a place where the people were always tired.

We reached a quieter hallway, and the cop finally stopped, leaning against the wall.

“I don’t like bullshit,” he said, watching me carefully. “And that’s all I’ve been fed since that damn pier exploded.”

I crossed my arms. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” he said slowly, “there’s a reason this department is keeping its mouth shut. A reason people don’t ask questions.” He exhaled sharply. “But I heard something the other night. Something different.”

The air seemed to still.

I kept my face neutral, my pulse spiking. “And what was that?”

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