Page 3 of By the Book

I love Foxport, and I love the comfortable sense of belonging I feel here. And yet, my brother’s presence never fails to stir up my doubt.

“Seriously,” Wes says, turning to face me. “This is the coolest place. I’m happy for you.”

“Thank you,” I say, compelled to accept his support. “Wait. Does anyone else know you’re in town yet?”

“Nope, you were my first stop. I figured we could hang out; I could help you around here.”

“So, you’re hiding from Mom’s party preparations here because you can’t hang around a sheriff’s department or fire station?”

Wes laughs. “Pretty much.”

I smile and roll my eyes. “I’m sorry your friends don’t have jobs as cushy as mine. But it’s nice to see that being a fancy, globetrotting humanitarian hasn’t changed you. Just try not to let it go to your head when the plaque is hung at town hall next week.”

“No promises,” he replies, plucking at the flower arrangement beside us. “Wait, am I really getting that?”

Wes looks up with amusement and my heart swells from the ease of having him home. “You might have to stick around awhile to earn that.”

“I swear, between you and Tripp,” he mutters, shaking his head.

I turn away to flip the sign on the door to open, hoping that he didn’t catch the hitch in my breath at the mention of his best friend.

Chapter 2

Tripp

There’s a good chance I’ll be battling riots next if we don’t get The Lobster Shack open again. I turn to the inspector as he comes around the side of the red shingle building. The owner of this revered establishment paces behind me, and I can hear the rhythmic steps as he wears down the pavement.

“Sheriff,” the inspector addresses me.

“What’ll it be?” I ask in return.

“It’s good to go. Everything looks fine, no concerns of a leak.”

We shake hands and exchange signatures on paperwork. I’m eager to get in there myself, because from the way Gus is leaning over the fence, I won’t be able to keep him back from his business much longer.

Last week, a vandal hit The Lobster Shack. I’m not just talking spray paint or a damaged sign. This was thousands of dollars worth of damage. And it was precise, planned. Executed by an adult, in my opinion. I just haven’t shared that theory with anyone yet.

Gus had been delayed from fixing things up by the county inspector. He hadn’t been able to fit the stop into his schedule until today. Still declared a crime scene of sorts, I had to be present to give my all clear after the inspector.

“So can we get in there?” Gus asks when it’s only the two of us left out front.

“Just give me one minute, yeah?” I ask out of courtesy.

Knowing he has no choice, Gus nods and resumes his pacing. The Lobster Shack is as casual as the name suggests. There isn’t even a front door. Across the front is a window to serve up the orders to customers, with the only door being around back.

I follow the path from the front, scanning for anything I may have missed the first time I was here. When I reach the back, I note the tire tracks once again. They’re still clear as day, leading right up to the building. And partially inside of it.

Whoever the perpetrator was, they didn’t seem to be worried about damaging their vehicle when they rammed it into the shack. With it on the edge of town, there had been no witnesses. Again.

Of course, I had considered if this was an accident rather than another incident of purposeful property damage. But the driver had to make a series of precise turns to hit the building from this angle. There was nothing accidental about it.

I finish my check and head back out to meet Gus. “All yours,” I call as I make my way around the picnic tables in the front yard.

He rushes forward, frantic to start assessing the situation himself. I take the opportunity to bid him a fast goodbye. I have just enough time to run up the coast and get back to work before overseeing the deputies’ shift change.

You can’t be in law enforcement and be particular about your coffee. Black drip coffee, stale coffee, cold coffee, different strengths of coffee. You take what you can get around this department. My favorite, though, is when Millie’s wife, Vanessa,comes to visit her and brings coffee from her café. She’s always considerate enough to bring some for everyone.

With this being a Friday night, I don’t expect a coffee delivery at the moment. I take a sip from the room temperature mug on my desk and check the clock. I’m supposed to be out of here in half an hour anyway. And it’s probably for the best, my eyes are going blurry rereading these files.

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