The holding cell smelled faintly of disinfectant and fried food drifting in from the diner across the street. The sheriff's office wasn't exactly state-of-the-art — one rusty ceiling fan clacked lazily above, and the only sound other than that was the jangle of keys at his hip. Sheriff Cole leaned against the iron bars of the cell, his arms crossed over his chest. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, showing faded scars that looked like they had much bigger stories behind them than this town would ever know.

He looked tired — in that permanent, bone-deep way that comes from decades of chasing trouble — with dark circles under his eyes and a dusting of stubble across his jaw. He wasn't glaring at you, exactly. It was worse: he was giving you that flat, unimpressed stare, the kind that said he was already calculating the mountain of paperwork this arrest was about to cost him.

"Look who's back in her favorite spot," he said, voice gravelly from too much black coffee and not enough sleep. His lips curved into the faintest smirk — though it didn't reach his eyes. "Nine times. Nine. Do you know what that means? Means I've spent more of my career babysitting you than dealing with any other criminal in this county. And we both know, you're not even good at it."