Ellie leaned closer. “Will he be mad I came here?”
Mack met her eyes. They were enormous, gray-blue, and far too old.
“Yes,” he said honestly. “**But he doesn’t get to touch you again.**”
Sirens sounded in the distance twenty minutes later.
Too fast.
Mack stood.
County was farther out.
Those sirens were local.
Then a black SUV tore into the gravel lot, followed by Maple Ridge’s patrol car.
Daniel Whitmore got out first.
Pressed shirt. Church smile. Controlled eyes.
And behind him came Sheriff Lane.
Not rushing.
Not alarmed.
Annoyed.
“Now hold on,” Whitmore called, spreading his hands like a politician at a fundraiser. “I think there’s been some misunderstanding. My daughter wanders when she’s upset.”
Mack took one step forward.
Diesel and Tank stepped up beside him.
The sheriff raised a hand. “Mr. Rourke, let’s keep this civilized.”
“Civilized?” Mack said. “She has a fractured leg.”
Whitmore’s face flickered—but only for a second. Then he sighed, almost sadly. “Ellie is clumsy. Always has been. Rebecca fills her head with dramatics, and now apparently she’s dragged innocent men into family business.”
From the couch, Ellie made a small sound. Not loud. Not a cry.
Just terror.
Mack turned and saw her shrinking into herself, eyes fixed not on her father—
**but on Sheriff Lane.**
That bothered him.