Sometimes, though, taking risks is the only way to feel alive, and that’s what I feel as I whip along those wooded trails, purposely missing my turns. I want to keep going, to ride into the forest and see what’s out there, lose myself in that emptiness. But that’s where embracing risk becomes irresponsible, one lesson my parents did manage to drive into my brain like an iron spike. Never be irresponsible. People are counting on you.

The scenery—like that on the drive up—is breathtaking. As Dalton said, the town is in a valley between two mountains, but they’re distant enough that they don’t cast shade. One is partly bare on this side, and when I see it, I think, I wonder if I could climb that? And I laugh to myself, imagining what my parents would say.

The police station is on the edge of town. Like all the other buildings I can see, it’s a basic wooden box raised off the ground. There’s a rear deck with a single chair and a tin can full of beer caps. The can is rusted, as are the caps below a layer or two. Someone bringing the occasional beer onto the deck, not someone regularly getting loaded on the job. Good to know.

Inside, it’s dark and cool and smells of men: spicy deodorant laced with a thread of sweat. The main room is the size of my apartment bedroom. There’s one desk, a couple of extra chairs, fireplace with a hanging kettle, and filing cabinets. That’s it. Two doors lead to other rooms. I open one, expecting to see the sheriff’s office. It’s the bathroom. The other reveals a tiny holding cell.

I look around. One desk for three cops? This should be interesting.

The filing cabinets are all locked, and not flimsy jobs that can be pried open with a butter knife. So much for advance case study.

I look at the desk. The top is clear, without so much as a paper clip to play with. And the drawers? Yep, locked.

Anders told me to poke around. That’s taken exactly five minutes. I scan the room again and see one thing I missed: a bookshelf. It’s mostly empty, the space being used for office supplies instead. I count five books. The first one I pull out is a history of the Mongol tribes. I flip through expecting to find it contains some sort of hidden information. Nope, it’s actually a history of the Mongol tribes. I walk to the desk, plunk myself in the chair, and start to read.

About twenty minutes pass before the front door opens. A thirty-something guy rolls in on a wave of sawdust. He’s muscular in a top-heavy way. Longish hair that looks like it’s been raked back with a hand covered in wheel-grease, leaving a streak of it on his cheek. Shirt sleeves pushed up to show off overdeveloped arms.

My first thought is uncomfortably like my thought on seeing someone in a prison—I wonder what he’s in for. That’s not fair, of course. Not here, where most are like Diana, running from a problem that isn’t their fault. And Dalton has already warned that I’m not entitled to a resident’s backstory unless he deems it pertinent to a case.

“Hey, there,” the man says. “You must be the new girl.”

“Detective Butler,” I say. “Casey. If you’re looking for the sheriff or Deputy Anders, they’ll be back in an hour or so.”

“Left you all alone on your first day? Typical Eric. Well, I’m Kenny and I’m with the local militia, so I’ll take over as the welcoming committee. We can grab lunch, and I’ll show you around a bit.”

A hand reaches from nowhere and lands on his shoulder. “Down, boy.”

A woman steps around him. She’s probably in her early forties. Wearing a business-smart dress that shows off an admirable figure. Dark eyes. Dark hair laced with silver. A very attractive woman, even without makeup, which is one of those “non-essential” items we have to skip up here.

“I saw you boys hanging around out front,” she says to Kenny. “Finally figured out she slipped in the back, did you? How much did you pay the others to let you come in first? Or was it a coin toss?”

Kenny grumbles. Her hand tightens on his shoulder and turns him toward the door.

“Head thataway, Kenny-boy. If Eric catches you horn-dogging on his new detective, he’ll dunk you in the horse trough again. At least it’s not winter this time.”

She pushes him toward the door. After he trudges out, she looks at me for the first time. It’s a thorough once-over, as if she’s sizing me up for a bikini.

“Oh my,” she says. “Good thing you didn’t come in the front door, sugar. Kenny would have needed to put his buddies down before they’d let him get the first hello. Your friend is cute, but you … Did Eric bring a bodyguard to keep you company? Because otherwise, that boy is in for some trouble.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“He did mention the male-female ratio in this town, didn’t he?” she says.

“I’m accustomed to working in a male-dominated environment.”

She throws back her head and laughs. “Ah, sugar. You have no idea what you’ve walked into. But we’ll discuss that another time. Right now, I need local law enforcement at my establishment and it seems you’re it. Ever break up a bar fight?”

I check my watch. “Not before noon.”

“Welcome to Rockton.”

As we walk, the woman introduces herself. Isabel Radcliffe, owner of the Roc.

“Used to be called the Rockton Arms,” she explains, “until we lost most of the sign in an ice storm. Did Will tell you about the Roc? I’m not going to ask if Eric did. Our local sheriff is a lot better at communicating with his fists. Luckily for us.”