Declan
"He was establishing dominance," Malachi corrected softly, placing a plate of food in front of me. "He wanted to see what kind of man NYPD sent to his town. Zion reads people down to their marrow, Dec. If you show him weakness, he'll exploit it. If you show him aggression, he'll match it tenfold."
I stared at the food, the smell of the bacon suddenly making my stomach turn. "Julian ever talk about him?"
Malachi paused, his fingers resting on the back of a chair. His gaze drifted toward the floor for a brief moment before returning to mine. "Julian knew of him. Everyone in Enen knows the Zephaniahs. But Julian stayed away from the Reserve. He was smart enough to know where the boundary lines were drawn."
"Julian was a homicide cop," I said sharply. "He didn't back down from anyone."
"And Julian is dead, Declan," Malachi said, his voice dropping into a somber, deadly quiet tone that hit me like a physical blow.
The kitchen fell deathly still. The only sound was the crackle of the woodfire in the adjacent living room and the steady patter of rain against the windowpanes.
Malachi's eyes softened instantly, a look of genuine regret washing over his face. "I'm sorry. That was cruel of me. I only mean... don't go looking for fights out here before you even have your feet under you. Enen looks like a quiet mountain town, but the currents beneath the surface are deep and dangerous. Please. Just be careful."
I swallowed past the lump in my throat, staring down at my dark coffee. Julian. Every conversation, every road, every shadow in this town seemed to lead back to his absence.
"I need to get to the precinct," I rasped, standing up from the barstool and leaving the plate untouched. "Sheriff Boggs expects me at eight to finalize my transfer paperwork."
"Declan, eat something first—"
"I'm fine, Mal," I cut him off, reaching for my leather jacket. "Thanks for the coffee."
Stepping out of the main house, daylight hadn't made the valley any friendlier; it had just stripped away the cover of night.
I climbed into my Ford truck, the leather seat cold against my legs, and fired up the engine. Cranking the heat, I guided the truck down Malachi's long gravel driveway, the wet stones crunching heavily beneath my tires. Up ahead, the wrought-iron gates stood wide open, framing the narrow county road that snaked down toward the valley floor.
The rain had temporarily let up, leaving the morning air heavy with the sharp, cold scent of wet pine, ozone, and damp earth.
Stepping out of the ranch house earlier had proven that daylight hadn't made Enen any friendlier; it had just stripped away the cover of night. In the pale, muted silver of the morning light, Enen looked less like a town and more like a settlement swallowed whole by the Pacific Northwest wilderness. Towering Douglas firs and ancient redwoods bordered the narrow asphalt, so dense that the sky was squeezed into a thin, pale ribbon high above. Water dripped rhythmically from the overhead canopy, splashing in heavy fat drops across my windshield as I drove.
I kept one hand on the steering wheel, my mind still churning through the conversation I'd had over breakfast. Malachi's gentle warnings about Zion Zephaniah—and his sharp reminder that Julian was dead—still rang in my ears. Julian had known where the boundary lines were drawn, but I was a Manhattan homicide detective. I didn't know how to turn off the instinct that told me a six-foot-five giant dragging heavy canvas bags at midnight was something that demanded answers.
As the dense treeline receded slightly, the main drag of Enen came into view.
It was an old timber town, rough around the edges and entirely unapologetic about its isolation. Weathered wooden storefronts with rusted tin roofs lined a three-block stretch, their facades stained dark from decades of damp mountain climate. Steam curled lazily from brick chimney stacks, carrying the faint, sharp smell of burning cedar into the crisp air. Old pickup trucks—caked in dried mud and hauling chainsaw rigs, heavy steel cables, and logging gear—were parked along the gravel shoulders.
The locals moved through the cold mist with a slow, deliberate purpose. Men in heavy canvas jackets and mud-caked work boots barely looked up as my truck rolled past, though I could feel their heavy, cautious eyes tracking my out-of-state plates through the fogged glass. There was a quiet, insular vigilance to the way they carried themselves—a collective posture that warned outsiders they were guests on borrowed time.
At the far end of the main drag, tucked near the base of a jagged, dark rock face, sat the Enen Police Department.
Seeing it in the daylight only reinforced how completely out of my element I really was. The building was a solid, low-slung structure built from heavy river stone and dark cedar beams. A faded, hand-carved wooden sign hung over the entrance, the gold paint chipping away at the corners: ENEN POLICE DEPARTMENT - COUNTY SHERIFF. It looked more like a fortified mountain outpost or an old forestry lodge than a modern law enforcement facility.
I pulled off the paved road onto the wet gravel parking lot. The precinct had space for maybe a dozen vehicles, currently occupied by three mud-splattered Ford Explorer patrol cruisers, an old Dodge pickup with a snowplow attachment, and a couple of personal sedans.
I shifted into park, killing the ignition, and sat in the quiet cab for a long second. I adjusted my shoulder holster under my leather jacket, checking the comfortable, heavy weight of my SIG Sauer P226 nestled against my ribs. Taking a deep breath of the cold, pine-heavy air leaking through the vents, I shoved the truck door open.
My boots hit the wet gravel with a sharp, heavy crunch. The air was frigid, biting at my cheeks and clearing the last lingering fog of zero sleep from my head. I walked up the three low stone steps to the heavy timber front doors, pushed through the iron handle, and stepped inside.