Chapter 5: THE DA'S WIFE
The District Attorney's office is exactly what I expect. Clean. Professional. American flags in the corner, law books on shelves, framed degrees on walls. The visual representation of justice and order.
We're corrupting it just by being here.
Gordon Hopewell stands when we enter. Maybe forty, already graying at the temples. Glasses. Kind eyes. A handshake that's firm without being aggressive.
"Sheriff Hood. Deputy Webb. Welcome." His smile is genuine. "Please, sit."
We sit. Gordon settles behind his desk, leaning forward with the eagerness of someone who actually believes in his job.
"I know the circumstances of your arrival weren't ideal," he says, directing this at me. "The crash. I'm sorry you had to go through that. How are you recovering?"
"Well, sir. Thank you for asking."
"Call me Gordon. We're colleagues now." He turns to Lucas. "And Sheriff, I have to say—I'm glad you're here. The previous sheriff... well, he was competent, but distant. This town needs law enforcement that engages with the community."
"I plan to," Lucas says. His voice is steady. Controlled. But I see the tension in his shoulders. The way his eyes keep drifting to the door.
Waiting.
Gordon talks about community initiatives. Budget constraints. The working relationship between the DA's office and the sheriff's department. I listen with half my attention. The rest tracks Lucas. Watches for cracks in his composure.
"Coffee?" Gordon asks. "My wife should be—ah, here she is."
The door opens.
She's older than the photograph. Fifteen years will do that. But still beautiful. Still dangerous-looking, even in the civilian disguise of pressed slacks and a cardigan. Her blonde hair is shorter. Her face has lines that weren't there before. Mom lines. Wife lines. The marks of a different life.
She carries a tray with coffee cups. Her eyes scan the room—professional courtesy—and land on Lucas.
She freezes. Just for a second. A micro-expression that Gordon misses because he's reaching for his cup. But I see it. And Lucas sees it.
Recognition. Shock. And underneath that—fear.
Not joy. Not relief. Fear.
"Carrie, these are our new law enforcement officers. Sheriff Lucas Hood and Deputy Marcus Webb." Gordon's voice is warm. Proud. "Gentlemen, my wife, Carrie."
"Ma'am." I stand, accept my coffee with a nod. Play the role.
Lucas stands too. His movements are mechanical. "Mrs. Hopewell."
"Sheriff." Her voice is carefully neutral. "Deputy. Welcome to Banshee."
She sets Lucas's coffee on the desk without looking at him directly. Her hand doesn't shake. A professional criminal's control. But the fear is still there, hidden behind the pleasant mask.
"Thank you for the coffee," Lucas says. Testing. Seeing if she'll react.
"Of course." She backs toward the door. "I'll leave you to your meeting."
"Actually—" Gordon waves her back. "Stay for a minute? I think it's good for community relationships if you meet our new law enforcement. You're on the school board, the hospital committee. Good for them to know who to call."
Carrie's smile doesn't waver. But her eyes scream no.
She sits in the chair next to me. Folds her hands in her lap. Perfect composure.
Gordon continues talking. Something about budget allocations. I make appropriate listening noises. But all my attention is on the silent conversation happening between Lucas and Carrie.
She won't look at him. He can't stop looking at her.
"Sheriff Hood, where did you do your training?" Gordon asks.
Lucas pulls his attention back. "Various places. Moved around a lot early in my career."
"And Deputy Webb—you and Sheriff Hood trained together?"
I open my mouth to answer. Realize the coffee cup in my hand is still full. I take a sip to buy time—
Pain.
Hot. Too hot. Burns my tongue. I swallow anyway, trying not to react. The burn spreads through my mouth. Stupid. I was so focused on watching the silent war between Lucas and Carrie that I forgot the basic physics of hot liquid.
"You okay?" Gordon asks.
"Fine. Just hot." I set the cup down carefully.
Carrie glances at me. For the first time, she actually sees me. Her eyes narrow slightly—professional assessment. Checking if I'm a threat or just collateral.
I meet her gaze. Let her see: I know. I'm with him. But I'm not your enemy.
Something shifts in her expression. Not trust. But maybe understanding. We're both protecting something. Both playing roles.
"How are you finding Banshee so far?" she asks. Polite conversation. Nothing underneath.
"Quiet," I say. "Peaceful. Different from the city."
"It can be both those things." Her tone is careful. "But it's also complicated. Small towns have their own politics. Their own power structures. It's important to understand the landscape before making waves."
Gordon laughs. "Carrie's being diplomatic. She means Kai Proctor. He's the unofficial king of Banshee. Owns half the town, employs the other half. Good man, from what I can tell. Philanthropist. But he has... influence."
"Influence," Carrie echoes. "That's one word for it."
"Now, honey—"
"I'm just saying our new sheriff should know that Kai Proctor isn't just a businessman. He's a force. And forces require careful navigation."
She's warning us. Or warning Lucas specifically. Stay away from things that are dangerous.
Lucas finally speaks. "I appreciate the advice, Mrs. Hopewell. I'm sure we'll meet Mr. Proctor soon enough."
"I'm sure you will." Carrie stands. "I should go. I have a school board meeting this afternoon. Sheriff, Deputy—good luck. I hope Banshee treats you well."
She leaves without another look at Lucas. The door closes. Her absence changes the room's pressure. Gordon relaxes. Lucas tightens further.
We finish the meeting. Discuss procedures, protocols, lines of communication. Gordon is thorough and earnest. I like him. That's the problem. He's a good man married to a criminal. He has no idea.
And we're going to destroy him if Lucas can't let go.
We leave twenty minutes later. Walk to the patrol cars in silence. Lucas's hands are fists at his sides.
"You okay?" I ask quietly.
"No."
"Lucas—"
"She was afraid. Did you see that? She was afraid of me." His voice cracks. "Fifteen years. I protected her. And she looked at me like I'm a threat."
"You are a threat. To her life here. To her safety. To everything she built."
"I wouldn't—" He stops. Can't finish the sentence.
Because we both know he would. Not intentionally. But his presence alone endangers her. If anyone digs into his background, into why he came to Banshee, they'll find her. Find the connection. Find the truth.
"She wants me gone," Lucas says. "That's what the look meant. Leave. Disappear. Let me keep this life."
"Maybe."
"Not maybe. Definitely." He leans against his car. "I spent fifteen years thinking about her. Wondering. Hoping. And she's spent fifteen years forgetting."
I don't know what to say. Comfort feels false. Agreement feels cruel.
"We should get back to the station," I say instead. Practical. Grounding.
Lucas nods. Doesn't move.
"Sheriff Hood?"
We turn. A woman approaches—deputy uniform, red hair, sharp green eyes. Professional bearing. She stops a few feet away, assessing us both.
"Deputy Siobhan Kelly," she says. "I'm on shift. Thought I'd escort you back, show you the patrol routes."
"Deputy Kelly." Lucas extends his hand. "Good to meet you."
She shakes. Then turns to me. "Marcus Webb?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Her eyes narrow. "You're taller than I expected."
My stomach drops. "Excuse me?"
"Marcus Webb. The old Marcus. He was five-nine, maybe five-ten. You're what—six-one?"
"People remember differently—"
"And heavier. He had some weight on him. You're lean." She tilts her head. "And older. Marcus was twenty-six. You look early thirties."
Lucas tenses beside me. Ready to intervene.
I force a smile. "The crash did a number on me. Lost weight during recovery. Maybe the stress aged me. And boots—these boots add an inch."
Siobhan doesn't look convinced. "Huh."
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing." She doesn't quite smile back. "Just observant. Hazard of the job. Shall we?"
She walks toward the patrol cars. Lucas and I exchange glances.
She knows something's wrong.
We follow. Get in our respective vehicles. Siobhan leads us through town, pointing out patrol routes and problem areas. Professional. Competent. Every inch the senior deputy showing rookies the ropes.
But she keeps watching me in her rearview mirror. Keeps assessing.
Back at the station, she parks, gets out, approaches my window.
"Deputy Webb."
"Yes?"
"Just so we're clear—I'm good at my job. I notice things. Details. Inconsistencies." She leans down, meeting my eyes. "And right now, something doesn't feel right about you. Maybe it's the crash. Maybe it's stress. Maybe it's nothing."
"It's nothing," I say firmly.
"Maybe." She straightens. "But I'll be watching. Because this town is my home. And I protect what's mine."
She walks away. Lucas approaches, jaw tight.
"We've got a problem," he says.
"Yeah."
"Siobhan Kelly is suspicious. Carrie's afraid. And we've been here three days."
"I know."
"This is falling apart faster than I thought."
I watch Siobhan disappear into the station. Professional. Dedicated. Dangerous.
"We adapt," I say. "Build the cover stronger. Give them reasons to trust us."
"And if Siobhan keeps digging?"
"Then we deal with it."
"How?"
I don't answer. Because I don't know. The options aren't good—run, intimidate, or wait for her to expose us.
My radio crackles.
"All units, we have a disturbance at Moody's Used Auto. Reports of aggressive confrontation. Units respond."
Lucas's eyes meet mine. "That's us."
We move. Get in our cars, lights on, heading out of town toward Moody's Auto.
Work. Action. Something besides the complicated mess of Lucas's past and Siobhan's suspicion.
Something I can handle.
Or so I think.
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