Chapter 12: THE HEART'S MISTAKE
Lucas leaves the apartment at 10 PM. Says he's going for a drive. Needs to clear his head.
I know where he's going.
I give him ten minutes. Then follow.
The Hopewell house sits on the nice side of town. Two-story colonial. Well-maintained lawn. Lights in the windows. The kind of house that says "successful family, normal life, nothing to hide."
Except the wife is a criminal in witness protection. And the sheriff she went to prison for is parked down the street.
I pull up three houses back. Cut the lights. Watch.
Lucas sits in his car. Staring at the house. Not moving. Not approaching. Just... watching.
Through the front window, I can see movement. Gordon Hopewell in the living room. Reading to two kids—boy and girl, maybe eight and ten. Carrie enters frame. Sits on the couch. Smiles at something Gordon says. Perfect domestic scene.
Lucas's hands tighten on the steering wheel. Even from here, I can see the tension.
Twenty minutes pass. He doesn't move.
Then Carrie stands. Says something to Gordon. Walks toward the kitchen. Disappears from view.
Thirty seconds later, she appears at the side door. Doesn't look toward Lucas's car. Just steps out into the yard. Waiting.
She knew he was here.
Lucas exits his vehicle. Walks toward her. Staying in shadows. Avoiding streetlights. Professional criminal instinct—don't be seen.
They meet at the property line. Trees provide cover. I can't hear them. Can only watch body language.
Carrie's posture is defensive. Arms crossed. Weight back. Creating distance.
Lucas reaches toward her. She steps back. Shakes her head.
He says something. She responds—sharp movement. Anger or fear.
He tries again. Softer approach. She looks back at the house. At the windows where her family sits.
The conversation lasts maybe three minutes. Then Carrie turns. Walks back to the house. Doesn't look back.
Lucas stands alone in the dark. His shoulders slump. Defeated.
I start the car. Pull forward. Stop next to him.
He looks at me. No surprise. He knew I'd follow.
"Get in," I say.
He does. Sits in the passenger seat. Stares straight ahead.
I drive. Not toward the apartment. Just away. Give him space to process.
"She doesn't want me here," he finally says. "She told me to leave town."
"Will you?"
"No."
"Lucas—"
"I spent fifteen years in prison for her. Fifteen years. And she's asking me to disappear like I never existed." His voice is raw. "I can't do that."
"You might have to."
He looks at me. "You think I should leave?"
"I think you're compromised. Your judgment is gone. You're making mistakes." I keep my tone neutral. Professional. "Tonight, you parked outside the DA's house and approached his wife in secret. If Gordon saw that, we're done. Both of us."
"He didn't see."
"This time. But you'll try again. You can't help it. You're obsessed."
"I love her."
"Love makes you stupid. Obsession makes you dangerous." I pull over. Turn to face him. "I need to know—can you let this go? Can you focus on being sheriff without this woman destroying you?"
Lucas doesn't answer immediately. He's thinking. Actually considering it.
"I don't know," he finally admits. "I thought seeing her would give me closure. Thought we'd talk, understand each other, maybe..." He trails off. "Instead, she's terrified. Like I'm a threat instead of the man who protected her."
"You are a threat. To her life. Her family. Everything she built." I lean back. "She's right to be afraid."
"You're not helping."
"I'm being honest. Someone has to be."
Silence settles. Lucas stares out the window at passing streetlights.
"What did she say?" I ask eventually. "At the house."
"That she's happy. That Gordon is good to her. That her kids deserve stability." His voice cracks slightly. "That me being here risks everything she's worked for. That I should leave if I ever really loved her."
"Maybe she's right."
"Maybe she is." He laughs—bitter, broken. "Fifteen years. And the best thing I can do for her is disappear."
I don't have a response to that. The truth is harsh. Love doesn't fix everything. Sometimes it just makes pain last longer.
We sit in silence. Eventually, I drive back to the apartment.
Inside, Lucas heads straight for the bourbon. Pours three fingers. Drinks it. Pours again.
"You should stop," I say.
"Probably."
He doesn't stop.
I let him drink. Sometimes people need to drown before they can surface. Sometimes the only mercy is not pulling them up too soon.
By midnight, he's drunk. Sloppy. Words slurring.
"You know what's funny?" He waves his glass, bourbon sloshing. "I thought I was the criminal. The bad guy. But she's the one who left. Who built a life on lies. Who married someone who doesn't know who she really is."
"She survived. You respect that."
"Do I?" He drinks. "Or do I hate her for being better at it than me?"
I don't answer. The question is too close to honesty neither of us wants to touch.
Lucas keeps drinking. Talking. Cycling through anger, sadness, acceptance, back to anger. The stages of grief for something that died fifteen years ago but he's only now burying.
I listen. Don't judge. Don't advise. Just witness.
Around 2 AM, my phone buzzes. Text message. Unknown number.
The deputy and the thief. Interesting combination. — A Friend
I stare at the message. Read it again.
Someone knows. Not just about me. About Lucas too. About what we are.
I show Lucas. He squints at the screen. Too drunk to fully process.
"Who's that?"
"Don't know. But they know about us. Both of us."
"Fuck 'em." He waves dismissively. "Everyone can know. I don't care anymore."
"You should care. This is our lives. Our covers."
"Covers." He laughs. "We're wearing dead men's names, pretending to be cops, protecting a town that would kill us if they knew. And now someone knows. So what? Let them know. Let everyone know."
"Lucas—"
"I'm tired, Ben. Tired of hiding. Tired of pretending. Tired of being someone I'm not." He sets down his glass. "Maybe we should just... stop."
"Stop what?"
"All of it. Being deputies. Playing this game. Wearing these badges." His eyes are red. Drunk and crying and broken. "Just take whatever money we have and disappear. Start over somewhere else."
"You want to run."
"I want to be done."
I understand the impulse. The weight of deception gets heavy. But running solves nothing. Creates new problems.
"Sleep," I say. "We'll talk tomorrow when you're sober."
"Might never be sober again."
"Try anyway."
He stumbles to his room. Shuts the door. Silence.
I delete the text message. Can't do anything about it tonight. Whoever sent it wanted reaction. Fear. Panic.
They won't get it.
I pour my own bourbon. Small measure. Just enough to taste.
The text bothers me more than I want to admit. Someone knows too much. Someone's playing games. The photo this morning, now this message. Connected? Different sources?
A Friend.
The phrasing is deliberate. Mock intimacy. Threat wrapped in courtesy.
I think about the patterns. Who benefits from knowing our secret? Who has resources to conduct surveillance? Who would message instead of act?
Castellano family? Possible. But this feels more local.
Kai Proctor? He's been watching. Assessing. But this isn't his style. Too subtle.
Someone else. Unknown player. Working angles I can't see yet.
I finish the bourbon. Stand at the window. The town sleeps. Peaceful. Unaware that their sheriff and deputy are frauds being hunted by unknown enemies.
Tomorrow, Lucas will wake up hungover and heartbroken. I'll manage that. Keep him functional. Prevent more mistakes.
And I'll start hunting whoever's hunting us.
Because I'm not afraid of exposure. I'm not afraid of enemies.
I'm the wolf.
And the wolf doesn't run.
The wolf hunts back.
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