The soprano’s voice built to a crescendo causing Deputy Sheriff Dusty Taylor to tap his hand against the steering wheel and nod his head with the feel of the music. He did not look like the typical opera devotee. His closely shaved hair and beard in an indistinguishable shade between blonde and brown flecked with gray framed a strong face. At thirty-eight years old, he looked good. In his official marked vehicle, he rode the short distance from his house to the county sheriff’s office. A cup of black coffee and an aria were all he needed to wake up in the morning. The coffee helped to make him conscious. The music made him agreeable.

He drove past rows of trees just beginning to lose their leaves and houses just beginning to stir. The lack of sun on the morning drive no longer bothered him. After just shy of twenty years with the department, there wasn’t much that bothered him. He’d seen all there was to see in a county of 4,998 people. The occasional drunk, the more than occasional domestic, and the common reckless drivers encompassed the bulk of the county’s crimes.

The beige brick building came into view with its collection of flag poles in front. He passed the parking spot designated for the employee of the month because he found it pretentious. If he ever reached the point where ten extra steps into the building would kill him, he shouldn’t be in law enforcement anymore and thus would not need a special parking spot. Instead, he parked next to the other marked vehicles and, locking it more out of habit than necessity, walked into the building.

Loud florescent lights greeted him. His eyes took a moment to adjust, but he continued to make his way over to his desk, the steps familiar. Their dispatcher/ secretary/ guardian angel Nancy Hightower smiled at him as he passed. Her red hair, a sharp contrast to her dark brows, perched on top her head in a style that reminded him of bird’s nest, messy with a distinct purpose to it.

A look at the shift calendar hanging on the wall reminded him that today was his first day with a new trainee, fresh out of the Tennessee Law Enforcement Academy. He checked the board for any other announcements he may have missed. The trash folder of his email received departmental emails on a daily basis. A coworker’s kid selling girl scout cookies, a reminder for the Fall Fest at the werewolf pack to the west, and someone trying to find a roommate filled the rest of the bulletin board.

He turned to the door of the roll-call room. The sign attached to it warned that it stuck and that a work order had been submitted a few years prior. With a shove, Dusty opened the door and greeted the sheriff with a stiff nod. Milton Woodard with his heavily pomaded gray hair let out a booming laugh from his place behind the podium, deep in conversation with the only remaining officer on Dusty’s shift, Douglas McCray.

The only other person in the room sat ramrod straight at the first table near the front of the room. A young man in a pressed and starched uniform yet to see a speck of dirt stared straight ahead with his hands folded on the table in front of him.

“I’m guessing you’re my new trainee. Ren, right?” Dusty stuck out his hand.

The other man jumped to his feet before shaking the offered hand. “Ren Harada. It’s nice to meet you sir.”

Dusty joined him at the table and nodded at the younger man to sit back down. “I’m Dusty Taylor.” He shook his head toward the two men at the podium. “Have you met them yet?”

“Yes sir.”

Dusty ignored the sirs, hoping the kid would drop them on his own as he got more comfortable. He’d learned over the years that too much correction on the first day could scare people away.

“Good. Today should be an easy day. I’ll show you round the county, respond to any calls that come in, and help you get to know the locals.”

Ren nodded, and the sheriff brought the roll call to order. It was a good speech, welcoming Ren to the team, reiterating the department’s mission statement, even throwing in a few jokes that made the ramrod posture relax just a bit.

A curse outside the door made them jump. Nancy shoved her way into the room muttering about “that damn door” under her breath. When she looked up at them, Dusty saw that the color had drained from her cheeks.

“There’s been a murder.”

#

The textured ceiling created an urban constellation above the bed. Brett’s eyes tracked the lion with only three legs leaping towards a very surprised looking deer. Considering that the deer did not have a body, it seemed to have suffered enough in Brett’s opinion. Her alarm continued to blare from across the room. With a heavy sigh, Brett dragged herself from the bed and towards the dresser to change into her running clothes: a bright yellow long sleeve shirt with matching leggings and a multi-colored striped tank top with matching shorts. In this outfit, a car would have to be driven by a careless and/or homicidal maniac to hit her. Shoving her earbuds into her ears and her phone into her pocket, she bounded down the stairs, slipping on the third from last step that dipped in the middle.

Brett paused at the kitchen to turn on the coffee timer, put on her tennis shoes, and turned on the puntastic running playlist including every song she’d ever encountered with the word run/ran/running in the title or lyrics. Not bothering to lock the door, in Mt. Clive there was no need. The smallest town in the county with a little more than 500 people, her house key collected dust in the macrame bowl her best friend Tess had made in her artsy phase. The wet ground squelched under her feet. The gray asphalt shone with leftover rain and the morning dew. She’d take the wooded trail then. Bouncing on her feet, she took a deep breath and ran onto the path.

The roots and stones seemed to move around her. Her body reacted to the environment with the muscle memory gained through years of running the trail. It knew where a root stuck out a little to the left or where a large stone made the ground slick. Her head bobbed with the music; her lips mouthed along with the words. Leaves brushed against her limbs as she ran, her breath coming out in bursts. Her foot caught on something in the middle of the path, and she fell, arms spinning as the ground sped up to meet her. Her hand shot out to catch herself and sank into something cold and wet. Brett gagged. Rolling into a seated position, she lifted her hand to her face. Blinking as her eyes attempted to focus in the dark, her arm stung from the impact. Coated in a thick wet sludge, she wiped it on her pants, already stained with dirt on her knees. She pushed herself to her feet and looked down to see what had tripped her.

Her eyes focused on the mash of rotten plant material brewing inside a fallen trunk. A breathy laugh escaped Brett’s lips. She’d known for years that the tree would have to be removed but had put it off time and time again. A flash of white against the greens and browns of the ground caught her eye. She moved closer, wiping her arm against the leg of her pants. It looked like fabric, a white lace applique that she’d seen and admired at the boutique on Main St. Her eyes followed the lines of the fabric partially hidden against the leaves until she saw it. A toe with bright yellow nail polish. Her breath quickened and she backed up, her eyes traveling up the fabric until she stared into empty eyes and screamed.