When they’d left, Dyson’s office dipped into silence. A vent kicked on somewhere, a low gurgle and hum. Nate’s gaze drifted to the picture of Dyson and Matt Sweeney just over Dyson’s shoulder. If only he could talk to his dad—but the stroke had stolen speech from him too.

He took a toothpick from his pocket and rolled it between his fingers before popping it between his teeth. “What do you think?” he asked.

Dyson frowned, stroking his mustache. “I’m not saying it’s strictly against policy. He’s Emma’s brother, not yours. But I’m not saying it’s right either.”

“People could die if we don’t find this gang.”

“Yeah.”

“But investigating Ben, interviewing him, that opens us up to legal challenges down the road if he’s involved.”

“Yeah, it does.”

“But if we don’t investigate him, fentanyl could become an even bigger problem.”

“Yeah.”

Nate scowled at Dyson. “Are you gonna help me here or just agree with everything I say?”

Dyson sighed. “Look, Nate, you know yourself the budget cuts we got here. The truth is, we could use a case like this to prove we deserve more funding.” He hesitated. “You could use a case like this.”

Nate drew back. “Are you saying my job’s on the line?”

Dyson blinked, startled. “Course not, son! You’re my best detective. I’m saying, I’m retiring next year. It’s time for me to pass this job on to someone younger. I want you to apply. I’d put a word in for you, of course. More money, more regular hours with your family.”

Nate’s mouth fell open, a curl of pride twisting in his middle. Lieutenant? Him?

Dyson grabbed his cowboy hat and shoved it on his head. “You can help investigate your wife’s brother, impress Chief O’Neill, and make your mark with the mayor, or you can let our community continue to be ravaged by fentanyl and oxy. I think you know the right answer.”

Nate’s phone buzzed against his leg again. He pulled it out as he left Dyson’s office. It was a text from his mother.

COME QUICKLY. JOSH IS IN THE ER.

CHAPTER 5

JOSH’S BEEN ADMITTED TO THE er.

The words snapped me into action. I sprinted past my colleagues, through reception, and out of the clinic. I took the stairs two at a time, the soles of my shoes making a hollow, vibrating sound against the metal surface. An elderly woman was struggling to open the door at the bottom of the stairwell. I pushed past her and barreled through.

The emergency room was on the ground floor, at the opposite corner of the hospital from the clinic. By the time I reached the front desk, I was sweaty and out of breath.

“My son… Joshua Sweeney…” I gasped at the admitting receptionist.