“Because I’m taking everyone back down to the station so they can charge their phones and we can figure out what is going on before making any arrests.”

“Oh, that’s very smart.” Mrs. Morgan looked over at Shelby. “He gets the brains from my side. Albert here is guided by his passions. It can be overwhelming at times but also very worth it. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

Shelby squeaked—literally—out something that sort of sounded like an answer, and a few minutes later, they’d gathered all their stuff and were piling into a truck with a sheriff’s logo painted on the side and a snowplow attachment on the front. Ian and Shelby took the back while all the Morgans took the front seats, and they headed down the mountain. Heart racing as she drummed her fingers on the space between them, Shelby looked over at Ian, trying for a we’re-gonna-be-okay smile and failing miserably. Mug shots were very much not her thing. Ian let out a soft signature grunt and took her hand—and some of the tension in her shoulders eased a bit. She wasn’t alone in this. And the fact that that made her feel so good let her know that she was in trouble, because whatever had happened between them had to stay at that cabin.

…

The Buffly County Sheriff’s Office break room had fresh coffee, actual heat coming out of the vents, and—best of all—electricity. Sure, Ian’s screen was a mass of spidery cracks, but all he needed was for there to be enough visible screen to read the email Lucy had sent that would clear up this mess. He plugged in his phone using the cord Deputy Alan handed him.

“Don’t suppose you have an iPhone Four charger?” Shelby asked, the contents of her oversize purse scattered about on one end of the break room table. “I swear I packed mine, but it’s not in my bag.”

“You have a Four?” Ian and Alan shared a what-the-fuck eyebrow raise.

“Hey, don’t mock.” She started tossing things back into her bag. Notepad. Six pens. Three ChapSticks. Hand sanitizer. So many gum wrappers. “It works great. I also have a regular Crock-Pot, a top-loading washer, and the first-generation Kindle Paperwhite. I like what I like.”

“Sorry,” Alan said with a cough that sounded a lot like he was trying to cover up a laugh. “I only have the lightning chargers. I’ll ask around. Someone might have one in a drawer somewhere, but we’re running on a skeleton crew with the storm and all.”

Mrs. Morgan—still giving him the hey-baby eye—sat down across from him with a cup of coffee, steam rising up from the mug. Her husband took the seat next to her, ignoring the mug in his hands in favor of glaring at Ian and Shelby.