They’d been together every night for a week, since the day she’d told him she wanted to have a fling.

He shook his head. Weren’t flings supposed to be all about the sex? Admittedly, he and Audrey were certainly having sex. They were also waking up together, making breakfast, and teasing each other about eating habits.

He’d visit the coffee shop and library to see her; she’d wander into the station with coffee and donuts—because “isn’t that what police eat?”

He planted tomatoes with her in Lillian’s garden, and she’d helped him weed the Hermitage garden. She’d taken over gathering eggs from the chicken coop.

Last Sunday on Father’s Day, she’d talked him into fishing with her, Tucker, and Zappa. Later, after grilling their catches, he, Caz, and Bull had told her Mako stories that had her laughing, crying, and occasionally so spitting mad she’d have slapped the sarge if he’d been alive.

She’d not only joined them in singing, but also asked him to teach her guitar.

He’d never met anyone who dove into life with such enthusiasm. Having emerged from her Chicago cocoon and been reassured that introverts could win friends, there was no holding her back.

Next step, to get her to move from a fling into a real relationship…with him.

Gabe parked the patrol car by the grocery. He’d do a quick check of the businesses and stop in the coffee shop to collect a kiss from the prettiest woman in the state.

As he got out of the car, a spatter of frigid rain hit his face. No need for a cold shower when living in Alaska.

He glanced at the police station and turned away. The atmosphere there was nearly as chilly since, with no suitable reason to fire Baumer, the two-faced, lying bastard was still working.

Putting the frustration aside, Gabe entered the arts and crafts store.

“Good afternoon, Chief.” Glenda’s loom held some complicated weaving. “Did you come to check on your men?”

“My men?”

“Knox and Chevy.” She motioned toward new shelving that ran up one wall. “After they bought the lumber, Knox sanded and stained it, and Chevy put the shelves up.”

Gabe ran a finger over the wood. Nicely finished. “Looks good.”

“It does, indeed. We feel the two have more than repaid the graffiti.”

“I’m glad you—”

“Chief. Chief! Where’s the Chief? And the Doc?” The woman’s voice came from the street.

Hearing the desperation, Gabe ran outside.

A whipcord-lean, older woman stood between a pickup truck and his patrol car.

“What’s wrong?” Gabe skidded to a stop beside her.

“Inside.” She opened the pickup’s passenger door.

Head slumped to one side, an unconscious Chevy lay with the seat reclined as far back as it could get. His shirt was in shreds. Blood covered his face and one shoulder.

Hell.