Chapter 6
of Strange Moon Rising
Ross emerged from his office with a legal pad at half-past six. He parked himself on the corner of Riley’s desk, tore off the top page, and handed her a hand-drawn calendar. “Full-timers do eight-hour shifts, four times a week, with one twelve-hour on-call night. You don’t have to be in station or on patrol for the night shift, but you do have to be glued to your radio. If you’re sleeping, it’s on full volume next to your pillow. You’ll need to respond to any calls and yank us or the Sheriff’s deputies out of bed for backup. I’m going to have you on mid-shift tomorrow and Saturday, morning shift Sunday, and night shift next Tuesday. With this case, we might be pushing 10 hours shifts day by day.” He waited for her nod of agreement before turning to the rest of the room. “Greg, since you ended up doing a mid-shift today, I’ll cover tonight if you’ll cover tomorrow’s night shift for Kellen.”
Greg shrugged. “I can cover tonight. I’m at the fire station in the morning, so that’s no problem.”
“I’ll cover it, but I might need you to swap out a night shift with the firehouse next week. Kellen, I know you’re not scheduled for a day shift until Sunday, but I want you in tomorrow on the morning shift so we can rotate covering patrols, canvasing, and the footwork we’ll need to make headway on the case while we wait for the autopsy and forensics.”
Brand crossed his arms and leaned as far back as his chair would allow. “I’d be happy to take the lead on the case if you want to dedicate Andy to MacIntyre’s orientation.” The tightness around his eyes countered his casual suggestion.
Ross remained focused on his notepad. “You took point on the last major case—Andy’s up. I’ll reevaluate the schedule next week,” and to Riley, “if MTPOST doesn’t send your approval paperwork soon, I’ll get Walton to deputize you.”
“Working for the enemy,” she mock gasped.
“Sometimes, it feels like that.”
Andy nudged Greg’s shoulder. “Can’t poke fun at our traditional nemesis, considering my brother works for ‘em.”
“I thought you meant our parents,” Greg chuckled. “I can ask Tony to reduce my hours at the firehouse for next week, but I’ll need to keep to my half-evening shift this Saturday.”
“That’s fine.” Ross jotted something down. “On the bright side, you’re all getting plenty of overtime.”
Brand spun the station’s keys around his hand while Riley shut down her computer. He waited until the Chief and the Logan brothers were in the parking lot to say, “Family favors are something you’ll have to get used to.”
She glanced over, eyebrow raised. “I’m surprised Sergeant Logan isn’t lead on every case.”
“The load is shared more often than it would be in a large department.”
She gathered her things and pushed her chair flush with the desk. “But?”
“They’re locals, we’re not. It can affect the job.”
His words rang true, proving he believed them. Belief not always equated to accuracy. “Uh-huh. You accused me of gaining favoritism, like, six hours ago.”
Lips flattening in a line, he shook his head. “Yeah, that was me being a dick.”
The blunt statement startled a laugh out of her. “Well, we agree on that, but if you don’t mind, I’ll form my own opinion.”
“Just,” he stopped her with a raised hand, “don’t be surprised when you get the run-around when it comes to local matters.”
A single nod seemed to appease him. Riley trailed Brand outside, where Ross, Andy, and Greg stood talking. They made to leave only after she turned out of the parking lot.
To the west of Main Street, the town’s lights glittered off the smooth surface of Lodger River, filling her windows with phantom reflections. She cracked them despite the dropping temperatures in the mountains’ evening shadows, relishing in the crisp air that carried earthy scents like maple and pine rather than car exhaust and moldering garbage. Old Mooney’s home sat northwest of Woodrun, a good twenty-minute drive through the woods beyond the town’s limits. A single neighboring property butted up against the far east side of the four hundred acres, so unless someone accidentally hiked out of the surrounding Lodger National Forest, she had no worries about running into anyone. No worries about the TV being too loud for the upstairs neighbor. No worries about hearing arguments or amorous encounters through the walls. No one to hear screams for help. Riley shook her head and pulled into the attached garage. She could still hear her grandmother’s giggle, when on her first visit, she’d told her it would be better suited as a lodge. Old Mooney’d said, ‘with a family like ours, we need our own lodge.’ The hall to the kitchen overflowed with photos—O’Mooneys and MacIntyres alike. She pressed her fingertips to the frame surrounding a portrait of her grandmother on her way past.
Her badge took up residence on the shelf above the coat hooks. Riley imagined it’d be a habit if she stayed, imagined her gun next to it, and her browning belt hanging from the hook below. The mental image implied a comfort level now difficult to picture. Had she raised her hopes a little too quickly? Riley tried to shake off Brand’s warning about locals versus outsiders, but Greg’s earlier half-truth about Woodrun still nagged. ‘Just your normal, everyday stuff’ wasn’t too big a turn-off for her city-sabbatical, though she’d rather not be ‘bored’ after the unusual homicide case.
Her first day hadn’t gone like she’d expected. So what? It’s not like Riley could cut and run in the middle of a murder investigation. Well, she could—no, not without losing all her self respect. She should at least see the case through. Riley needed to spend quality time with her coworkers, learn the ins-and-outs of the town, put a murderer away, and then, maybe, run screaming like Ross suggested. Or even scarier—stay.
The oven dinged to signal dinner, echoing the cheery sound into the vaulted log-beam ceilings. She ate a few slices of meat-lovers pizza standing at the counter, mulling over which half-truth of Greg’s would be the better option. Riley passed the closed door to her grandmother’s empty bedroom and climbed the stairs to the one she’d claimed as her own. She allowed images of the day’s crime scene to loop in her mind while she got ready for bed, and when she climbed in, the trick Dergby’d taught her to avoid sleepless nights, fighting things she’d rather forget, let her move on to relaxing her muscles one by one without flashes of corpses or career worries. Nearly gone to the lull of falling asleep, the slow sensation of pinpricks washing over the crown of Riley’s head hardly registered.
Obligatory Legal Stuff:
This chapter is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidences are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, locals, and events are coincidental.
No generative AI used. No AI training or scraping allowed.
All rights reserved.
Chapter Title Image created in Canva. Canva Pro image used in background.