The gentle creak of wooden walls, the rhythmic lapping of waves against the hull, and the distant hum of the ship's engines provided a strangely soothing background as Brendon lay stretched out in the narrow bunk of his cabin. The small circular window offered a view of the sea—gray and endless—but Brendon's eyes isn't focused on it.
His mind is miles away.
He lit a cigarette, the orange glow flickering in the dim light. Smoke curled upward and disappeared into the stale air of the cabin, but his thoughts remained heavy and tangled.
Amelia Hudson.
He had gone through her file again and again. A young, promising human— just nineteen years old. Disappeared from her parents home in Ridgecliff. No signs of foul play, no ransom, no leads.
And now she'd been found… in a cave, of all places. With two unconscious boys.
"Not kidnapping," she'd claimed. "Helping them." She spoke like she believed it.
Brendon sighed deeply, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"Damn it, Amelia…"
The moment she turned and he saw her face, something inside him faltered. She had that same warm spark in her eyes from the file photos—but now twisted by weariness and desperation. There had been no cult, no arcane magic, no supernatural trap.
Only a girl.
A girl who had chosen to run, to hide, and to help others—at least, that's what she believed she was doing.
Brendon tried to convince himself saying that maybe she was brainwashed by that cult... or maybe she really was helping.
The second possibility wrenched his guts. Though he counters it by thinking, "No the calmness she had back in that caves.... that's unusual. She would have been a little terrified if she was really helping them from keeping away from whatever the cult is.... what he had seen."
"But what am I going to tell her parents?" Brendon muttered aloud, staring at the ceiling.
Her father, a quiet man with tired eyes. Her mother. And then there was Mr. Hudson, her uncle—an old anthro wolf with silver-gray fur. Respected, sharp-eyed, and trusted by the people of Ridgecliff.
Brendon could still hear Mr. Hudson's voice: "Bring her back to me, Boys. I know she is now trouble."
Brendon exhaled slowly.
She isn't dead. But now she is in custody. And the truth would hurt more than a corpse.
His fingers drummed against the edge of the bunk. He hated this part—the aftermath. The justice system would sort through the details, of course, but what he had seen in that cave was too complicated for a clean report. And when emotions ran this deep, truth and reason didn't always matter.
He stubbed out the cigarette and stood.
The ship horn sounded—long and low.
They were docking.
---
The port of Holyhead, a port between England and Wales, is shrouded in an overcast haze as the ship eased into place. Thick ropes are tossed over to handlers. Seagulls squawked above the masts. The workers on the docks shouted instructions as passengers gathered their things and prepared to disembark.
Brendon slung his coat over his shoulder and moved through the ship's narrow passageways, the familiar clack of his boots echoing with each step. He didn't expect a welcome party—certainly not from the Ridgecliff PD—but he is eager to get back, to regroup and reconnect with Robert and others.
As he stepped off the ship's ramp onto the creaky wooden dock, his sharp eyes caught sight of something—or rather, someone—unexpected.
A cluster of guards stood near a sleek, black car. They wore dark uniforms, sleek sunglasses, and expressions that said "touch us and die."
And at the center of it all, flanked like royalty, was Mayor Guerio.
Small, dressed in a double-breasted navy coat and a wide-brimmed hat, the mayor of Ridgecliff looked freshly polished and ready for something more than a simple political meeting. He adjusted his cufflinks with practiced precision, a large suitcase resting at his side.
Brendon blinked, surprised.
Mayor Guerio? Here?
He adjusted his coat and walked toward him, navigating past crates and dockhands. But before he could get close, two of the bodyguards stepped into his path.
"Hold it," one of them said. "Private departure."
Brendon raised an eyebrow. "Relax. I just want to say hi to Mr. Mayor."
"He's busy."
"I'm Brendon Wolf. Ridgecliff PD. Sheriff." He held up his badge like a playing card. "And I'm just curious what the mayor is doing boarding an outbound ship."
That got their attention—but before the tension could rise further, a smooth voice called out from behind the guards.
"Let him through."
The guards parted immediately, and Mayor Guerio stepped forward, adjusting his gloves with a calm, pleasant expression.
"Sheriff Wolf. I had a feeling we'd run into each other again."
Brendon smirked. "Didn't expect you to be heading out of the country today."
Guerio smiled tightly. "France. Business trip. Last minute."
"You usually bring this many guards for a business trip?"
The mayor's expression didn't change. "It's not the safest time to be a public figure. Especially with all that's been happening in Ridgecliff."
Brendon studied him, noting the twitch of a brow, the slight stiffness in his shoulders. Something wasn't adding up.
"You were in Lagooncrest recently," Brendon said casually.
"I was," Guerio confirmed. "Three months ago. I visited there to just got myself refreshed."
Brendon nodded slowly. "You didn't stop by the hospital, though. Or check in with the local PD."
"I had other appointments."
Brendon's gaze narrowed. "Funny. You and 'appointments' always seem to show up where the case goes darkest."
For the first time, Guerio's smile faltered just slightly.
He stepped forward, lowering his voice so only Brendon could hear.
"Careful, Sheriff. There are some doors better left unopened."
Brendon's smirk returned. "Lucky for me, I'm good at breaking locks."
Before the tension could crack any further, the ship horn sounded again. Guerio turned to leave, lifting his suitcase as the guards moved to flank him once more.
"Ridgecliff's in your hands, Sheriff," Guerio said over his shoulder. "Make sure it stays safe."
Then he boarded the ship, vanishing into its upper decks.
Brendon stood still, watching the vessel for a long time before finally turning away.
"France, huh?" he muttered.
He didn't buy it.
Not for a second.
---
The ride back into Ridgecliff was long and winding. (Distance between Port of Holyhead and Ridgecliff is about 9 Kilometers)
The cab was musty and smelled faintly of grease and old coffee. The driver didn't talk much—a blessing Brendon appreciated. He sat in the backseat, one arm resting against the window, watching as the landscape shifted from quiet coastal roads to the familiar outskirts of the town.
From a distance, Ridgecliff looked almost peaceful.
But Brendon knew better.
The town's modest skyline bore the scar where the Lenton Spire used to stand before it collapsed two years ago. Construction cranes now lingered like skeletal fingers against the horizon. Thin plumes of smoke rose from the old textile mill near the west end, and in the distance, the faint wail of a siren cut through the air like a warning note.
Ridgecliff was like a scab that never healed—always wounded, always bleeding.
But it was his.
The cab rolled through Granger Street, past the familiar newsstand where old Mr. Carlton still sold papers, the corner noodle shop with faded signage, and the rusted overpass that marked the edge of downtown. Finally, it pulled to a stop near Ridgecliff PD headquarters, a modest but sturdy gray-stone building that stood like a sentinel at the town's heart.
Brendon paid the driver and stepped out, stretching his shoulders as he looked up at the structure that had housed countless cases, arguments, and long nights.
He took a deep breath and pushed through the front doors.
Inside, the hum of the station wrapped around him like an old coat—familiar and frayed. Phones rang. Keyboards clacked. Officers shuffled paperwork, barked updates, and sipped bad coffee. A bulletin board near the entrance was already cluttered with new flyers—missing persons, wanted posters, and one that read "Community BBQ—This Saturday."
It is total chaos—but organized chaos.
Just how he liked it.
And somewhere within all this noise… is the truth.