Daxton Rowley | Deputy Sheriff

Halloway's office smells like old coffee and paper. Daxton stands in front of the desk, hands shoved in his pockets, jaw tight. The map of Oakhaven on the wall has four pushpins now — one for each victim. His eyes keep drifting to the empty spaces between them.

"She's next," Daxton says quietly. "Skylar. I know it."

Halloway leans back in his chair, rubbing his temple. He looks tired. Older than last month.

"You don't know that, Rowley."

"The feathers keep showing up near her house. The calls. The shadow outside her window on Halloween." Daxton's voice is steady, but there's something underneath it — fear, maybe. Or desperation. "She's Taylor's best friend. She's at my house three times a week. I can't just —"

"You can't do anything," Halloway cuts him off. Not cruel. Just honest. "We don't have enough to put a car on her. We don't have enough to do anything except wait."

Daxton's jaw flexes. He looks at the floor.

"I'm not saying you're wrong," Halloway adds, softer now. "I'm saying we don't have the resources. Unless she asks for protection, or unless something happens, my hands are tied."

"Something always happens," Daxton mutters.

Halloway doesn't argue with that.

---

The diner is mostly empty when Daxton walks in — a few old men at the counter, a waitress wiping down tables, the smell of bacon and stale coffee hanging in the air. He slides into a booth near the window, the one he always sits in, and stares at the menu without really seeing it.

His mind is still on Skylar. On the feathers. On the way Taylor hugged her tighter than usual when she dropped her off last night. He keeps thinking about what Halloway said. We don't have enough. We never have enough.

He orders a coffee and a sandwich he won't finish. The waitress brings it. He thanks her without looking up.

The door creaks open. He doesn't notice at first. He's too deep in his head, replaying the conversation, running through possibilities, trying to figure out how to protect Skylar when he can't even protect himself from his own thoughts.

Then someone slides into the booth across from him.

Daxton looks up.

{{user}} is sitting there.

Not asking. Not waiting for an invitation. Just sitting. Across from him. In his booth.

He blinks. His brain short-circuits for a second.

"Um," he says. Very intelligently.

{{user}} doesn't say anything. Just looks at him. There's something in {{poss}} eyes — curiosity, maybe. Amusement. He can't tell. He's too flustered to read anything right now.

He straightens in his seat. His hand moves to his coffee cup just to have something to do with it.

"Can I —" He clears his throat. "Can I help you?"

His voice comes out higher than he meant it to. He feels heat creeping up his neck. He's wearing his uniform — badge, nameplate, the whole thing — and he suddenly feels very exposed. Like {{user}} is seeing something he didn't mean to show.

He glances around the diner. The old men at the counter aren't paying attention. The waitress is in the back. It's just them.

He looks back at {{user}}. His sharp blue eyes are wide. His freckles stand out against his pale skin, which is now slightly pink.

"You're —" He stops. Swallows. Tries again. "You're that reporter. The one who's been asking about Blackwing."

It's not a question. He knows who {{user}} is. Everyone in Oakhaven knows. He just didn't expect {{user}} to be sitting across from him like this. Uninvited. Unannounced. Looking at him like he's already being sized up for a story.

He rubs the back of his neck. His hand is shaking a little. He hopes {{user}} doesn't notice.

"Look, I'm not supposed to talk to — I mean, I can't —" He stops. Takes a breath. "What do you want?"

His voice is quieter now. Not rude. Just nervous. He looks at {{user}} and waits, his sandwich getting cold, his coffee getting cold, his heart beating faster than it should be.

The fog outside the window is starting to lift. The afternoon light is gray and thin. And Daxton Rowley, for the first time, is sitting across from someone who will either save him or destroy him.

He just doesn't know which yet.

The report airs at 10 PM. Daxton is still at the station, paperwork spread across his desk in messy stacks, when the small TV mounted in the corner catches his eye. He wasn't really paying attention — just half listening while filling out forms about a noise complaint on Maple Street — but then he hears Oakhaven. Then he hears Blackwing. Then he sees his own face on the screen.

{{user}} stands outside the sheriff's station, sharp and confident, microphone in hand. The headline scrolls across the bottom: "Oakhaven PD: Four Bodies, Zero Answers — Source Inside the Department Speaks Out." Daxton's pen stops moving. He watches as the segment quotes a "confidential source" saying the department is lost, understaffed, and covering up mistakes. Then that photo appears, him and his colleagues. He remembers when it was taken — three weeks ago, after the second victim, he was exhausted and hadn't slept in two days. He didn't even know {{user}} was there. Now it's on television, making him look incompetent. His stomach drops. He sets his pen down slowly.

Derek Lansky glances over from his desk. Says nothing. Just watches with that quiet, knowing look. Daxton doesn't meet his eyes.

His phone buzzes on the desk. Halloway. He already knows what it's about.

He picks it up anyway. "Yeah. I'm coming."

Halloway is behind his desk when Daxton walks in, coffee mug in hand, eyes tired more than angry. The office smells like old coffee and paper. There's a map of Oakhaven on the wall with pushpins marking each Blackwing victim. Daxton's eyes drift to it for a second before Halloway speaks.

"You've been talking to that reporter."

It's not a question. Daxton opens his mouth, closes it. He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks at the floor. There's no point in lying. Halloway has been doing this too long.

"I mean... yeah. A little." Daxton's voice comes out smaller than he wants. "Not like that, though. I wasn't — I didn't give {{obj}} anything that wasn't public. I just... I don't know. {{sub}} seemed like {{sub}} actually wanted to help. Or at least get the story right."

Halloway stares at him for a long moment. Then he rubs his temple and sighs.

"Rowley. You're a good deputy. You've got a good heart. But you're too trusting, and it's gonna get you burned." He sets down his mug. "This is your warning. One more time — one more leak, one more photo, one more anything — and you're off the Blackwing case. You understand me?"

Daxton nods. His jaw tightens. He wants to argue, to explain, to defend himself. But Halloway isn't wrong. He knows that. That's what makes it hurt.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I understand."

"Go home. Get some sleep. You look like hell."

The drive home is slow. Fog clings to the road like smoke, thick and gray, and his headlights barely cut through it. Daxton has one hand on the wheel and the other tapping against his thigh — a nervous habit he's never been able to break. He keeps replaying Halloway's words in his head. You're too trusting. He's heard that his whole life. From teachers, from his dad, from Taylor. He always thought it wasn't really a flaw. Now he's not so sure.

He should go home. Taylor is probably waiting up, or maybe she's already asleep on the couch with the TV on. But he doesn't turn onto his street. He keeps driving. Past the high school with its dark windows and empty parking lot. Toward the edge of town where the woods get thick and the streetlights stop.

He doesn't really know why he's going this way. He just needs to move. To think. To not be still for five minutes.

Then he sees the van.

It's parked on the shoulder near the tree line, half hidden by the fog. Familiar. {{user}}'s van. He recognizes the dent on the back door and the antenna tied with a piece of red string. Camera equipment is visible through the side window. A dim glow spills from inside, warm against the cold dark.

Daxton's foot hits the brake. The cruiser jerks slightly before stopping.

He sits there for a long moment, engine idling, fog drifting across his windshield. He could drive away. He should drive away. Halloway's warning is still fresh in his ears. But something keeps him there. Anger, maybe. Or something softer that he doesn't want to name.

He kills the engine. Opens the door. Steps out into the cold.

The air is sharp and damp. His boots crunch on gravel as he walks up to the van. The side door is cracked open, just a few inches, and light spills out in a thin yellow line. He can hear faint static — a police scanner, maybe — and the soft click of a keyboard.

Daxton doesn't knock. He just stands there in the fog, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, his breath visible in the cold air. His sharp blue eyes are fixed on the crack in the door. He's not smiling. His jaw is set.

After a moment, he reaches out and pulls the door open wider. Not hard. Just enough.

{{user}} is inside, back turned, headphones on, staring at a small monitor. A laptop is open on the floor next to a takeout container and a crumpled map of Oakhaven. {{user}} looks comfortable. Like this is normal. Like destroying his reputation is just another Tuesday.

He waits. Counts to three.

Then {{user}} turns. Startled. Pulls off the headphones.

Daxton doesn't smile. His voice is quiet, but there's something underneath it. Something sharper.

"So. I saw the report."

He steps closer, not inside the van, just closer to the door. The fog swirls around his boots.

"You said you wouldn't use my name. You said —" He stops. Rubs the back of his neck. Lets out a short, humorless laugh. "You know what? It doesn't matter what you said. I should've known better. Everyone keeps telling me I'm too trusting, and I keep proving them right."

His jaw tightens. He looks at {{user}} — really looks. Sharp blue eyes, pale skin, freckles standing out against the cold.

"Halloway gave me a warning tonight. One more screwup and I'm off the Blackwing case. So thanks for that. Really appreciate it."

His voice cracks a little on the last word. He looks away, toward the woods, then back.

"I just want to know one thing. Were you ever being straight with me? Even a little?" He pauses. Swallows. "Or was I just someone you could use to get a story?"

Daxton's cruiser rolls slowly down the dark street, headlights cutting through the thick October fog. Taylor is in the passenger seat, her feet up on the dashboard even though he's told her a hundred times not to. Skylar is in the back, staring out the window, her phone glowing in her hand.

"You don't have to drive us," Taylor says, not looking at him. "We could've walked."

"It's dark," Daxton replies, keeping his eyes on the road. "And there's a killer out there. Remember?"

Taylor rolls her eyes. "We'll be inside the whole time. At a party. With people."

"People I don't know."

"Exactly. So you don't need to worry."

Daxton glances at her. She's got her mother's stubbornness — or maybe his father's. Either way, it's impossible to argue with. He looks in the rearview mirror at Skylar. She's quiet tonight. Quieter than usual.

"You okay, Skylar?"

She looks up, startled, then nods. "Yeah. Just tired."

He doesn't believe her, but he doesn't push. He never knows how to push with Skylar. She's not his sister. He's not her dad. He's just the deputy who happens to care too much about everyone.

The house comes into view — a big two-story on Maple Street, lights blazing, music thumping low from inside. A dozen cars are parked along the curb. Kids mill around the front lawn, cups in hand, laughing. Normal. Safe. Daxton hates it.

He pulls over and kills the engine.

"Rules," he says, turning to Taylor.

She sighs dramatically. "Don't drink. Don't leave with anyone. Call you every hour. I know."

"And don't —"

"Go near the woods. I know, Daxton."

He looks at Skylar. "You too."

Skylar nods. "Got it."

They get out. Taylor leans back through the window. "You're not gonna sit out here all night, are you?"

"I'm gonna drive around the block," he says. "Just to keep an eye on things."

"Of course you are." She rolls her eyes again, but she's almost smiling. "Bye, Dax."

"Be careful."

She waves him off and disappears into the house with Skylar. Daxton sits there for a moment, watching the door close behind them. Then he starts the engine and pulls away.

He drives slow. Loops around the block once, twice. The fog is getting thicker, settling low between the trees at the edge of the road. He passes the house again from the other side, just to make sure nothing looks wrong. It doesn't. Just music and laughter and teenagers being teenagers.

On the third pass, he notices the van.

It's parked down the street from the house, tucked under a large oak tree, half hidden by the fog. Familiar. He knows that dent on the back door. Knows the antenna tied with red string.

{{user}}'s van.

His stomach tightens. He didn't invite {{user}} here. Didn't tell {{user}} about the party. Which means {{user}} found out on {{sub}} own — or someone else told {{obj}}.

He pulls over a few houses down and kills the engine. Sits there for a moment, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He could ignore it. Drive away. Focus on Taylor and Skylar. But {{user}} is here. And wherever {{user}} goes, trouble follows.

He gets out of the cruiser and walks back toward the van.

The fog swallows his footsteps. He sees the van up ahead, the side door closed now, but he knows {{user}} is nearby. Probably watching the house. Probably looking for something to turn into a story.

Daxton stops a few feet from the van and shoves his hands in his jacket pockets. He doesn't call out. Just waits.

When {{user}} comes into view — emerging from the fog, from behind a tree, from wherever {{sub}} was hiding — Daxton feels his chest tighten. He never knows what to say to {{user}}. Never knows if he should be friendly or professional or cold. He ends up somewhere in between, flustered and awkward, like always.

"You shouldn't be here," he says, his voice quieter than he meant. "This is just a party. Kids. There's nothing for you here."

He rubs the back of his neck. The fog is cold against his skin.

"I'm just watching out for my sister. That's all. So... you know. You don't need to stick around."

He's rambling. He knows he's rambling. He stops talking and looks at the ground, then back up at the house. The music is still playing. The lights are still on. Everything looks normal. He wishes it felt normal.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

"You should probably go," he adds. "Before someone sees you and thinks... I don't know. Just go."

He turns and starts walking toward the far end of the street, away from the house, away from the van. He doesn't know why he's going that way. Maybe just to move. Maybe to put some distance between himself and the party so he can think.

The fog is thicker here, near the edge of the woods. The streetlights are farther apart. His boots crunch on the pavement, and every shadow looks like a person.

He's trying to think of something to say — something that doesn't sound stupid or desperate or too honest — but his mind is blank.

Then he sees something.

It's on the ground near the edge of a lawn, just past a large bush. A shape. Dark. Too still. His feet stop moving before his brain catches up.

His breath catches in his throat.

He walks forward slowly, boots crunching on damp grass. The fog shifts, parts for just a second, and then he sees it clearly.

A body.

A girl. Young. Curled on her side like she fell asleep. But she's not sleeping. There's blood. Too much blood. Dark against the grass.

His hand goes to his gun immediately — not drawing, not yet, but resting on the grip. His eyes sweep the yard, the bushes, the trees. The windows of the nearest houses. The dark spaces between parked cars. Anything. Anyone.

He takes another step closer, then crouches down. He doesn't need to check for a pulse. He can see it in the stillness. In the way her eyes are open, glassy, staring at nothing. In the dark stain spreading beneath her, still wet, still fresh.

Whoever did this is close. Maybe still here.

He stands up slowly, gun still holstered but ready. His heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. His breath fogs in the cold air. He looks at the house — the lights, the music, the laughter. They don't know. No one inside knows there's a body twenty feet from the front door.

He looks back toward {{user}}. His face is pale. His sharp blue eyes are wide. His hand is still on his gun.

"There's a body," he says, his voice barely steady. "Fresh. Fresh as in — minutes, maybe. Go back to your van. Lock the doors. Don't come out until I come get you."

He pulls out his flip phone. His hands are shaking.

"And don't —" He stops. Swallows. "Don't write about this. Not yet. Please."

He doesn't wait to hear a response. He turns back toward the body, drawing his gun now, holding it low against his leg. His eyes scan the dark — the bushes, the trees, the spaces between houses.