Chapter 1

Billy Workman was halfway through shaving when his phone rang.

He glanced at the clock on the bathroom counter.

7:02 a.m.

Most people knew better than to call the sheriff that early on a Saturday unless something was wrong.

He wiped shaving cream from his hand and picked up the phone.

Tom Archer.

Billy frowned.

Tom wasn't an early-morning caller.

Not unless there was a problem.

He answered on the second ring.

"Tom."

There was a pause.

Not a long pause.

Just long enough.

Billy felt his stomach tighten.

"Morning, Billy."

Tom sounded tired.

More than tired.

Worn out.

Billy had known Tom Archer for nearly fifty years. They'd played baseball together, hunted together, gotten into trouble together, were each other’s best man, and somehow managed to survive long enough to become the old men they'd once laughed at.

Something wasn't right.

"What's going on?" Billy asked.

Tom let out a breath.

"It's Wyatt."

Billy felt the knot in his stomach grow tighter.

"What about him?"

"He never came home last night."

Billy stared at his reflection in the mirror.

The razor hung forgotten in his hand.

"What do you mean he never came home?"

"He left yesterday evening. Said he was going fishing at Railroad Pond."

Billy didn't say anything.

Tom continued.

"His truck ain't here. He didn't answer his phone. Susan's been calling him all night."

Billy heard the strain in his friend's voice.

Tom Archer wasn't a man who panicked easily.

Farmers learned a long time ago that panic rarely fixed anything.

"Have you called Maci?" Billy asked.

"Yeah."

"And?"

"She hasn't heard from him since yesterday."

Billy turned off the faucet.

The room suddenly felt quiet.

Too quiet.

"Anybody else?"

"Justin. Rodney. Tim. Jack. A couple of his friends. Nobody's seen him."

Billy looked out the small bathroom window toward the street.

The morning sun was climbing above the trees.

A normal Saturday.

At least it looked normal.

"All right," Billy said. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."

The call ended.

Billy set the phone down and stared at the mirror.

For a moment he saw a fifty-six-year-old sheriff with shaving cream still on one side of his face.

Then he saw something else.

Tom Archer's boy.

Wyatt.

Twenty-four years old.

Hard-working.

Good kid.

The kind of kid who usually comes home.

Billy picked up the razor again.

For the first time that morning, a thought crossed his mind.

Something had happened.  He just hoped he was wrong.

Billy eased his white, 2019 Chevrolet Tahoe with “VERNON COUNTY SHERIFF” decals on the side into the driveway.  The decals were starting to ghost at the edges, and the push bumper carried the faint scars of a dozen winter deer strikes.  The asphalt of the driveway looked old, a few potholes he knew Tom would patch eventually.  As he drove to the house, he just couldn’t get this achy feeling out of his chest.  He just knew something wasn’t right and he couldn’t quit thinking about Wyatt. 

The engine ticked as it cooled, the smell of hot dust drifting up from the wheel wells. Billy swung the heavy door open, boots hitting the driveway with the familiar hollow thud that had followed him through thirty‑six years of calls, arrests, welfare checks, and long nights waiting for backup that was always too far away.

Ahead of him, across the asphalt driveway, he slowly walked toward the house. It had been a couple of weeks since the last time he had visited Tom, and it had most certainly been under better circumstances.

The porch light was still on.

Billy frowned.

Tom wasn't the kind of man who forgot to turn off a light. Every morning, before coffee, before feeding the cattle, before anything else, Tom walked through the house shutting off lights. It was just how he was.

Billy had taken only a few more steps when the front door opened.

Tom Archer stepped onto the porch.

He looked like hell.

His jeans were wrinkled, his flannel shirt looked like he'd slept in it, and the ball cap he wore every day sat crooked on his head. His eyes were bloodshot, his face pale.

Billy couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his best friend look scared.

Tom didn't wave.

He didn't smile.

He just stood there waiting.

"Mornin', Tom," he said softly, concern evident in his voice.

 

Tom slowly shook his head.

 

"No," he said quietly. "No, it isn't."

 

Billy didn't say anything.

 

Instead, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around his oldest friend.

 

For a moment Tom stood still.

 

Then he hugged Billy back.

 

Neither man spoke.

 

They didn't have to.

 

Billy felt Tom's shoulders tremble.

 

When they finally stepped apart, Tom quickly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, almost embarrassed the tears had escaped.

 

Billy had known Tom Archer for nearly fifty years.

 

They'd played Little League together on the old Bronaugh ball field. They'd hunted quail across these same fields. Tom had stood beside him as best man when he married Carol. Years later, Billy had leaned on Tom more than anyone after Carol's death.

 

Billy had seen his friend work sixteen-hour days without complaint. He'd seen him lose crops to hail, cattle to sickness, and both of his parents within a few short years.

 

He'd seen Tom angry.

 

He'd seen him laugh until tears rolled down his face.

 

But he couldn't remember ever seeing Tom cry because life had beaten him.

 

Until now.

 

For just a moment, Billy wasn't the sheriff of Vernon County.

 

He was simply Billy.

 

Tom's best friend.

 

Billy rested his hand on Tom's shoulder.

 

"Walk me through it."

 

Tom took a slow breath before answering.

 

"Wyatt left yesterday evening around six."

 

Billy nodded but didn't interrupt.

 

"Said he was headed to Railroad Pond to do a little fishing before dark."

 

"What was he driving?"

 

"The Chevy."

 

"Anybody with him?"

 

Tom shook his head.

 

"No. Said he just wanted a little time to himself."

 

Billy listened quietly.

 

"When'd you start worrying?"

 

"When he wasn't home by dark."

 

"Susan started calling him around eight."

 

"No answer."

 

"I figured maybe he lost track of time."

 

Tom looked toward the driveway for a moment before continuing.

 

"By ten o'clock, I knew something wasn't right."

 

Billy glanced toward the house.

 

"Where's Susan?"

 

"Inside with Maci."

 

Billy nodded.

 

"And Justin?"

 

"I called him this morning."

 

Billy looked back at Tom.

 

"You've checked Railroad Pond?"

 

Tom nodded.

 

"Truck's still there."

 

Billy felt the ache in his chest grow heavier.

 

"Let's go."