He found himself locking the doors at noon and checking the windows at night. But Rusty settled in fast. The dog seemed to know the danger was gone. It was time to just be a dog again.
Every morning was the same. Silence, then the sound of Rusty’s paws on the hardwood. Alex would make coffee, sit on the porch, and watch the mist rise off the lake. Rusty would lie at his feet, chin on his paws, waiting.
He spent his days in the woods. Not hunting, just walking. He’d bring a thermos and stay out until dusk, coming back with kindling or just a clear head. Working with his hands was the only thing that made him feel human again.
The neighbors—the few there were—didn’t pry. A mechanic named Walt offered him some part-time work fixing fences and clearing brush. Alex took it. He wasn’t looking for friends, but he didn’t mind the company of men who didn’t ask questions.
— “Where you from, Alex?” Walt asked one day.
— “Out west,” Alex replied.
That was enough. Once a month, he’d drive into town for supplies. He’d buy groceries, fishing gear, and books. Sometimes he’d glance at an old newspaper, but his name had long since faded from the headlines. The world had moved on. And that was fine by him. Rusty would sit in the passenger seat, ears flapping in the wind, occasionally huffing when they passed a loud motorcycle. He remembered the scent, but the fear was gone.
One afternoon, Lt. Green showed up. He wasn’t in uniform. He was driving an old SUV and carrying a small bag. He sat on the porch and opened a beer.
— “So, this is where you ended up,” Green said.
— “It’s a good spot.”
Green nodded.
— “You ever think about coming back? Your record is clean. You were a damn good detective.”
— “That life is over, Green.”
They sat in silence for a while. Then Green pulled a small leather case from his pocket. It was Alex’s old badge. On the back, it was engraved: “Miller. 21st Precinct. To the end.”
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