The sheriff walked too closely for us to continue talking. A second man approached in step beside him. He stuck out immediately in an outfit that was probably called business casual where he came from, but on this side of the bay, he might as well have been in a tuxedo. His light blue button-up and gray wool blazer fit over a broad chest. The creases in his black slacks looked like they'd come straight off the ironing board. With an outfit like that, I expected some shiny loafers or equally impractical leather dress shoes, but I grinned at the tri-colored canvas sneakers.
"Branson." The sheriff offered his hand. I shook it, and then he turned to his partner. "This is our new representative from the Washington State Social Services, Riley Monroe."
I stuck my hand out, but the other man just nodded stiffly in my direction. He had a narrow face and sharp cheeks. His dark brown hair stuck out in a style I could only describe as artfully messy. Already, he had a dusting of facial hair shadowing his chin and jaw. There were faint dark circles beneath his deep blue eyes. A late night? Or early morning?
I pulled my hand away before the moment could get any more awkward. There were any number of reasons why he wouldn't want to shake my hand. It couldn't have been something I'd said—I hadn't spoken to the man yet. But, as the moment stretched on, I needed to say something quick. "Welcome to Walkerton."
The sheriff cleared his throat. "Mr. Monroe, this is Branson Walker."
"I was wondering when I would meet a Walker. Your name is everywhere in this area. I was sure the family wasn't far behind," Riley Monroe said. His tone was pleasant enough, but with an edge I was used to by now.
"Walker is just my last name. I'm afraid you'll have to go to the other side of the bay to meet the impressive Walkers of the family." My great-great-great-great grandfather had helped develop the island. We were one of many coastal islands located between the north-easternmost tip of Washington State and San Juan Island. Accessible from the mainland only by ferry, we lived a sheltered, quiet existence.
Most of the time.
But my ancestors hadn't been all that creative when it came to naming things. We lived in Walker County, the city was named Walkerton, and I looked out onto Walker Bay every morning.
Riley's gaze drifted to the house behind me. "I don't know, this is pretty impressive."
Pride filled me. The four of us had made this home with our own two hands. It had acted as our first symbol of independence from the packs. I rarely had a chance to show it off and had thought that ten years living in it with three other bachelors might've soiled the original feeling, but, there it was again.
I heard the door opening behind me and Riley's expression transformed. When he looked at me again, there was none of the polite friendly demeanor from before. Only judgment. His dark blue eyes narrowed, his gaze searching me with a new purpose. "Is that the child in question?" he asked, his voice all steel.
"I'm not a child!" Paul shouted back, despite the fact that Riley had spoken too quietly for Paul to have reasonably heard. He was either emotional or not used to ignoring his senses around humans.
Riley's eyebrows rose. "Nothing wrong with his hearing." He stepped by me without a glance in my direction. In fact, I got the distinct impression he hadn't looked at me on purpose.
I had no reason to care about what this stranger thought of me. I knew how bad this looked; it was one of the reasons I'd called the police so quickly. I could've sent Paul away with some money and a ticket to the wolf packs in the next territory over. But if he'd been stopped, it would've been harder to explain my involvement at that point.
"Hello, my name is Riley Monroe. I work with Washington State Social Services." Again, Riley skipped shaking hands. Was it a city guy thing? Cold and flu season? He pulled a small, leather-bound notepad out of his pocket and began writing as he asked Paul questions.
The only thing I knew for sure was that I was too busy to be hanging around, especially if my presence was no longer required. And yet, when I turned to make my excuses to the sheriff, what I was said was, "Would you like to come inside? It might be easier for the interrogations to happen in the dining room."
I very nearly clocked myself in the face, I reminded myself so much of my mother. She was vindictive and manipulative, but she would never say a mean word—to your face. Every guest was offered food and beverages, never mind if Delia Walker didn't know how to turn tap water into tea.
Riley approached, having left Paul at the front porch. "I'm going to need a list of everyone who lives in this household. As well as the number to a Mrs…" He checked his notepad. "Delia Walker. Any reason why Paul might've gone to her home? Is she known for housing runaway youths?"
I snorted. Delia Walker was known for being one of three elder households, garden parties and always getting her way. But I was sure she would've loved being associated with something so altruistic. "Delia Walker is my mother. She lives on the other side of the bay with all the other fancy Walkers." There were four official Walker households: my grandfather, my mother, Aver's parents, and Nash and Wyatt's parents. But once we started splitting the names off, it became impossible to explain without a graph and a bottle of booze.
Riley's eyes narrowed on me again. I wished I could go back to the moment before he'd seen Paul. At least then Riley hadn't looked at me like scum. "Do you know why your mother would've sent Paul here? He's dressed extremely provocatively but claims he got the clothing from your mother."
"I can't begin to pretend I understand my mother. We aren't close, not since I moved from home."
"Hm."
I didn't trust that single noise any more than I trusted the situation at hand. Until now, I'd been pretty polite, but I wouldn't have this stranger thinking something about me that was wholly untrue. "Do I need to remind you that I called the cops here, Mr. Monroe? From my side, I found a young man, clearly down on his luck. And I called the police first. I'm not asking for any sort of reward, but I'll ask you to stop concocting whatever scheme you've decided is at work here. I want Paul safe. That is all."
Riley's eyebrows rose again, only this time, they didn't settle into suspicion. "Forgive me. I'm new and still getting the hang of things. This is unusual, but for what it is worth, Paul has not claimed to have done anything he didn't want to do. I'll need to run his identification through our systems. If he's eighteen as he claims, that changes my next steps significantly."
He was clearly attractive with a level head. That didn't entirely explain my sudden interest in the man, but I wondered if maybe it had been too long since I'd traveled out of Walker County and mingled with fresh meat. I frowned at the term. I was so out of the game, I'd practically assumed Riley's orientation. He could like women… stranger things had happened.
Riley must've assumed the expression was meant for him. "I'm only doing my job, Mr. Walker. Caring for the welfare of those unable to care for themselves."
I smiled, trying to infuse as much warmth into the expression as I could. We'd gotten off on the wrong foot. I could understand why, but I was still eager to get back on the right foot. "I understand." I pulled out my card. "When you get some answers, please let me know."