Chapter 2 – The Crack in the Badge

Chapter 2 – The Crack in the Badge

The leaves had begun to yellow around Mirror Lake, as if autumn were sneaking up to steal the last of summer's light. Black Hollow seemed the same: sleepy, unchanged, with the wind whistling through the pines and Josie's diner serving soggy pancakes to passing truckers. But beneath that veneer of normality, something was seething. Jermaine Carver's studio—Black Hollow Records, its neon sign buzzing like a trapped fly—had been open for exactly two weeks. Strobe lights filtered through fogged windows at night, deep bass rattled the windows of nearby houses, and every now and then, the sound of women's laughter echoed through the woods.

Abby Harlan didn't trust him. Not that place, not that man. The day after Jermaine arrived, she'd gathered her team in the sheriff's small office, a hole with yellowish walls and a fan that creaked like a drunken old man.

"Marlene," Abby had said, fixing the officer with stern eyes. "You'll patrol the area around the office. Every day, morning and night. I want detailed reports: who comes in, who leaves, what's heard. No surprises."

Marlene had nodded, lighting a cigarette despite the ban. "Sure, boss. That nigger won't escape my notice. If he smells trouble, I'll put him in the doghouse."

Kaylee had flinched at the end, but Abby had ignored her. Marlene was like that: rough as sandpaper, with a vocabulary that reeked of the 1970s. She'd called her out several times for her racist comments, for her harsh manner toward anyone who wasn't white and male. But she was reliable, or at least she had been until then.

Vernon, from his corner, grunted in agreement, too busy struggling with his belt buckle to say anything else.

The first two weeks had passed in a monotonous flow. Daily reports: “All right, Sheriff. The nigger minds his own business. A few local girls come in for auditions, but nothing special.” Marlene would hand them over with a shrug, cigarette between her lips, and leave.

But on the fifteenth day, something snapped in Abby. She was sitting at her desk, leafing through the latest report—two spare paragraphs, typed with typos—when she noticed the words: “Mr. Carver is well behaved. He’s a good guy, he brings work here.” Mr. Carver? Good? Marlene, who had never called a man respectful unless it was her deceased father, now sounded almost… fawning. The same Marlene who had called Jermaine "that fucking nigger" the day he arrived now painted him as a benefactor. And the reports? Brief, evasive. No details about who was coming in, just a vague "all quiet."

Abby ran a hand through her hair, feeling a familiar shiver: embarrassment mixed with suspicion. She remembered the incident in the woods too well, years before. She had approached that car parked among the trees, convinced she was stopping a robbery or worse. Instead, she had found two teenage girls, naked and entwined in the back seat. "Stop now!" she had screamed, her mouth hanging open in outrage. And just then, one of them had squirted—a hot, unexpected jet straight out the window, hitting her in the face. Abby had stood there, stuttering, salt water on her lips, as the girls laughed, started the engine, and sped away. Since then, she blushed at the mere thought of sex, as if her body betrayed her feminist mind.

But there was no room for embarrassment here. Something wasn't right with Marlene. Abby decided to investigate alone, in plain clothes. No uniform, just worn jeans, a hoodie, and sunglasses. She took her mother's old station wagon, parked a quarter mile from the office, and took up a position among the pine trees, binoculars in hand.

It was a foggy morning, the humid air sticking to her clothes. The lake shimmered in the distance, but Abby didn't notice. Her eyes were fixed on the building: closed doors, dark windows. Then, movement.

Marlene. Not in uniform, but in civilian clothes: a short skirt—too short for a 45-year-old woman with varicose veins—and a blouse unbuttoned just enough to reveal a black bra. In her hand, a takeout tray: steaming coffee and a paper bag that smelled of fresh donuts even from afar.

Abby frowned. What was Marlene doing there, off duty? She leaned deeper into the branches, her heart racing.

Then he arrived. Jermaine Carver, in a tight tank top that showed off muscles glistening with morning sweat, baggy pants, and dangling chains. He got out of a black Escalade, the door slammed shut.

Marlene lit up like a faulty light bulb. "Good morning, Mr. Carver! I brought breakfast, just the way you like it. Strong black coffee, and glazed donuts." His voice was sugary, almost servile. Abby didn't She couldn't believe her ears.

Jermaine barely looked at her. "Fuck, it's about time, bitch. I thought I was going to come fuck with you." He reached out and grabbed the tray roughly, spilling some coffee on the sidewalk.

Marlene didn't protest. Instead, she bowed her head. "Sorry, sir. It won't happen again."

Abby felt a lump in her throat. Sir?

But it wasn't over. Jermaine glared at her with contempt, then—quick as a snake—he landed a resounding slap on her cheek. The sound echoed through the silent woods. Marlene staggered, but didn't react. Instead, she smiled faintly, as if it were a compliment.

"Move your fat ass inside," he growled, grabbing her by the ear and twisting it. Marlene moaned softly, but followed obediently, dragged like a broken doll. The study door slammed shut behind them.

Abby stood frozen among the pines, hands shaking on her binoculars. Her agent—the tough, racist Marlene—treated like submissive trash. And she accepted it. No, she wanted it. What the hell was going on in there? Her heart pounded, a mixture of anger, shock, and that damned embarrassment that flushed her cheeks. She had to go in, confront them. But how? She was alone, in civilian clothes, and Jermaine... that smile, that presence. It terrified her, and in a dark corner of her prudish mind, it intrigued her.

Black Hollow was no longer the same. And Abby Harlan was about to discover just how deep a hole she'd fallen into.