Chapter 6 - THE CLEANUP
By Friday morning, Richland County looked like a ghost town struck by an economic tornado.
The mayor had resigned in disgrace after federal investigators linked his municipal real estate contracts to Dominic’s smuggling ring. Three local judges had recused themselves, awaiting federal grand jury indictments for accepting bribes. And Sheriff Dominic Vance was currently sitting in a maximum-security federal holding facility three states away, wearing an orange jumpsuit and realizing that local political immunity doesn't protect you from military tribunal jurisdiction.
The Rusty Spoon diner across town remained closed, its front windows papered over with brown butcher paper while federal forensic accountants audited the cash registers and back rooms.
I spent the morning in my garage, sliding my heavy toolboxes across the concrete floor, organizing sockets and wrenches with the meticulous precision of a man who found absolute comfort in things that made logical, mechanical sense.
The rollup door was wide open, letting in the crisp autumn breeze, when a familiar pair of heels crunched against the gravel outside.
I didn't look up as Amelia walked into the garage. She was wearing a simple trench coat, her hair pulled back into a simple ponytail, carrying a single leather suitcase by her side.
"The house is listed," she said quietly, her voice echoing off the metal walls. "I called the realtor this morning. We’ll split the equity fifty-fifty once it sells."
I paused, holding a 10-millimeter socket in my hand, and finally looked up at her.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"Back to my sister's place in Boise," she said, looking around the garage as if seeing my true workshop for the very first time—the secure encrypted terminal humming quietly in the corner, the framed commendations hanging behind the workbench, the quiet weight of a life she had never bothered to understand. "Turns out I’m not very good at small-town politics, Logan. And I'm definitely not good at being a soldier's wife."
"You never were," I said honestly, without malice or anger. "You wanted the uniform without the war, Amelia. It doesn't work that way."
She gave a small, bitter smile, swallowing hard as she adjusted the strap of her suitcase.
"Goodbye, Logan," she whispered.
May you like
"Safe travels, Amelia," I replied.
She turned and walked out of the garage, her footsteps fading down the gravel driveway until the sound of her car engine started up and drove away down Ridge Road, leaving me entirely alone in the quiet Montana air.
