Bud sighed and pushed to his feet, headed to the ancient coffee machine sputtering away just outside his door. The building itself was one of the oldest in Butterfly Harbor and, sadly, was beginning to show its age. Like most things in town, it had stood the test of time and was a testament to the town and its history. But history was fading fast, even in a small town of just over five thousand. She had so many great plans for the department, for this building. For making sure the legacy and history of those who had served the community would never be forgotten or tossed onto the bonfire of the past. Bringing in someone who didn’t know any of it didn’t just seem like an insult to Frankie, but against Butterfly Harbor itself.
She turned her head, felt tears prick the corners of her eyes at the straight, notated gouges on the office’s door frame. F, age six. M, age six. F, age seven. M, age seven... She rolled her shoulders. Monty had always been an inch or so ahead of her growing up. Now her twin brother was more than five inches taller—just tall enough he didn’t bash his head on the roofs of the boats he chartered to tourists and business groups. She brushed her fingers along the back of her neck. To this day she could feel the hard wood pressed between her shoulders, against the back of her head as her father had notched how much she’d grown. It had become a ritual, one she noted with a pang of grief, that ended shortly after her and Monty’s sixteenth birthday, when Tybalt Bettencourt had been killed fighting a wildfire just south of Napa.
This firehouse had been her father’s second home, had been her second home. Sure, it needed upgrading and some serious updates, but they were working on it. A bit of polish and new paint wouldn’t hurt. She’d done a few things over the years, here and there. New paint in the workout room, which she’d equipped with her own exercise machines. Upgrades, including a new stove in the kitchen, the only place she cooked. She lived in her grandparents’ old house while Monty had set up in their parents’. She was low maintenance, so whatever spare money she had went to the job she loved. It just...made sense. Especially when most of the department’s operating budget had to go to provide the best equipment they could afford. And that was as it should be, Frankie reminded herself. Protecting this town and its residents was her first priority. She didn’t believe for one second some out-of-towner was going to feel the same. He’d be completely clueless about...everything.
“The decision not to promote you wasn’t unanimous, Frankie.” Bud poured them each a cup of coffee strong enough to boost her immune system for a solid year. “In fact, it was a tie and that deciding vote was cast by—”
“Let me guess.” Now it began to make sense. “Our illustrious mayor, Gil ‘The Thrill’ Hamilton.” She knew she shouldn’t have voted for him on election day.
Bud sighed. “The fact you’re the one who gave him that nickname is probably one reason he wasn’t enamored of the idea of you as chief. It’s no secret you two can’t stand each other, and this job requires you to work with him, not be snarky whenever you get the chance.”
Frankie rolled her eyes. Gil Hamilton had been two years ahead of her in school and encapsulated every possible stereotype as the town’s golden boy. Star quarterback, homecoming king, butter wouldn’t melt in his always smiling mouth. The son of the mayor who was the son of the mayor who... Frankie had long lost track of how far back that line of succession went.
Gil wasn’t her favorite person in the world; he could be the poster child for politics and privilege, but she had to admit he’d surprised her the last couple of years with the positive changes he’d been making to the town. His ideas, the people he’d appointed to get things done who had done just that, and now, with a flourishing downtown area and the butterfly sanctuary currently under construction, the town she’d lived in all her life was thriving again. She’d thought the mayor was many things, but to hold a grudge for a harmless nickname? He wouldn’t have rejected her promotion because of that, would he?
She certainly didn’t want to think so. They might not be friends, but they were friendly. Though Bud had a point. She could see the flash of irritation on Gil’s face whenever she let the nickname fly, so...maybe her current disappointment was partly her fault. Railing against the decision wasn’t going to get her anywhere other than fired. Which meant she had to come at this situation from an entirely different direction.
“So does the new guy have a name?” The question itself tasted sour. Ugh.
“Roman Salazar.”