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Sundays were created for romance.

The flavour of strawberry wine, the perfume of lilacs and Sarah.

Oh Sarah, his beautiful wife. A soft smile curled at Sheriff John Stark’s lips but soon, his daydream was shattered by the harsh reality of the present. His heart, wounded by painful recollections.

Back when they were teens, Sarah would call and say,

“It’s Sunday afternoon. Where are you?”

It had been the same in college.

“It’s Sunday. I’ll see you in an hour.”

Even when they both became officers in Naperville, Sunday afternoons had always been their special time.

But not anymore.

He lost his Sarah five years ago.

The weight of it all pressed down on him, suffocating him. No air. Just pain.

Finally, he breathed in, grateful for the rush of air, but resenting it at the same time. He needed the memories—they were what kept him going, kept him strong. Though time had passed, John still lived each day as it came, but the pain never eased. It only dug deeper.

Under the bright June sun, John put on his sunglasses and made his way to his patrol car parked outside the courthouse. These days, his Sunday afternoons were reserved for fishing with his eight-year-old daughter, Alice. He’d left Naperville and returned to his small hometown, wanting to raise her in a safe, familiar place—just the way Sarah would have wanted.

With a quiet sigh, John slid into the car. His daughter was waiting for him. As he backed out, he waved to Walter Poole, who was unlocking his auto parts store for the afternoon rush.

Holbrook, Arizona, was much the same as it had been when John was a kid. An old two-story limestone courthouse, yellowing and graying in spots from age, sat in the center of a town square. Gnarled oaks and blooming red crepe myrtles gave the old structure a touch of beauty.

The weathered brick and mortar storefronts that surrounded the square were still the same, too. Some had been boarded up- the old furniture store, the fabric shop and the Perry Brothers' Five and Dime. The casualties of a changing American city.

But new businesses had opened, including Miss Kittie's Tea Room, Carl's Antiques, Mama Jo's Candle Shop and a dollar store. The old General Zao family bakery was still on the corner. For five generations it had kept going strong, and probably would for years to come.

Holbrook was the perfect small-town American community, where family values were cherished and neighbors looked out for each other. That was why John had chosen to come back—to heal and find a new way of living. For Alice.

He was in a hurry now, knowing his daughter’s patience was wearing thin. First, he had to stop by the bait shop on the highway.

He had to hurry because his daughter was not patient. First he had to go to the bait stand on the highway.

As he approached Arizona Highway 77, which ran on the outskirts of Holbrook, a red convertible sports car zoomed by, barely missing Mrs. Chloe Abbott as she crossed the highway from her son's fruit-and-vegetable shop.

Chloe waved her walking cane at the car in frustration before spotting John. She pointed with her cane, directing him to the direction the car had gone.

John tipped his hat, acknowledging that he had seen the whole thing. He quickly turned on his siren and gave chase. The first thing he noticed was the woman’s blonde hair whipping in the wind. The next thing he realized was she wasn’t even reacting to the siren—she just kept speeding up.

He clocked her going 85 in a 70, and through the business district, the speed limit was 55. Clearly, she was in a hurry. John stayed on her tail, but despite the siren blaring, she made no move to pull over.

Arizona 77 only had two lanes so he couldn’t pass because of oncoming traffic in the opposite direction. They were getting close to the county line, so he grabbed his radio to notify the highway patrol. Someone needed to stop this woman before she caused an accident.

Then, an eighteen-wheeler came into view, forcing her to slow down. John quickly set the radio down, waited for the oncoming cars to pass, and then swerved into the left lane before she could react. He motioned for her to pull over.

Behind her large sunglasses, he couldn’t see her eyes, but he could see her lips were pouted in anger. Again, she ignored his signal. John gestured again, more forcefully this time, wondering if she was under the influence of something, given how oblivious she seemed. No one would openly defy a law officer like this unless something was seriously off.

The truck driver eased to a stop, and the woman finally pulled her car onto the grassy shoulder, followed by the big rig. John felt a sense of relief—now she was trapped, with no way to speed off once he got out of his patrol car.

He turned off the siren but kept the lights flashing to warn oncoming traffic. He reached for his radio and quickly called in to ask his deputy, Arthur, to run a check on the car’s license plate. John suspected the vehicle might be stolen, especially since the woman hadn’t stopped when he activated the siren.

Grabbing his ticket book from the glove compartment, John climbed out of his patrol car and strode towards her, his jaw clenched. He was angry—angry at her blatant disregard for the law, angry at her recklessness, angry that she didn’t care about the safety of others and angry that she’d ruined his peaceful Sunday afternoon.