Greenly Bay

Greenly Bay, Wisconsin…

October 1964…

The wind bit at Vera's face as she guided her horse down the muddy path into Greenly Bay, the reins tight in her gloved hands. At 27, she’d imagined her career as a sheriff would take her to bustling cities or at least towns with a pulse; places where her skills could shine, where she could make a name for herself. Instead, here she was, posted to this forsaken speck on the map, a ghost town swallowed by fog and silence. Fifty years ago, something had happened here—something buried deep, she’d heard whispers of it in the dispatches—but no one at headquarters would give her the full story. Just a curt order: “Take the position, Sheriff Kingsley. Greenly Bay needs you.”

Needs her? More like they’d dumped her where no one would notice if her career rotted away.

She adjusted her hat, the sheriff’s badge glinting dully in the gray light, and scanned the horizon. The town emerged like a smudge against the overcast sky—dilapidated houses with sagging roofs, a handful of shops with boarded windows, and a church steeple leaning as if it might collapse under its own weight. The air smelled of damp earth and something faintly metallic, like old blood long forgotten. Her horse snorted, sensing her unease, and she patted its neck. “Easy, girl.”

Her musings were cut short as a group of young men—four of them, no older than their late teens—stepped onto the path ahead. They wore patched jackets and carried a mix of crude tools. Their grins were sharp, predatory, and Vera’s gut tightened. She’d seen that look before—trouble brewing. They fanned out, blocking her way, and the tallest one, a lanky kid with a scar across his cheek, stepped forward.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” he drawled, his voice thick with mockery. “A pretty little rider strayed too far from home?”

The others laughed, closing in. One swung his rope lazily, another twirled his hoe like a toy. Vera’s hand instinctively rested on the holster at her hip, her fingers brushing the cold steel of her revolver. She straightened in the saddle, letting her coat fall open to reveal the badge pinned to her chest.

“I’m Sheriff Vera Kingsley,” she said, her voice steady despite the knot in her stomach. “Step aside, or you’ll find out how quick I can draw this gun.”

The laughter died. The scarred kid’s eyes widened, darting to the badge, then to the weapon. He raised his hands, a nervous chuckle escaping him. “Whoa, now, no need for that. We was just funnin’. Precinct’s that way—” He jerked his head toward a squat building with peeling paint a few blocks off.

“Go on, then.”

The others muttered, backing away, their bravado crumbling. Vera kept her gaze locked on them until they dispersed, then nudged her horse forward. Her heart pounded, but she masked it with a scowl. What kind of place was this, where a sheriff’s arrival was met with harassment instead of relief? She rode on, her mind churning.

Why here? she wondered, the question looping like a scratched record. Her superiors had been vague, muttering about “unrest” and “a need for fresh leadership,” but Greenly Bay felt more like a punishment than a promotion. She’d worked hard—patrols in Milwaukee, breaking up bar fights, chasing down petty thieves—earning her stripes with grit and determination. This? This was a backwater with no crime worth mentioning, or so she’d been told. Yet the way those boys looked at her, like she was an intruder, suggested otherwise. Her career, her dreams of making a difference, felt like they’d been tethered to a sinking ship the moment she crossed the town line.

The precinct came into view, a low, weathered structure with a crooked sign reading “Greenly Bay Sheriff’s Office.” She dismounted, tying her horse to a post, and took a deep breath before pushing through the door. The interior was dim, lit by a single flickering bulb. Two figures looked up from a desk cluttered with papers and a cold coffee pot. One was a man, maybe 32, with a lean build and tired eyes—Jack Hayes, she recalled from the roster. The other was a young woman with a nervous smile—Matilda Willock.

“Sheriff Kingsley?” Jack stood, offering a cautious nod. “Heard you were comin’. Welcome, I guess.”

Matilda bobbed her head, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Uh, yeah, welcome. We weren’t expectin’ you so soon.”

Vera unrolled the document from her saddlebag, a formal transfer order stamped with the state seal, and handed it over. “Official posting. I’m here to take charge. Show me my office.”

Jack scanned the paper, then gestured down a short hall. “This way. Ain’t much, but it’s yours.”

She followed, noting the creak of the floorboards and the faint musty smell. The office was small, dominated by a desk piled with dusty files and a chair that wobbled when she tested it. A single window offered a view of the empty street. She set her hat on the desk and turned to them. “Alright. Tell me about the town. Crime rates, trouble spots—give me the lay of the land.”

Jack exchanged a glance with Matilda, who shifted uncomfortably. “Ain’t much to tell,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “Quiet place. Few drunks now and then, some petty theft. Nothin’ big.”

Vera narrowed her eyes. His tone was too casual, too rehearsed. Matilda’s silence only deepened her suspicion. “That’s it? No major incidents? No patterns?”

“Nope,” Jack said, crossing his arms. “Just a sleepy town.”

She studied them, sensing the wall they’d erected. Something was off—those boys outside hadn’t acted like a town at peace, and these two were hiding something. Before she could press further, the door banged open, and a woman stumbled in, her face streaked with tears, her dress mud-stained and her hands trembling.

“Please, you have to help me!” she sobbed, clutching the edge of Jack’s desk. “My little girl—Lila—she’s gone! She’s only five, and I can’t find her anywhere!”

Vera stepped forward, her instincts kicking in. “Ma’am, calm down. I’m Sheriff Kingsley. Tell me what happened.”

“I turned my back for a minute, just to hang the laundry. She was playing by the yard, and when I looked again, she was gone! I searched the house, the street—nothing! Please, you have to find her!”

Vera’s mind raced. Her first case, and it was a missing child. She glanced at Jack and Matilda, who wore grim expressions but said nothing. “How long has she been missing?”

“An hour, maybe two,” Clara, the mother, wailed. “She’s never wandered off before. I’m so scared…”

Vera nodded, already calculating. “Jack, Matilda, with me. We’ll start a search. Ma'am, stay here and write down anything you remember—where she was last seen, what she was wearing. Every detail.”

As the officers grabbed their coats, Vera felt a surge of purpose. This wasn’t the rotting post she’d feared—it was a chance to prove herself. But the tightness in Jack’s jaw and Matilda’s averted gaze lingered in her mind. Greenly Bay was hiding something, and this missing girl might be the key to unlocking it.