"Who says I'm intoxicated?"
She sighs. She knows I've got her there.
"It's not a huge leap to assume that when Wyatt Hayden emerges from the Chute, he's put back a few." She eyes me knowingly.
She's not wrong. But, of course, there's no way for her to confirm she's right. I'd pass any field sobriety test administered. I don't have the time to continue this with Shelby though. I need to get to Sara's before Mickey arrives. Give him something else to hit besides his wife.
"Officer Trask, it was great catching up, but I should be going."
"Not so fast, Wyatt. You see, I happen to have this handy little tool back at the station called a breathalyzer, and—"
Shit. This can't happen. If I'm waylaid, I don't know what will happen to Sara. Or Mickey. "Shelby, how long have we been friends? Since seventh grade?"
She frowns. "Save your words, Wyatt. Nothing you say will work. I am bound by law to bring you into the station."
Time for some serious cajoling. "We're the only two people in this parking lot, Shelby. Nobody will know if you let me go."
Her head is shaking before I finish my sentence. She points to something attached to her uniform. "See that? It's a body cam. It's recording, which means even though it's only you and I here right now, it's not only you and I who know you're intoxicated and behind the wheel of a vehicle."
Fuck. There's nothing more I can do, short of taking off and leading her straight to Sara's house. Which will create a whole host of problems, far greater than the one I was trying to prevent. Sara vehemently refuses to involve law enforcement.
I unbuckle. Hop out. Walk beside Shelby to her cruiser. She spares me the hassle of cuffing me. Small town and all.
We pass the turnoff for Mickey and Sara's house on the way to the station, and I wonder if Mickey has already made it home.
The metal chairshimmers dully in the blunt overhead light. I don't know why they've stuck me in here. I'm not being interrogated.
I was fine in the large cell with James Croft, the idiot who set off a bottle rocket earlier this evening when everybody and their senile grandparents know it's illegal. And the other guy, the one wearing obscenely tight jeans, was brought in for trespassing on Hayden Cattle Company land. He's probably still crowing about how his wandering was inadvertent. I didn't believe a word out of his mouth, nor did I tell him my last name is Hayden.
Like a watched pot never boils, a watched door never seems to open. I've glanced at my watch so many times I've lost count, the minutes ticking by at a sure and steady pace. Every minute in this place feels like an hour, and my mind is filled with the bruises that are most likely just beginning to take form on Sara's body.
Finally, the door opens. Sheriff Monroe steps in. He's getting on in age, thicker around the middle than he'd like to be, and has a zigzag scar on the back of his head from riding a horse into a barbed wire fence when he was a teenager.
The sheriff opts not to sit down, but stands behind the chair opposite mine, his hands gripping the back. His knuckles are hairy and he wears a silver ring with a piece of turquoise in the center.
"Where were you headed tonight, Wyatt? Before Officer Trask brought you in."
I don't want to say, but I know my compliance will make it more likely he'll be lenient with my punishment. "To help a friend."
His bushy, salt-and-pepper eyebrows draw together. "By any chance would that 'friend' be Sara Schultz?"
I'm not surprised he knows, but doesn't he have better things to do? Like, I don't know, protect the town of Sierra Grande? Then again, his wife is a terrible gossip.
Anger, and a healthy dose of injustice, bubbles up inside me. This town notices my truck parked outside the Schultz's home when it otherwise shouldn't be, but they don't see what's right under their noses. How did nobody else see it when Sara began wearing long sleeves in July? How was I the only one?
I tamp down the anger, hold tight to the sting of injustice, and answer. "Yes, Sheriff."
Emotion flickers in his eyes. He's not disgusted. Judgmental, yes. Probably confused about my morals, or apparent lack thereof. "Doesn't matter to you that she's married with kids?"
He waits for my reply, but I don't have much of one. Itdoesmatter to me that she's married with kids. It matters a whole hell of a lot. Just not for the reason the sheriff knows about. I nod at him. At least it's the truth.
He chews on his cheek and watches me. I know he's thinking about what to do with me.
"Who should I call, Wyatt? To come and get you?"
"I can walk."
He tells me no with a shake of his head. "You're still intoxicated. If I let you go in this state and you cause more trouble, it's my head on the chopping block."
