"Prescription meds, over-the-counter supplies, all sealed and manifested."
She pauses, studies Jagger's face.
"Step out of the vehicle, please."
The air leaves my lungs, but my smile doesn’t falter.I keep moving, keep my steps even as we descend onto wet pavement that smells like rain and hot rubber.
An older officer approaches, clipboard tucked under one arm.His gaze is practiced, thorough, sliding over us the way men do when they’re deciding what matters and what doesn’t.
Jagger shifts beside me—not abrupt, not obvious—but enough that he has the whole scene in his line of sight: the lake, the road, the officers, me.His weight rolls forward onto the balls of his feet, ready in a way that makes my chest tighten.
Don’t.Please don’t.
“This a regular route for you?”the officer asks.
“First time,” Jagger replies easily.Too easily.“Usually run local out of Baton Rouge.Dispatch kicked this one over last minute.”
The officer nods, scribbles something down.The pen scratches louder than it should.“Hear about any trouble on the highway yesterday?”
Jagger freezes.He doesn't even finish his breath.I wait for him to say something, but the silence just keeps stretching out.
“You mean the shooting?”I cut in, forcing concern into my voice, leaning into the role.“We heard about it at a diner last night.It sounded awful.Was anyone hurt?”
The officer’s attention shifts to me.His eyes linger, measuring.“Not that we know of.You didn’t see anything?”
“The storm was loud,” I say.“Hard to tell what was what.”
Behind us, a sharp command breaks the air.
The K-9 moves in.
The German Shepherd’s nose drops to the pavement, working methodically, tail steady, focus absolute.It starts at the front tire, sniffing deep, then traces the seam along the door.The handler gives it slack, saying nothing, letting the dog dictate the pace.
My pulse crawls into my throat.
The dog pauses at the cargo bay.Sniffs once.Twice.Longer this time.
Jagger’s gaze locks on the animal.I can feel the tension radiating off him, a hum just beneath the skin.His hand shifts—barely—toward his back before discipline clamps down and stills it.His jaw tightens, muscle jumping beneath the skin.
I step closer, close enough that our arms brush, close enough to anchor him.
He flinches anyway.
The dog circles the cargo bay again, slower now, nose pressed hard to the latch.It inhales, deep and searching, as if tasting the air for secrets.
My lungs burn.I realize I’ve stopped breathing.
The handler watches, unreadable.
For a long moment, nothing happens.
Then the Shepherd moves on.
No bark.No sit.No alert.
The handler exhales, gives a short nod to the troopers.
The female officer steps back.“You’re clear.”
