Harlow nodded, jaw set.
I walked to the door, planted my feet, and opened it just wide enough to fill the frame. Sheriff Floyd Hardesty stood on the porch, hat in hand, badge glinting in the weak morning sun. His mouth twitched when he saw me, like he was trying to remember if we’d ever been on the same side. Behind him, a white-and-blue cruiser idled, exhaust fuming up into the cold.
He raised the hat, nodded. “Morning, Knox.”
“Sheriff.”
He didn’t ask to come in. He knew better. Instead he shifted his weight, scanning the porch and the yard, every move a calculation.
“I need a word,” he said.
“Then speak.”
He looked past me, into the house, eyes lingering on the hallway where Harlow had appeared, arms crossed, blocking any line of sight to Newt. The sheriff was good—better than most—but he wasn’t subtle.
“James Bridger came to the station last night,” he said, voice pitched for my ears alone. “He claims you’re keeping the boy’s here against his will.”
I didn’t blink. “That what he told you?”
“It’s what he put in writing. He also said you threatened to kill him.”
I let my mouth twist into a smile. “He’s not wrong.” I might not have said it out loud, but I was sure he read in my eyes.
The sheriff’s eyes tightened, just a shade. “You want to tell me your side?”
“No,” I said.
He waited, out of habit more than hope. Then he sighed, tucked the hat under his arm. “You know how this looks, Knox.”
“Looks like a man protecting his own,” I said. “The way it’s always been.”
He shook his head, the kind of motion that meant he’d already written the report and just needed a box checked. “I’m not here to make trouble. But I gotta see the boy, talk to him myself.”
That was the price. I’d already decided to pay it.
“Wait here,” I said. I didn’t move.
He waited, hands visible, body language careful. I liked that about him. He was never going to be a threat, but he played by the rules and wanted you to know he was armed.
I turned, signaled Harlow with a jerk of the chin. I waited for his nod and then went to the kitchen. Newt was still at the table, cereal untouched, hands knotted in his lap.
“It’s just the sheriff,” I told him, voice low. “He’s going to want to talk to you. You don’t have to say a thing you don’t wantto. You want me to stay in the room, I’ll stay. You want me to leave, I’ll wait outside. You call the shots, understand?”
He nodded, but I wasn’t sure he’d heard.
“Do you want me to stay?”
He hesitated. Then, quietly, “Stay.”
“Good.”
We walked back to the front hall, Harlow trailing us like a boulder on legs. I opened the door wider, stepped back just enough for the sheriff to see Newt in the room, but not enough to invite him across the threshold.
Hardesty looked at Newt, then at me, then at Newt again. His eyes softened, just a little. “Morning, Newt,” he said.
Newt managed a “Hi,” voice paper-thin.
The sheriff kept it easy. “Your dad’s looking for you. He says he’s worried.”
