She freezes.
I don’t rush her.
Finally, she exhales. “Okay.”
We go in.
Deputy Kurt Morgan is exactly who you want in this situation.
No ego. No posturing. Nosirorma’amnonsense. Just calm eyes and a voice that doesn’t rush.
He takes us into an interview room and tells us to sit where we want.
Delaney perches on the edge of the chair as if flight is still an option.
I sit beside her.
She starts talking about Savannah giving her the number, about thinking it was a job, about the café.
Her voice wobbles only once, when she says his name.
Morgan’s eyes narrow just slightly.
She tells him about the messages. About how Marcus framed everything as an opportunity, a favor. As if she should be grateful he still wanted her. She even goes back in time, telling him all the details of why she left New York in the first place.
I feel my jaw lock.
Then she tells him about Main Street, about saying no, about his hand on her arm, and the threats that came with it, before Boone interjected.
Morgan doesn’t interrupt. He writes and asks clarifying questions, treating her as a reliable narrator of her own damn life.
When she hands over her phone, her hands shake.
I hold my breath until Morgan nods and says, “These help.”
That one sentence does something to her. I see it. Her shoulders drop a fraction.
When Morgan explains the next steps—documentation, a report, a possible restraining order—Delaney flinches.
“I don’t want this to turn into a whole drama,” she says quietly.
Morgan meets her eyes. “You’re not making it a drama. You’re naming it.”
She nods.
Signs the statement.
When it’s done, she looks wrung out. Someone turned her inside out and didn’t bother putting everything back where it goes.
Morgan stands. “If he shows up again, you call. Immediately.”
He looks at me. “Make sure she’s not alone.”
“Already covered,” I say.
Outside, the light feels too bright. Delaney scans the street as if danger might materialize out of thin air if she lets her guard down for even a second. I unlock the truck, and she hesitates before getting in, fingers hovering over the door handle.
“I hate this,” she whispers, the words barely making it past her teeth.
