The bell over the door—original, from the building’s telegraph days—jangled at precisely nine. First client, right on time, but not before I caught one last look at Sheriff Hardesty. He’d gotten out of his car by then, propping one boot on the curb, arms still folded.
Still watching.
I set my jaw and went to greet the walk-in, already knowing that whatever Floyd had planned for today, I’d be ready. If nothing else, I’d always have the sharper needles.
My nine o’clock was a local farm kid getting his grandpa’s Navy anchor redone, the sort of sentimental work that paid the bills but never made the portfolio.
By nine-thirty, I’d finished the outline, patched him up with a complimentary sticker, and sent him wobbling down Main Street with a fresh bandage and the post-adrenaline shakes.
If I was lucky, he’d post a five-star review by the end of the week. More likely, his family would start a group text about how I was single-handedly infecting the valley youth with my urban decay.
I sanitized my station with a flourish, like the final act of a magic trick, then stood perfectly still, listening. Nothing but the Stones and the faintest creak of the shop settling.
I was expecting the bell over the door to jangle, signaling Floyd’s entry, but it didn’t. Instead, I caught his reflection in the glass, arms folded, still on the curb.
He was waiting for something, maybe trying to decide if he had the energy to outlast me today. Joke’s on him—I’d built my entire personality on waiting for other people to blink first.
The clock clicked over to ten, and right on schedule, Floyd finally crossed the street. He moved with the deliberation of aman who knew exactly how his footsteps would sound on the old boards outside.
I met his entrance with a practiced smirk, leaning both hands on the counter as he filled the doorway. Up close, he looked exactly the way I liked to remember him: tall, solid, that just-back-from-the-range tan, uniform crisp enough to cut glass.
Most lawmen in towns like this aged into their badge like a second skin, but Floyd had kept himself in fighting shape, every movement economic and exact. I wondered, sometimes, what kind of effort that took. What he had to bottle up every night to avoid letting the cracks show.
“Morning, Sheriff,” I said, letting the word draw out. I knew he hated the way I said it, just a shade off “asshole.”
He closed the door with a gentle click, never taking his eyes off me. “McKenzie.”
“Credit for using my actual name,” I said. “What brings the law to my den of iniquity today? Miss Rosie's cookies finally violate state code?”
He didn’t answer right away, just surveyed the shop like he was checking for explosives. His gaze paused on my display wall, the old time tattoo flash sandwiched between my more aggressive recent work. I let him have the silence. Some people needed to fill it, but I was a pro at letting it grow roots.
Finally, he spoke. “You hear about the break-ins on the south end?”
“I read the local gossip, sure. I especially liked the part where the so-called suspect left no prints, no DNA, and only stole shit no one would actually miss.” I pushed my sleeve up to check the time, making sure he noticed the fresh blackwork on my forearm. “If you’re here to ask about my whereabouts, you could’ve just called. My phone’s working, unless the county finally cut off my number.”
Floyd’s lips twitched, almost a smile, but he killed it before it could take. “Official business. I like to do things face to face.”
“Old fashioned,” I said. “Or maybe you just like the view.” I caught his gaze and held it, daring him to acknowledge the crackle in the air. He didn’t, but he didn’t look away either.
“I have to check every angle,” he said, voice so low I felt it more than heard it. “Your name came up.”
“My name always comes up. It’s the McKenzie River way.” I leaned back, crossing my arms, giving him the full canvas of my tattoos and the six inches I had on him in height. “You want to tell me who fingered me, or do we skip to the part where you ask what I was doing between midnight and two?”
He stepped closer, just enough to make it obvious he didn’t like the power differential. I had to respect that, honestly. Most men would’ve just puffed up; Floyd recalibrated. It put him within a foot of my counter, the clean citrus of his aftershave cutting through the patchouli fog. My pulse spiked, but I kept my face slack.
“Where were you,” he said, “between midnight and two?”
“In my apartment. You can check the security camera footage, if you want. Might get a show, depending what time you fast forward to.” I kept my tone just shy of disrespectful, but only just.
His jaw worked. “Not funny, McKenzie.”
I shrugged. “Depends on your sense of humor. Listen, Sheriff—” I let the word linger, softer this time. “Why am I always your prime suspect? There’s a whole world of troublemakers out there. What about Levi Hardesty and his band of brain-cell-challenged juveniles?”
His eyes narrowed. “You have a problem with Levi?”
“No more than anyone else with a locked tool shed. I’m just saying, you know as well as I do that if anyone’s going to go full Ocean’s Eleven on the Feed Store, it’s not going to be the guywith a record for stubbornness, not theft.” I let my arms drop to the counter and leaned in, lowering my voice. “What’s really going on here, Floyd?”
The use of his first name made him flinch, just a fraction, but he recovered. “Just doing my job.”
