An hour later, Floyd’s office looked less like the command center of a small-town sheriff and more like a bunker on the losing end of a siege. The blinds were snapped shut, blotting out the cold sunlight.
The desk was covered in reports, coffee mugs, and a yellow legal pad where he’d scrawled the words “CONFLICT OF INTEREST—NO” in letters that could be read from orbit.
Even the bulletins on the wall seemed to have picked up the vibe, curling away from their thumbtacks like they didn’t want to be seen here.
He sat behind the desk, cradling his busted arm, the other hand tracing circles on the battered oak. His voice was clinical, but every so often it would hitch, like he had to push the words through a clogged drain. “Billy’s statement and the recording from the interrogation are enough to get a warrant. And there’s physical evidence—cash traced back to her, emails, burner phone records. Latham’s already drawing up the paperwork.”
I paced, fingers drumming on the back of a visitor’s chair. “You can’t do it yourself.”
He looked up, a flicker of shame and rage in his eyes. “Not even if I wanted to. County protocol: immediate family, spouses, exes—anything where there’s potential bias, you’re out.”
“Doesn’t mean you can’t drive the getaway car.”
He smiled, but it was all teeth and no humor. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
A knock on the door, then Latham poked his head in, holding a printout in one hand and a matte-black holster in the other. “Boss, we’re set. Miller and Daniels are rolling up now. You want the arrest done quiet or you want to make a show of it?”
Floyd looked to me. “Up to you.”
I thought about it. I wanted a show. I wanted Vivian dragged out screaming, neighbors on their lawns, the whole town rubbernecking while she finally saw what it felt like to be ruined. But there was still the part of me that wanted the job done clean, for Floyd’s sake if not my own.
I said, “Just do it fast. No warning.”
Latham grinned, a shark’s grin. “Copy that.” He left, already barking orders into his radio.
Floyd got up, every movement careful. He took his jacket off the wall, slipped it on one-handed, and gestured for me to follow. In the hallway, deputies moved with the urgency of men who finally had the green light to settle an old score.
Miller checked his sidearm, then racked the shotgun and flipped the safety on. Daniels carried a riot baton and wore the expression of a guy who’d paid for his own body-cam just to make sure the footage didn’t get “lost.” Even the dispatcher, a retired matron who’d raised five linebackers, gave me a nod of approval as I passed.
Floyd steered us to the back lot. His squad truck was waiting, engine running, the interior already faintly reeking ofpeppermint gum and gun oil. He slid behind the wheel and handed me the clipboard with the warrant clipped to it. “You’re the witness.”
I looked at the paper, saw Vivian’s name in black type, and felt a little giddy. “She’s going to lose her shit.”
He started the drive, one-handed. His face was blank but his knuckles bleached white on the steering wheel. “She’ll deny everything.”
I leaned back, watching the town roll by in reverse through the rear window. “Not for long.”
We pulled up three houses down from Vivian’s, a colonial the color of old teeth, hedges trimmed to military precision, not a single snowflake on the walkway. I imagined her inside, planning a new campaign against us, never suspecting that the troops were already at her gate.
We watched through the windshield as Miller and Daniels circled the block, parking the cruiser where it wouldn’t spook her. Latham got out, tucked his badge into his belt, and strode up the walk with the calm of a man about to serve the best meal of his life.
Inside the truck, Floyd’s hand found mine. He didn’t look at me, but he laced our fingers together and squeezed, thumb stroking the inside of my palm. My heart hammered against my ribs. I wanted to say something but couldn’t.
The neighborhood was dead quiet. No kids, no dogs, just the hum of far-off traffic and the distant whine of a chainsaw in someone’s garage. Everything else was winter stillness, as if the world had stopped to watch the moment.
Floyd broke the silence. “You ready for this?”
I nodded, but I don’t think I ever would be.
Through the windshield, I watched Latham rap on the front door, hard. Vivian opened it, and even from a block away, youcould see the performance kick in—she plastered on her “I’m just a nice lady” smile, chin up, eyes big and innocent.
Latham said something, then flashed the warrant. She tried to step back, but Miller and Daniels flanked her, blocking the way. Vivian’s mouth opened, likely screaming, but the glass kept it mercifully muted.
They brought her out in cuffs. Not like the Law & Order reruns, where the perps keep their dignity until the end, but with every inch of suburban hell queen fighting for her life. Vivian’s hair, always so perfectly shellacked into place, had gone to war with the wind and lost. Her eyes were pure venom, the whites burning with rage. She twisted and kicked and nearly landed a stiletto heel in Deputy Daniels’ shin, but Miller had her by the arm and wasn’t letting go.
Her voice carried for blocks. “I am the sheriff’s wife!” she screamed, as if the echo alone might unlock the cuffs. “Do you have any idea who I am? You’re all fired, all of you! You’ll never work in this county again!”
The show worked exactly as she’d planned. By the time they got her to the cruiser, every curtain on the block had twitched. A half-dozen faces peered from windows: retirees, a pair of kids still in pajamas, a teenager with a phone held high, catching it all on video for the next town-wide text chain. Vivian was about to be the only trending topic in McKenzie River.
