“Authority’s a tool, not a personality trait.”
I snorted. “If you say so, Sheriff.”
He smiled—an actual, no-bullshit smile—and I wasn’t ready for how much it changed his face. Like, if he’d gone around looking that approachable, maybe half the town wouldn’t treat him like a scarecrow.
We stood there for a minute, everything unsaid vibrating between us. The heat of the afternoon, the burnt-rubber stink of the parking lot, the clatter of a paramedic slamming the ambulance doors. All of it amplified the quiet, the weird peace that followed.
Floyd held out the evidence bag with the gun. “You want to do the honors? Walk it inside?”
I hesitated, then took it. The plastic crinkled under my fingers, the weight oddly satisfying. “I’ll bring it in. You should probably start the paperwork.”
He nodded, and for a moment I thought he might say something else. Instead, he just watched as I led Gator toward the station, a hand steady on his shoulder.
We walked slow, like neither of us was in a hurry to face what came next. On the steps, Gator paused. “You think she’ll even talk to me?”
“If you don’t show, you’ll never find out.” I squeezed his arm. “One foot in front of the other. That’s all there is.”
He nodded, and I felt a flicker of pride, or maybe relief.
Inside, the station was less chaotic. The front desk deputy didn’t even bother with a snarky comment, just pointed me tothe evidence drop. I filled out the forms, handed off the gun, and waited for Gator to finish his statement. He was shaky, but lucid. I stuck around until a social worker showed up, then left before anyone decided I should stick around for a pat on the back.
Outside, the world had gone gold. Late sun turning everything syrupy and slow. I lit a cigarette and sat on my bike, letting the nicotine buzz kill the rest of the nerves.
I was halfway through when I saw Floyd leaning against the front door, arms crossed, watching me. He didn’t say anything, just tipped his chin up in a silent hello.
I flicked the butt into the gutter and headed over, feeling the static pull between us. He looked at me like he saw something new, something he hadn’t counted on.
“You really hate authority?” he asked, not quite smiling.
“Only when it gets in the way of the important shit.”
He nodded, like that answered something he’d wondered for a long time. “See you around, McKenzie,” he said.
“Count on it,” I said, and I meant it.
He turned to go inside, but not before looking back, just for a second. Our eyes met. Nothing was said, but everything was understood. And for the first time in my life, I couldn’t wait to see what kind of trouble we’d make together next.
I grinned at the thought, kicked my bike to life, and let the engine drown out everything else.
Chapter Four
~ Floyd ~
I pulled into the driveway at exactly 7:22 PM, which would have been 7:15 if the livestock report hadn’t run long, or if Latham could operate a pen without breaking the goddamn nib every ten minutes.
I counted the seconds it took for the garage door to crawl up, then parked square on the alignment stripe I painted last spring, so that the rearview mirrored perfectly with the red dot on the workbench shelf.
Some people called this compulsive. I called it the difference between order and entropy, between a house that stands and a house that collapses under the weight of a thousand invisible trespasses.
The first thing I noticed stepping inside was the smell: not the cold, bleachy nothing I insisted on, but the heavy, cloying stink of lavender dryer sheets.
Every nerve in my back snapped rigid. I dropped my keys in the bowl—centered on the credenza, not an inch off—and scanned the entryway for further signs of violation.
The floor was spotless. Not just vacuumed, but crisscrossed with the kind of precise, parallel lines you only get from someone trying to prove a point. Or from a psychopath.
Vivian. Of course. No one else would dare.
The shoes in the rack by the door had been reorganized by color, as if I was a toddler who might put my boots in the “wrong” cubby if left unsupervised.
