“Technically,” I said, shutting off the ignition, “yes.”
“Good.” Satisfaction filled her tone. “Then we will not meet with him, and we will not agree to any sort of settlement.”
I got out of the car just as she did, but she was faster, marching toward the front doors with her chin high.
The sheriff’s office was full of noise until we stepped inside. Then the entire room went silent. The scent of old coffee and floor wax hung in the air.
“Hello,” Nana said brightly. When no one answered, she said it again. “Hello?”
The receptionist, Vicky McGregor, hurried to her feet. “Oh, Fiona. This is just terrible.” She pressed a hand to her hair, which was as perfectly brown and helmet-shaped as ever. “I just can’t believe it.”
“My first arrest,” Nana said, smiling. “What happens next?”
Before I could answer, Sheriff Franco appeared from the hallway, leaning on a cane. He wore jeans with a brace over one knee, his face pale and drawn.
“Sheriff,” I said. “You shouldn’t be here.”
His lips pressed into a thin line until they turned white. “Nobody’s going to arrest Fiona O’Shea but me.” Sheriff Franco’s voice echoed through the quiet office. He tried to sound steady, but his grip on the cane looked white-knuckled. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get this over with.”
Nana giggled. Yes, giggled. “Oh, Sheriff, you’re such a sweetie.” She followed him down the hall, heels clicking smartly against the tile. I trailed after them, half mortified and half impressed.
Franco moved slower than usual, but he still insisted on handling everything himself. He guided Nana to the fingerprint station, where the machine hummed quietly beside the camera. His movements were careful, almost tender, as he pressed her fingers across the pad. I’d never seen him be that gentle with anyone, and certainly not with a suspect.
When the camera flashed for her mugshots, Nana smiled like she was posing for a Christmas card. “This is kind of fun,” she said brightly.
I wanted to slap my own forehead. “Nana, this is not fun.”
“All right, let’s go,” Franco said, straightening. “We’ll walk to the courthouse.”
“You are not walking to the courthouse,” I blurted. “I’ll drive. It’s just down the street.”
His jaw firmed. “We’re walking. It’s not even raining.”
The man hadn’t bothered with a jacket over his Western checkered shirt, and he barely leaned on the cane. I wanted to argue, but he was too pale, and his jaw looked set in granite.
So we walked. The four of us, Sheriff Franco, Deputy McCracken, Nana, and I, made our slow, ridiculous parade through Silverville’s main street. The air smelled of warm dirt and spring rain, and the river roared faintly in the background.
A handful of townspeople stopped what they were doing to stare. Some pressed faces to shop windows, others leaned out car doors. A few honked as if cheering on a parade float.
Nana waved at every single one of them. “Morning,” she called, smiling like she was on her way to brunch.
I could feel my blood pressure spike. This couldn’t be happening.
We reached the courthouse steps, climbed them, and walked through the double doors into the small magistrate courtroom. Judge Wallowby was already waiting behind the bench, a sharp-nosed man pushing ninety with eyes so blue they almost glowed.
Brad Backleboff, wearing a dark suit and red tie, stood at the prosecutor’s table, looking smug enough to curdle milk.
“Hey, Judge,” Nana said cheerfully, waving.
“Hello,” Judge Wallowby said formally, ignoring the fact that she’d just greeted him like a friend at the grocery store.
We took our seats at the defendant’s table. The judge called the case, read the charges, and went through her rights like he’d done it a thousand times.
Brad straightened. “Your Honor, we would like the defendant held without bond.”
I couldn’t stop the snort that rumbled out of me.
Nana leaned closer. “What does that mean?” she whispered.
