"For how long?"
"Does it matter?" Lucy stops walking and turns to face me, and there's fire in her eyes now.
"I found an injured animal and got him help. Why are you making it sound like I did something wrong?"
"I'm not," I say, holding up a hand in what I hope is a peaceful gesture. "I'm just—"
"You're investigating me." Lucy takes a step back, and the accusation hangs between us like a blade drawn in anger. "That's what this is, isn't it? The coffee, the casual conversation, the walking together. You think I'm involved in what happened to Dusty."
The disappointment in her voice cuts deeper than any knife.
"Lucy—"
"What exactly do you think I did, Sheriff?" The title comes out like a curse, sharp enough to draw blood.
"You think I stabbed a dog and then what, had a crisis of conscience and decided to save him? You think I drove him to the clinic, covered in his blood, and sat there for hours making sure he'd be okay because I felt guilty about trying to kill him? Does that make sense to you?"
She's right, and that's what frustrates me most. Nothing about Lucy Reid suggests she's capable of harming anything, much less an innocent animal.
But she's hiding something. Something big enough to require federal protection on her vehicle registration. Something that makes her sleep in a van and work for cash under a name that doesn't quite fit and jump like a startled deer every time someone asks too many questions.
"No," I admit, my voice rougher than I intended. "It doesn't make sense. But something about your story doesn't add up either, and I have a job to do."
"Maybe some people have reasons for keeping their past private that have nothing to do with criminal activity," she says, and there's pain threading through her voice now.
Real pain, the kind that comes from old wounds that never properly healed. "Maybe some of us have learned that trusting people with the truth is a good way to gethurt. Maybe some of us have learned that men with badges and authority don't always use it to protect people."
The words hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest, knock the air from my lungs and leave me reeling.
She's talking about trauma. About being betrayed by people who should have protected her. People in positions of power, people with badges, people like me.
I've heard that tone before in interview rooms with abuse victims, in testimonies from people who've learned the hard way that authority figures can't always be trusted. The careful distance, the way she flinches from direct questions about her past, the hypervigilance I mistook for simple caution.
She's been hurt by someone who should have protected her. Someone in uniform, maybe. Someone who used their position to control her, to silence her, to make her afraid.
And here I am, using my badge and my training and her probable loneliness to back her into a corner, to force confessions she's not ready to give.
I'm being exactly the kind of authority figure she's clearly learned to fear.
The realization makes me feel sick.
"Lucy," I start, but she's already backing away, putting distance between us like I'm something dangerous.
Which, I suppose, I am.
"I should get Tyson back. Mrs. Cross will be here soon to pick him up."
She turns to leave, and I know I'm about to lose whatever fragile trust might have been building between us.
"Wait," I call out, and something raw in my voice must convince her to stop because she does. Her shoulders are rigid with tension, like she's bracing for another blow. "You're right. I'm sorry."
I can see uncertainty warring with hurt in those brown eyes I've been cataloging like evidence.
"I should get Tyson back," she says again, switching the coffee cup to her other hand and flexing her fingers. "Mrs. Cross will be here soon, and my hands are getting numb from the cold."
The morning air has a bite to it, the kind of late March cold that sneaks up on you when you're distracted by more important things. Like the woman in front of me who's trying very hard not to look at me directly.
I move toward her slowly, like she's a wild animal that might bolt at any sudden movement, which isn't far from the truth. "Let me see."
