I look at Ripley, who is sitting quietly beside me, then up at the sheriff. Areyou? I want to ask. I want to tell him to go fuck himself, but I can’t. Ripley is my responsibility, and the most important thing is to get her out of these woods alive. Being polite is the straightest path to that destination.
“Yes. She’s very well-trained.”
He looks at the hatchet. “You gonna put that thing away?”
I don’t want to, but I slip it into its loop on my backpack anyhow.
Clarence brings in the requested water, then sits. The sheriff motions to the floral armchair opposite him. I sit with my hand on Ripley’s collar. She shifts, and I loosen my grip.
Silence draws out till it’s thin as a razor.
Clarence clears his throat. “Why don’t you start at the beginning, Lou.”
“I work for a real estate appraisal company. My boss sent me here to photograph the McLaren parcel down the road.When I got back to my truck it wouldn’t start. Someone had drilled a hole in the gas tank.”
The sheriff leans back and looks between Clarence and me. “Anything else?”
Clarence tells him about the rabid coyote. “You get that skunk I brought to the station a few days ago tested?”
The sheriff rubs a hand across his face. “It’s the property owner’s responsibility.”
Clarence’s every word is enunciated with prejudice. “William McLaren is an eighty-six-year-old retiree living in Florida with his son. You expect him to fly up here? It’s a public health issue. You’re s’pposed to be the sheriff last time I checked.”
“Mr. McLaren sold earlier this year. I’m sure this is just some sort of misunderstanding. Frankly, I think you woulda been better off with a mechanic than me.”
Shame and frustration heat my cheeks. I want to crush his nose with my fist. When he stands, Clarence and I follow.
“Look, roads out here are rough. It’s easy to nick something when you’re not used to it. Still, I don’t want to dismiss your concerns and get myself canceled.” He lifts a sardonic eyebrow.
Smarmy.
“Why don’t you come up to the station with me, and we’ll get a tow for your truck. Sound good?”
“Cory—”
The sheriff cuts Clarence off. “Sheriff.”
Clarence’s lips draw back. He enunciates his wordsclearly. “Sheriff. If she says she thinks someone did it, I believe her. She’s obviously scared.”
“Not saying she’s not scared. Just saying maybe it’s not what she thinks. Either way, we’ll get it resolved at the station.”
He puts his arm out, motioning me to the front door ahead of him. I hesitate and look at Clarence.
“I’ll follow,” he says.
The sheriff doesn’t argue, though he looks extremely annoyed. His car is an old black-and-white Crown Victoria with the air of a late-’90s buddy-cop movie. He opens the back door and motions for us to go inside.
“I can’t sit in the front?”
“Nope. Rules are rules, even for a victim.”
Victim. It bounces around inside my skull like an echo. What am I the victim of? A coyote that didn’t even hurt me? My own paranoia?
Clarence puts his hand on my shoulder. I flinch in surprise. “S’alright. I’ll be behind you the whole time.”
I nod and slip out of my backpack. Get out of the woods. Get Ripley somewhere safe. Do both of those things as quickly as possible. I run Emma’s number through my head again. I’ll call her soon as I get to the station.
“Load up,” I tell Ripley.
