I snorted, loud enough for the whole damn valley to hear. “The only thing being held here is Danny’s ribs. Together, with tape, after his brother tried to crack them like a six-pack.”
The sheriff’s face didn’t move, but his eyes sharpened. “Is the boy here?”
“Yeah. And he’s not going anywhere until his breathing is less ‘maraca’ and more ‘living human.’”
Calloway grunted, then made a show of glancing up at the porch. “You gonna let me in or do we play this out in front of your new security system?”
I stepped aside, but not all the way. “You can come in. But I swear to God, Calloway, if you let that bastard near this ranch—”
He raised a hand, already familiar with the drill. “I’m not here for a fight. I just need to make sure everything’s above board.”
His boots thudded on the steps, slow and careful. He paused at the door, wiped the mud off on the mat—old habits die hard in a small town, I guess—then followed me inside.
The ranch house always smelled faintly of wood smoke and the bacon Jojo liked to sneak for second breakfast. But under that, I could still pick up the sharp tang of hydrogen peroxide and the bitter, animal smell of pain. Danny’s scent was woven through all of it—nervous, but holding together. I could track it through the house, easy.
We found him propped up on the couch, a textbook balanced on his knees like a shield. He looked up, and his face flickered with a dozen emotions in two seconds—fear, relief, embarrassment, and something that might’ve been gratitude.
Sheriff Calloway’s face went hard when he saw the bruises. He didn’t say anything at first, just let out a slow whistle. “Jesus, son,” he muttered. “You take a tumble or is that Dennis’s handiwork again?”
Danny met his eyes, steady as steel. “I want to press charges this time.”
For a second, nobody moved. Then the sheriff pulled out a notebook and flipped to a clean page. “I’ll need a statement. And you’re sure?”
Danny’s voice was quiet, but I’d never heard it sound so clear. “I’m sure.”
Calloway nodded, then turned to me. “You mind if we use your kitchen?”
“Knock yourself out,” I said. “Coffee’s fresh.”
He shot me a look that said he knew damn well it wasn’t, but he followed Danny into the kitchen anyway.
I waited by the door, listening to the low hum of their voices. My fists unclenched, just a little. The day wasn’t over, not by a long shot, but for the first time since last night, it felt like maybe—just maybe—we had a shot at surviving this town with our souls intact.
I turned back to the window, scanning the horizon for any sign of Dennis’s truck. I didn’t see it.
But I was ready if I did.
I hung back in the hallway, close enough to intervene if Dennis’s truck magically teleported into the driveway, but not so close that I’d crowd them. Danny sat at the kitchen table, arms folded tight across his ribs.
Sheriff Calloway settled across from him, the battered notebook already open and a stubby pencil tucked behind his ear. He glanced at the splotch of blood on the corner of the tablecloth, then at the kid, and exhaled like he was letting out a month’s worth of tension.
“Alright, Daniel,” he said, voice gone soft and official. “You ready?”
Danny didn’t hesitate. “I want to press charges this time.”
It didn’t even sound like him—there was no quiver, no trailing off at the end. The words landed flat and heavy, like steel dropped on a workbench. They’d sounded the same way when he’d said them in the living room.
The sheriff’s eyebrows went up a fraction, but he just nodded and made a note. “Good. It’ll stick, this time. He went too far.”
Danny looked at his hands. “He always goes too far.”
Calloway winced, just a little, and made another note. “You know the drill, then. Tell me what happened, as close to the order as you remember it.”
I kept my post, pretending to count the days’ worth of dog hair on the baseboards. But I listened. I listened to every word, every detail, every time Danny had to pause to get his breath under him. His voice never cracked, not even when he listed off the spots Dennis aimed for: face, ribs, kidneys, anywhere that wouldn’t show if you wore a long-sleeve shirt.
Not even when he said, “He told me if I talked, he’d kill me.”
I wanted to punch something. I wanted to punch everything. But I held it together, because the kid was finally getting a chance to speak and I’d be damned if I stole that from him.
