The sheriff’s hand moved across the page in tight, efficient strokes. His mouth was a thin line. He only looked up when Danny paused, and even then it was just to nod him along, never once pushing or rushing. When it was over, he closed the notebook and took a long, silent minute to rub his eyes.
“About damn time,” he said, not quite under his breath. “Son, if you’d told the truth years ago, we could’ve put him away for good.”
Danny’s jaw set. “I tried. He always convinced people I was lying.”
The sheriff shook his head, tired. “That’s what alphas like him do.”
That was my cue. I stalked into the kitchen, barely able to keep my fists unclenched. “You knew,” I spat, unable to stop myself. “You knew he was beating Danny and you didn’t do shit?”
Sheriff Calloway fixed me with a look that could sand paint off a fence. “What do you want from me, Burke? I filed every report. I brought in social. You think anyone in this town would testify against the Jenkins name, when half of them owe his mother for work or favors or god knows what? We tried, but every time, Danny clammed up and Dennis walked.”
Danny bristled. “You would’ve, too. He said he’d kill Mom if I talked.”
The sheriff’s face softened. “I know. And I’m sorry. But this time? You’re not alone. You got witnesses, you got this report, and you got a whole house full of ex-SEALs willing to testify.”
I was still vibrating, but the edge had dulled. “If you need statements, we’ll all give ‘em.”
Calloway nodded, then stood up, slow and deliberate. “First, I gotta take photos of the injuries. Then I’ll call it in. After that, I recommend you keep the kid off social media and away from town for a while. Dennis is gonna be pissed.”
“Let him come,” I said, before I could stop myself.
The sheriff smiled, grim. “That’s what I figured you’d say.”
He turned to Danny. “You okay with the pictures?”
Danny’s voice wobbled, but he didn’t flinch. “Yeah. Get it over with.”
The sheriff’s second round was pure procedure, but there was nothing routine about it. He had me drag in a kitchen chair and line it up against the sunniest patch of wall.
Danny shuffled into place, every movement measured like he was rationing pain. Calloway fished a digital camera from his kit bag, then took a moment to dial through the settings with more care than I’d have credited him for.
“Hold still, Daniel,” he said, and for a moment, the world collapsed to the click and whirr of the lens.
He started at the face, the eye so swollen it barely showed, the split lip, the bruises yellowing at the edges. Then the arms, the deep finger marks around each wrist. The ribs, once Jojo helped ease the shirt over his head, blooming with purple and green that would look almost pretty if you weren’t close enough to know better.
Danny didn’t flinch. If anything, he locked his jaw tighter with every shot. Even when Calloway said, “Turn your hands over, please,” and the long-healed scars there got their own frame, the kid just stared dead ahead, eyes glassy, but unbroken.
I watched from the edge of the room as the sheriff did his work—every angle, every bruise, every scrap of evidence that might one day be Exhibit A. Danny didn’t shy away from any of it. If anything, he sat up straighter each time, like he wanted the camera to see just how much of him was still unbroken.
I wanted to take the camera and smash it, to build a fortress out of my own body, to promise him that nothing like this would ever touch him again. But I knew what he needed was for me to stand still and let him be seen.
Really seen, for once.
When the photos were done, the sheriff popped the memory card and sealed it in a little yellow envelope, initials scrawled across the flap. He fished out the notebook again and said, “You ready to make it official, Daniel? You’ll need to tell me everything for the report.”
Danny nodded, and his voice—steady, weirdly grown-up—walked through the whole nightmare in a way that felt both rehearsed and brand new. He listed the dates. The places. The times Dennis called him a “useless omega” or worse. The times his mom looked the other way. He gave them all up, one by one, until the story wasn’t a secret anymore, just a string of facts marching toward the inevitable.
I’d seen guys confess to war crimes with less composure.
Every so often, the sheriff would cut his eyes at me, like he was checking to make sure I didn’t punch through a wall. I just stood there, fists jammed into my pockets, counting every breath.
When Danny finished, Calloway shut the notebook with a crisp snap. “You got guts, kid,” he said, then turned to me. “You keep an eye on him, Burke. If Dennis tries anything, you call me first. Understood?”
I didn’t bother with a salute. “Understood.”
Sheriff Calloway packed up his stuff and nodded to both of us. “I’ll file these today. You’ll get a visit from social services, probably a shrink, maybe even a suit from the state. Don’t let them scare you. You did the right thing.”
Danny’s shoulders dropped. For the first time all morning, he looked tired.
