Then I turned my attention to keeping my feet beneath me.
The younger deputy hurried behind us carrying my shoulder bag.
It was black pebbled leather, worn at the strap, with my wallet and telephone inside. The ordinary possessions looked strangely exposed in the hands of someone who had taken them without asking who owned them.
His name tag read M. REED.
He was lean and pale, and his uniform seemed to belong to a larger man. His eyes moved between Voss and the people sitting motionless at their tables.
“Sheriff,” he said quietly, “we didn't get her name. We didn't check the registration on the sedan.”
Voss did not slow down.
“Carry the bag, Marcus. You want to learn how to keep this county orderly, watch and stop talking.”
Marcus Reed lowered his eyes.
I recognized the movement from the men in the booths. Different age, different side of the encounter, the same calculation about what questioning the sheriff might cost.
The diner door struck its rubber stop as Voss drove me through it.
Outside, the afternoon was bright and humid. Pine sap and exhaust hung in the air. Logging trucks idled nearby, their drivers watching without appearing to watch.
Voss's black-and-tan Tahoe occupied two parking spaces at an angle that required other people to arrange themselves around it.
He steered me toward the rear door.
“Mind the frame,” I said, trying to lower myself while my arms were held behind me.
He pushed instead.
My forehead clipped the metal edge before I landed on the molded plastic seat. The pain was brief and bright. I sat still until I could distinguish it from the pull through my shoulders.
Through the window, I saw Reed pause with my bag.
His gaze had returned to the diner.
Martha stood inside against the glass, holding an iPhone toward the Tahoe. Her hands shook enough that I could see the movement from the back seat.
She was recording.
Voss saw her too.
His face changed, and he rounded the hood with the anger of a man who believed being observed was an additional offense.
“Get in, Marcus. Call dispatch. Have Tyler go by the Kettle & Comb. She's got a phone out. Tell him it's evidence in an ongoing felony stop.”
Reed looked through the glass again.
“She was just serving food.”
“If she argues, obstruction and tampering. Make the call.”
He slammed his door.
Reed climbed into the passenger seat holding my bag as though it had become heavier. I could not see every movement he made with the radio. I heard enough of the transmission to know he passed on the sheriff's direction.
Martha remained at the window as we reversed.
I could see the table I had occupied beyond her shoulder. A plate, a fallen glass, the small mess someone would need to clean before the next customer sat down. The sight made the removal feel more brutal than the uniform did. My ordinary place in the room had been cleared while I was still trying to explain why I should be allowed to remain in it.
The Tahoe jerked hard enough to send me against the seat. Voss pulled onto the highway and adjusted the rearview mirror until our eyes met in its narrow strip.
“You're quiet,” he said. “Usually they're crying by now.”
The radio played country music beneath his voice.
He seemed to expect the music, the car, and the county itself to provide agreement.
“Not going to tell me about an uncle who knows a lawyer? Not going to explain you pay my salary?”
I looked at the dashboard clock.
One thirty-eight.
The odometer showed 42,109 miles. Badge 01 was pinned to his chest. I registered the details without believing memory could preserve every second perfectly.
My wrist hurt. My forehead hurt. I was frightened.
None of those facts required me to give him the begging he wanted.
“I have no reason to beg you, Sheriff Voss. You will have to answer for what you are doing.”
He smiled as though I had supplied a familiar line in a play he already knew.
“Everybody thinks that.”
Reed looked toward the mirror.
For the first time, I saw him meet my eyes rather than the sheriff's.
I gave him my name.
“Amara Whitlock. Please record it accurately.”
He repeated the name under his breath.
Voss increased the volume of the music.
My bag sat between the front seats. A muffled vibration began inside it, stopped, and began again.