“No. I am consistent.”
That irritated him more than anger would have. He grabbed the bag anyway.
Price immediately walked back toward them. “Cole.”
Ransom unzipped it.
Inside were a wallet, a phone charger, a paperback novel, medication, a small cosmetics pouch, and a black leather credential case.
Ransom took the case out.
Amara watched him.
“Open it,” she said.
His eyes flicked to hers. Maybe he heard the trap in her calm. Maybe pride had already carried him too far to stop. He opened the case.
The left side displayed an old state-bureau identification card showing Amara six years younger, under the title SPECIAL AGENT SUPERVISOR. The right side held a retired-service badge. It was not current law-enforcement authority, but it was enough to tell a careful person that the woman on the roadside had spent a significant portion of her life inside the system he was claiming to defend.
Price stared.
Ransom recovered first. “Retired.”
“Yes.”
“So you’re not law enforcement.”
“Not at this moment.”
Again: at this moment.
Price looked at her, then at the county paperwork, and something clicked behind his eyes.
Ransom saw it happen. “What?”
Price hesitated. “Nothing.”
“What?”
Price glanced at the dashboard of his cruiser. “It’s September thirtieth.”
Ransom stared at him.
Price said, “The new sheriff takes office October first.”
The older deputy went still.
Amara did not smile. “Midnight is still more than two hours away.”
Ransom looked down at the retired credential case, then toward the torn county envelope. He finally lifted the page he had tossed onto the wet seat. Rain had blurred one corner, but the appointment language remained readable.
AMARA BENNETT, SHERIFF-DESIGNATE.
Ransom’s face emptied.
Price whispered, “Jesus.”
For several seconds, no one moved.
Then Ransom did something Amara would remember longer than the broken windows.
He folded the page in half, put it back on the seat, and said, “Doesn’t change the stop.”
Price stared at him in disbelief.
Amara’s expression hardened. “No. It changes what you know now.”
Ransom’s shoulders squared. “And I know you withheld material information from an officer.”
“My future job title is not material to whether you had probable cause to smash my windows.”
“You were playing games.”
“I was complying with the law.”
“You wanted this.”
Amara looked at the Bentley, then back at him. “You believe I wanted you to destroy my car?”
“You wanted to catch me doing something.”
“No, Deputy Ransom. I wanted to arrive in this county without learning on my first night that one of my deputies treats a refusal to consent as a personal insult.”
The phrase one of my deputies landed heavily.
Ransom stepped forward. “You’re not sheriff yet.”
Amara’s voice dropped. “Correct.”