"Don't do that in my place, Kevin," I said, my voice cutting through the grease-thick air sharper than I expected.
Kevin didn't let go immediately. He held Thomas suspended for three slow seconds, his eyes darting toward the plate-glass window to check the dark road behind him. Then he shoved him back against the booth cushion with enough force to rattle the windowpane.
"Mind your business, Clara," Kevin said, turning his chin toward me. "This is county property dispute. Tom walked off shift with official county documentation. He's trespassing on an active investigation."
"He came in here on his own two feet to get a cup of water and clean his face," I said, holding his gaze. "That makes him a customer. And unless Wayne is sitting in that car outside with a warrant, you don't touch people in my father's booth."
Kevin let out a short, dry laugh. He unclipped his radio from his shoulder, pressed the talk bar, and spoke into the microphone without taking his eyes off the floor beneath Table Four. "Unit two to base. I'm at the highway diner. Subject is here. Denies having the papers on his person."
The static crackled. A voice came back through the small speaker—low, deliberate, and familiar. It was Sheriff Wayne Miller. Search his coat, Kevin. If he dumped them in the culvert, we drag the ditch. Don't cause a scene with the girl.
"Copy that," Kevin muttered. He hooked the radio back onto his epaulet and turned his full attention back to Thomas. "Stand up, Tom. Empty your pockets on the table. Both sides."
Thomas didn't argue. He rose slowly, using the edge of the table to steady his knees, and turned his pockets inside out. A pocket knife, a pack of matches, a folded handkerchief gray with road dust, and two crumpled dollar bills dropped onto the table.
Kevin patted down the canvas coat with rough, aggressive sweeps of his gloved hands, digging into the lining and feeling around the waistband of Thomas's denim trousers. When he found nothing, his jaw set hard. He kicked the base of the booth with his boot, splintering the worn red trim at the bottom.
"Where'd you leave it, Tom?" Kevin growled. "You didn't walk two miles up the creek without it. You had that yellow slip clutched in your hand when you blew through the yard gate."
"I dropped it when the truck rolled," Thomas answered, his voice completely level. "Go drag the creek if you think it's down there."
Kevin stared at him for five long seconds, his chest heaving under the deputy vest. Then his eyes drifted across the floor, past the spilled napkins, and locked directly onto the counter where the cash register sat.
He took two heavy steps toward me, his hand resting openly on the leather grip of his sidearm. He stopped at the partition, his eyes dropping toward the plastic storage bin half-hidden beneath the counter skirt.
"Clara," Kevin said softly, the edge in his voice turning dangerous. "What's in that box by your feet?"
CHAPTER 2 CONTINUED
"Step back from the counter then," Kevin said. He didn't look at my face; his small, close-set eyes were locked on the edge of the rubber floor mat. "Let me take a look inside."
"You need a warrant signed by a circuit judge to walk behind my register," I replied, holding my ground. My voice stayed quiet, but every muscle along my spine pulled tight. "Wayne knows that rule. Your uncle never set foot behind this partition without asking my father first, and he won't let you do it either."
Kevin let out a wet, contemptuous sneer, though his hand drifted two inches away from his sidearm. He was reckless, but he wasn't brave enough to commit a full trespass on a family that half the county board had known for thirty years—not without his uncle standing beside him to cover the paperwork. Instead, he pulled a chrome penlight from his breast pocket, clicked the beam into life, and snapped the harsh white glare down into the open plastic tub.