"Get a broom," the sheriff muttered, taking a loud slurp from the rim of the mug. "Place is a hazard. Somebody could trip and hurt themselves. Isn't that right, old man?"
Walter didn't answer. The elderly veteran stood by the shattered plates for a moment, his breathing slow and even. He didn't return to the booth Hollister had stolen from him. Instead, he walked to the far end of the service counter, taking a wobbly chrome stool near the glass pie case. The thin line of blood on his forehead had stopped flowing, already beginning to dry into a dark, rusty streak against his pale skin. He folded his hands on the laminate counter and stared straight ahead.
I hurried to the supply closet and grabbed the long-handled broom and a metal dustpan. When I returned to the waitress station, I knelt on the cold linoleum. The heavy white ceramic of our diner plates had splintered into dozens of jagged, dangerous pieces. Lying among them was the white cloth towel I had offered Walter just moments before. It was stained with a bright, unmistakable circle of his blood.
I looked over my shoulder. Hollister was reading the laminated breakfast menu, his broad back to me. The diner regulars were rigidly focused on their own meals, desperate to stay out of the sheriff's line of sight.
I reached into my apron, pulled out a clear plastic pastry bag I normally used for to-go muffins, and quickly stuffed the blood-stained towel inside. I shoved the plastic-wrapped cloth deep into the bottom pocket of my apron, pushing it beneath my cardboard order pad. I swept the broken ceramic into the dustpan with trembling hands, the sharp clatter echoing loudly in the quiet room.
The bell above the front door chimed violently. Deputy Miller stepped inside, bringing a rush of crisp September air with him. Miller was twenty-four, a former high school linebacker who had joined the department two years ago. He used to leave polite tips and ask about my daughter. Lately, he just did whatever Hollister told him to do.
"Morning, Sheriff," Miller said, taking off his wide-brimmed campaign hat. He stopped when he saw the mess I was sweeping, then noticed Walter sitting silently at the end of the counter with a bruised jaw and a bloody temple.
"Miller," Hollister grunted, not looking up from his coffee. "Grab your notepad. We had a little slip-and-fall incident this morning. Old man got his boots tangled up, went headfirst into the steel cabinet. Needs to be documented for the county insurance file so June here doesn't get sued by a drifter."
Miller's eyes darted between Hollister, the stainless steel cabinet, and Walter. The physical angle made absolutely no sense. A man tripping forward wouldn't hit his shoulder and the side of his head on the vertical face of the waitress station. Miller swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing above his tight uniform collar.
"You need medical attention, Walter?" Miller asked, his voice lacking its usual loud confidence.
"I am perfectly fine, Deputy," Walter said, his voice mild but absolute. He didn't look at Miller. He kept his eyes fixed on the empty two-lane highway visible through the front window.
Miller pulled a small spiral notebook from his chest pocket and clicked a black ballpoint pen. He walked over to where I was standing with the heavy dustpan.
"June," he said quietly, his eyes pleading with me to make this easy for him. "You saw him trip, right? Just lost his balance?"
I stared at the young deputy. If I told the truth, Hollister would hear it. The sheriff controlled the county health inspectors, the liquor licensing board, and the late-night patrols that kept the highway drunks out of my parking lot. He had shut down the diner across town last year over a fabricated grease-trap violation just because the owner complained about a parking ticket. My stomach twisted into a tight, sickening knot. I looked at Walter, hoping the veteran would say something, but the old man just watched the road, offering me no release.
"I was pouring coffee at the counter," I lied, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "I had my back turned. I just heard the crash."
Miller visibly relaxed, letting out a breath he had been holding. He scribbled a few lines on the paper, the pen scratching loudly. "Witness heard a fall," he muttered as he wrote. "No foul play."
Hollister chuckled, a wet, heavy sound that made my skin crawl. He tossed the menu aside. "Good work, Deputy. Now, June, before you bring me my eggs, there's one more piece of housekeeping."
He turned in the booth, pointing a thick, calloused finger toward the ceiling in the back corner of the diner. "That little black dome camera above the register. The one your husband installed before he passed."
My blood ran cold.