"I am requesting it as his medical proxy," I interrupted, stepping directly into his personal space. I didn't raise my voice. I didn't need to. "You will document the physical reality of his condition, Doctor. Because if this file disappears, or if the bruising magically fades from the official record, I will have federal investigators pull your medical license for falsifying a patient chart."
Dr. Aris swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. He gave a jerky nod, backed out of the room, and hurried down the corridor.
I turned back to the bed. My father's good eye was open, watching me.
"You didn't have to scare the kid," Walter rasped. His voice was sandpaper dry, strained by the pain in his ribs.
"He's writing what Hollister tells him to write," I said softly, pulling up a plastic chair and sitting beside him. I reached out and gently took his uninjured hand. His knuckles were bruised—he had tried to block the hit. "How are you feeling, Dad?"
"Like I fought a ceramic coffee mug and the mug won," he muttered, managing a weak, lopsided smile. "I told you I needed you. I didn't mean you had to deploy the whole Navy."
"I came alone." I squeezed his hand. "Where is your jacket?"
He tilted his chin toward a plastic belongings bag sitting on the small counter by the sink. I stood up, retrieved the bag, and broke the seal. Inside, his heavy canvas work jacket was folded in a messy square, the collar stiff with dried blood. I reached into the right interior pocket and pulled out his cell phone.
The screen was cracked, but it still powered on. I checked the call log. The outbound call to my secure line was there, logged at exactly 7:02 AM. The duration was forty-one minutes—the exact length of time before the phone's battery had died in his pocket, transmitting every sound to my communications bay.
"He hit me with a heavy diner mug," Walter said quietly, his eyes fixed on the ceiling tiles. "I asked him to move his cruiser. He was blocking the handicap ramp outside. I told him he wasn't above the law. He just smiled, grabbed a mug off the counter, and smashed it across my face. Then he took my booth."
"I know," I said. "I heard him order his eggs."
Walter’s breath hitched. He looked at me, a flash of genuine fear cutting through his stoic veteran exterior. "Sarah, you have to be careful. Hollister isn't just a bully. He owns the county dispatch. He owns the judges. He turns his camera off and does whatever he wants. If he finds out I called you, if he finds out you're looking into this..."
"He's going to find out," I said, slipping the phone into my uniform pocket alongside the encrypted drive holding the audio file. "Because I'm going to the diner."
"No," Walter gripped the bedrail, trying to sit up, then wincing as his ribs flared. "Sarah, don't. He'll arrest you for obstruction. He'll invent a charge."
"Let him try to arrest a federal officer on emergency leave," I said, gently pushing him back down by his good shoulder. "Rest, Dad. I'm going to secure the scene before they finish erasing it."
I left the hospital and drove the five miles into the center of Oak Hollow. The morning fog was finally burning off, revealing the weathered storefronts of a town that had stopped growing twenty years ago. I parked my rental sedan a block away from the diner and walked the rest of the way.
The diner was a classic chrome-and-glass box, a local fixture that had served cheap coffee and heavy breakfasts since I was a child. The neon "OPEN" sign was dark. A handwritten piece of cardboard taped to the glass read: Closed for deep cleaning. Back at noon.
I pushed the door open anyway. The bell above it chimed aggressively.
The smell of industrial bleach hit me like a physical wall. Pete, the owner, was on his hands and knees behind the long steel counter, scrubbing the linoleum floor with a wire brush and a bucket of heavy-duty cleaner. He froze when he heard the door, looking up with wide, exhausted eyes. He was a man in his sixties who had known my father for decades.
"We're closed, Sarah," Pete said, his voice trembling as he recognized me. He didn't stand up. He kept his grip tight on the brush.
"I see that," I said, walking slowly toward the counter. I kept my hands visible, projecting calm authority. "You're scrubbing away my father's blood, Pete."
Pete looked down at the suds on the floor. They were stained a faint, rusty pink. "Sheriff Hollister said it was a biohazard. Said Walter slipped on some spilled grease. I got a citation. I have to clean it before the health inspector comes."