Before leaving the motel lot, she called Renee for less than a minute. She did not say where she was or what she was doing; their family had long ago learned to respect that boundary. They talked instead about their mother, who was recovering well from a minor medical procedure, and about Renee's daughter, who wanted a telescope for her birthday. When Renee asked whether Serena could visit next month, Serena answered with the nearest thing to a promise she could give.
"I'll do my best, and if I can't come, I'll call in time to explain."
"You always say that," Renee replied. "But you usually do call. I'll take it. Drive carefully."
Serena started the SUV and turned west, leaving the motel and the commercial strip behind. The road narrowed after a series of tobacco fields, and telephone poles marched beside the highway in a nearly straight line. She passed a church with white siding, a hardware store displaying discounted garden hoses, and a billboard urging visitors to discover Red Creek County's friendly character. The county boundary sign was faded but legible, and somebody had planted two small flags at its base.
The county had a main town, several unincorporated communities, and a population small enough that the same surnames appeared on school boards, county contracts, and election signs. Outsiders sometimes described it as timeless, which was another way of saying they had not stayed long enough to notice change. Some families had farmed its land for generations, while others had arrived for warehouse jobs that no longer existed. Its roads carried farm trucks, delivery vans, tourists taking shortcuts, and commuters passing through without stopping.
Sheriff Ryland Crowe considered most of those travelers his responsibility, though his definition of responsibility varied depending on whom he encountered. He had first won election on a promise to restore order after an unpopular predecessor resigned. He spoke well at county fairs, remembered enough names to appear attentive, and made the rounds at church fundraising breakfasts in a jacket bearing the sheriff's star. Plenty of residents liked him, partly because he seemed familiar and partly because they rarely had to deal with him as a deputy on the roadside.
The people who had seen his temper at close range described another man. They recalled traffic stops that grew longer after somebody asked a question, vehicle searches justified by vague suspicions, and complaint forms that seemed to disappear once submitted. Several people had been told, openly, that the easiest way to avoid trouble was to stop arguing. In a county where almost everyone knew someone employed by the sheriff's office, that warning traveled without requiring a written policy.
Crowe was fifty-six and had come to confuse being obeyed with being respected. In his younger years, he had learned the useful parts of police work from officers who understood that patience could protect lives. Over time he discarded those lessons while keeping the techniques that made people yield. By the summer Serena arrived, he believed every encounter should end with his account of events becoming the official account, regardless of what witnesses remembered.