“What do we got?” Pratchett asked.
Harlan held up her license between two fingers.
“Says she lives here.”
Pratchett laughed. Not a chuckle. A full, open-mouthed laugh. The kind that echoed down the empty street.
“Right. And I’m the governor.”
“I don’t know why that’s funny,” Camille said quietly. “It’s the truth.”
“The truth?” Pratchett tapped the roof of her car twice. “Honey, the truth is people like you don’t end up in neighborhoods like this unless you’re cleaning something or stealing something. So which one is it tonight?”
Camille’s fingers tightened on the wheel, but her voice stayed even.
“Neither. I own my home. Is there a reason I was pulled over?”
Harlan ignored the question completely.
“Where are you coming from?”
“My house. I’m heading to my office to pick up a file.”
“Your office.” He repeated it slowly. Like the word tasted strange in his mouth. “What kind of office?”
“I’d rather not say. Am I being detained, officer?”
Something shifted in Harlan’s face. The smirk disappeared. His jaw tightened. He stepped closer and leaned into the window frame. Close enough that she could smell tobacco and stale coffee on his breath. Close enough that she could see the vein pulsing on the side of his neck.
“Let me tell you how this works. I ask the questions. You answer them. That’s it. You don’t get to play lawyer with me. Not here. Not tonight. Not ever.”
Camille said nothing. She held his stare.
“Now I’m going to ask you one more time. What kind of office?”
“A government office.”
“Government.” He glanced at Pratchett. Pratchett shrugged. Harlan turned back. “You know what I think? I think you’re full of it. I think you borrowed someone’s car, drove into a neighborhood you’ve got no business being in, and now you’re sitting here lying to a police officer’s face.”
“That is not true.”
“Step out of the vehicle.”
“Officer, I have the right to know why I’m—”
“Step out. Now.”
His hand moved to his holster. Not drawing. Just resting there. Just letting her see it. Just reminding her what he carried and what she didn’t.
Camille unbuckled her seatbelt. She opened the door slowly. She placed one foot on the pavement, then the other. The asphalt was still warm from the day’s heat. She could feel it bleeding through the soles of her shoes. The night air wrapped around her. Thick. Humid. She could hear the hum of their cruiser’s engine idling behind her. The crackle of the police radio spitting garbled static. A moth bouncing off the streetlight above them.
“Hands on the hood.”
She placed her palms flat on the warm metal. The engine heat seeped into her skin.
“Spread your feet.”
She did.
Harlan positioned himself behind her. Close. Too close. She could feel his breath crawling across the back of her neck. Slow and deliberate.
“You know what doesn’t make sense to me?” he said, almost whispering. “A Black woman driving through Meadow Ridge at nine at night. Alone. In a car that costs more than most people make in a year. And she says she lives here.”
He let the silence hang.
“That doesn’t add up. That has never added up. And I’ve been doing this job long enough to know when something doesn’t add up, there’s always a reason.”
On the other side of the car, Pratchett had already opened the passenger door. He was inside now. She could hear him rummaging. Glove box snapping open. Papers shuffling. Seats creaking under his weight as he shifted around.
“You don’t have the right to search my car,” Camille said firmly. “I have not given consent.”
“Didn’t need it,” Harlan said flatly. “I smelled something when you opened the door. That gives me probable cause.”
“You didn’t smell anything.”
“You calling a police officer a liar?”
She pressed her lips together. Breathe. Stay calm. Don’t give them a single reason.
Pratchett was taking his time. She could hear him moving things around deliberately. The rustle of fabric. The soft click of something being placed down. Then silence. A long, careful silence.
And then his voice. Bright. Almost cheerful. Like a kid unwrapping a gift he already knew was there.
“Well, well, well. Harlan. You’re going to want to see this.”
Harlan walked to the passenger side. Camille turned her head just enough to see Pratchett leaning out of the car. He held a small clear bag between two fingers. White powder inside. His grin stretched from ear to ear.
But here’s the thing. That grin was already there before his hand came back up. Like he knew exactly what he was going to find. Because he’d put it there himself.
“Found this wedged right under the passenger seat,” Pratchett announced. Loud enough for any neighbor who might be listening.
“That is not mine,” Camille said. Her voice cracked for the first time all night. “I have never seen that bag in my life.”
“Sure you haven’t,” Harlan said. “That’s what every dealer says right before we book them.”
“I am not a drug dealer. That was planted and you know it was planted.”
“Planted?” Harlan clutched his chest in mock surprise. “You hear that, Pratchett? She thinks we planted evidence. That’s a serious accusation against two decorated officers of the law.”
“Shocking,” Pratchett said, not even trying to hide his smile.
Harlan walked back to her. Slow. Savoring every step. The kind of walk that said he had all the time in the world. And she had none.
“Turn around.”
“That bag is not mine.”
“I said turn around.”
The handcuffs came out. Cold steel catching the streetlight. He clicked the first one around her left wrist. Tight. She winced. He clicked the second one even tighter. The metal bit into her skin like teeth.
“Too tight,” she said.
“Should have thought about that before you brought drugs into my neighborhood.”
“Your neighborhood?”
“That’s right. Mine. Not yours. Never yours.”
Pratchett read her the Miranda rights. Fast. Monotone. Like he was reading ingredients off the back of a cereal box. She barely heard the words over the ringing in her ears. Her wrists were burning. And the warm Virginia night suddenly felt ice cold.
They walked her to the cruiser. Harlan’s hand gripped her arm hard enough to leave bruises in the morning. He opened the rear door and shoved her head down. She dropped into the hard plastic seat. The cage between front and back reeked of sweat and old vinyl and something sour she didn’t want to name.