"Richmond," Crawford repeated. "And before that?"
"Home, officer. We're visiting family."
"We've had trouble lately. Break-ins. People running the back roads, checking doors and moving on before somebody realizes what's gone missing."
He delivered the claim with practiced casualness. He had not looked at an incident report that morning, and no burglaries had been reported in the county during the month he named. The lie was convenient because it required no evidence in front of a booth full of people who were already inclined to trust a uniform more than a stranger.
"I'm sorry to hear that," Malcolm said. "We haven't been anywhere except the road and here."
Crawford planted a hand on the table. His ring made a small metallic sound against the laminated surface. "This is a family establishment. People around here like to feel comfortable."
Elijah stared at the hand beside Malcolm's plate. "Are you saying we're making somebody uncomfortable by eating?"
"I'm asking a question," Crawford snapped.
"And we're answering it," Malcolm replied. "We're customers having breakfast."
Janelle stood in the opening to the kitchen, holding a plate she had forgotten she was carrying. Loretta caught her eye and gave a small shake of her head, warning her not to interfere. The girl lowered the plate onto the counter and looked away, though the disappointment on her face was clear.
"Folks might get the wrong idea about you," Crawford said. "You don't want that."
"Which idea?" Malcolm asked.
Crawford's expression hardened. He had expected a nervous apology or a request for permission to leave. Malcolm's question was polite, measured, and impossible to answer honestly without exposing the prejudice behind it. A man who used ambiguity as leverage did not enjoy being asked to define his words.
"I think you know exactly what I'm telling you. Finish up and move on."
"We'll leave when we're done eating," Malcolm said. "We're paying for the meal."
For a moment Crawford stood still. Then he turned toward Brennan, stationed near the entrance, and made a motion with two fingers. Brennan shifted so that he could watch the booth and the door at once, a small piece of silent theater designed to make the brothers feel that leaving had become something they would need approval to do.
Malcolm reached beneath the table and rested his hand briefly against Elijah's arm. His brother looked at him, and Malcolm gave the smallest shake of his head. Not because Elijah was wrong to be angry, but because they had both seen how quickly a frightened officer could turn an ordinary gesture into a story about a dangerous suspect.
Crawford remained near the register, watching as the brothers tried to finish breakfast. Their conversation did not return. Every movement felt measured now, every scrape of a fork too loud. Malcolm could tell Elijah was counting his breaths, and he was doing the same, though he hated that both of them had to use skills their father had taught them decades earlier.