“Where to?”
“Chicago.”
“Family?”
“My daughter.”
Something softened in Beverly’s face.
“Good.”
Then she looked toward the windows.
Her expression changed.
“Don’t hang around too late.”
Zeke studied her.
“Problem?”
She lowered her voice.
“Sheriff’s boys.”
The elderly man at the counter moved his newspaper slightly but did not look up.
Beverly continued.
“They get bored.”
“And?”
“And bored men with badges find ways to make other people interesting.”
Zeke had heard versions of that sentence in more countries than he cared to remember.
He looked toward the front windows.
Nothing outside except rain beginning to bead against the glass.
“Specific warning?”
Beverly hesitated.
Then shook her head.
“Just local advice.”
“I appreciate it.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
She returned to the kitchen.
Zeke watched her for a moment.
Fear had a posture.
Beverly had it.
Shoulders slightly forward.
Eyes checking doors.
Volume dropping automatically whenever law enforcement came up.
That did not mean every officer in Oak Haven was corrupt.
It meant she believed at least one had taught her caution.
Zeke filed the information away.
Then pulled a worn paperback from his jacket pocket.
He had just reached the third page when the bells over the diner door snapped violently against the glass.
Two deputies walked in.
The room changed.
Nobody told it to.
It simply did.
The old man lowered his newspaper.
The couple stopped talking.
The trucker put his phone face down.
Beverly appeared from the kitchen and immediately reached for two mugs.
The first deputy was Sergeant Royce Dalton.
Zeke learned his name from the badge.
Dalton was tall, broad, and heavy through the middle. His uniform shirt strained slightly around his stomach, and mirrored aviator glasses remained on his face despite the darkness outside.
His movements were slow in the particular way some large men moved when they wanted everyone around them to notice that space belonged to them.
Officer Lane Carver entered behind him.
Younger.
Twenty-six, perhaps twenty-seven.
Lean.
Nervous.
His eyes moved constantly.
Door.
Counter.
Booth.
Hands.
Windows.
Then back again.
Zeke recognized that kind of energy too.
Dalton looked dangerous because he enjoyed control.
Carver looked dangerous because he did not trust himself with it.
“Coffee, Bev,” Dalton said.
Not hello.
Not please.
“Coming.”
“And fries.”
“I’ll tell Sal.”
Dalton removed his sunglasses just long enough to wipe rain from them.
Then he scanned the diner.
His gaze moved over the trucker.
Over the old man.
Past the couple.
Then stopped on Zeke.
Zeke saw it happen without lifting his head fully from the book.
Assessment.
Difference.
Interest.
Decision.
Dalton put the glasses back on.
“Well.”
Carver glanced toward booth four.
Dalton spoke loudly.
“Since when do we get Washington tourists on a Wednesday?”
Zeke turned a page.
Carver gave a small laugh.
“Maybe he’s lost, Sarge.”
“Could be.”
Dalton raised his voice.
“You lost, friend?”
Zeke closed the book.
Carefully.
Placed it beside his coffee.
Then looked toward the two deputies.
“Not lost.”
“Passing through?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”