“After.”
“Did you correct the report?”
Silence.
Hargrove’s face changed.
He looked at both men.
“What did you two do?”
Brad spoke.
“She was suspicious.”
“Why?”
“The vehicle.”
“What about it?”
“Didn’t fit.”
“With what?”
Brad did not answer.
Hargrove leaned forward.
“Who is she?”
“Name is Maya Williams.”
“What does she do?”
“Federal government.”
Hargrove froze.
“What federal government?”
“She didn’t say.”
“Did anyone check?”
Tomlin answered.
“License was clean.”
“I did not ask if her driver’s license was clean.”
Nobody spoke.
Hargrove picked up the phone.
“Run the name properly.”
Less than fifteen minutes later, the first warning sign came back.
A federal contact restriction.
Not details.
Just enough to tell local personnel that the identity required verification through official channels.
Hargrove stared at the screen.
“Get county counsel.”
He looked at Brad.
“And nobody touches a single file.”
At roughly the same time, the video reached someone in the Washington Field Office who recognized Maya.
A supervisory agent sent it to James Coleman.
Coleman was at home.
He watched eleven seconds.
Paused.
Watched again.
Then called Laura Chen.
“Are you seeing this?”
“Yes.”
“That’s Maya.”
“I know.”
“Where is she?”
“Millbrook County holding.”
Coleman stood.
“Preserve everything.”
Laura understood immediately.
“Vehicle?”
“Everything.”
“Local notice?”
“Not yet.”
Coleman was already putting on his jacket.
“Get a team moving.”
By twelve-forty-seven, a federal preservation request had been transmitted through proper channels.
At one-fifteen, two agents arrived at the impound facility and photographed the Rolls-Royce before anyone could alter its condition.
Broken window.
Interior cuts.
Scratches.
Front-end collision damage.
Scattered property.
Registration documents.
Mother’s leather gloves resting among the glass.
Laura Chen personally photographed the gloves.
She did not touch them.
At one-thirty-eight, Maya’s cell opened.
“Williams.”
She stood.
“You have a visitor.”
“At this hour?”
The deputy avoided eye contact.
“Interview room.”
Maya followed.
The door opened.
James Coleman entered.
He wore a dark suit over a white shirt without a tie.
His face was controlled.
His anger was not.
For the first time that day, Maya smiled.
“Evening.”
Coleman closed the door.
“I leave you alone for one Sunday.”
“Apparently supervision matters.”
He looked at her cheek.
Her wrists.
Her knees.
The humor disappeared.
“You okay?”
“I will be.”
“Do they know?”
“No.”
“Why?”