Elias smiled.
They made the trip without incident.
No patrol lights.
No search.
No missing money.
Harold’s friend helped load the Logan lathe into Elias’s trailer using an engine hoist. Lily complained it was the ugliest machine she had ever seen.
“It’s beautiful.”
“It’s gray.”
“Exactly.”
“That isn't a color that makes things beautiful.”
“You're young.”
On the drive home, they passed mile marker 147.
Elias noticed before he meant to.
His hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel.
Lily looked up.
“Is this where it happened?”
“Yes.”
“Where they took your money?”
“Yes.”
She looked toward the shoulder.
Nothing remained.
Traffic.
Grass.
Guardrail.
An ordinary piece of highway.
“Do you hate them?”
Elias thought.
“Kessler?”
“And the other one.”
“Vardon.”
“Yeah.”
“I hated what they did.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He smiled.
“You sound like Mara.”
“Who's Mara?”
“Trouble.”
Lily waited.
Elias finally said, “No. I don't spend enough time thinking about them to hate them.”
“But they robbed you.”
“Yes.”
“And threw your badge.”
“Yes.”
“And lied.”
“Yes.”
“How are you not mad?”
“I was.”
“You're weird.”
“Also true.”
He looked toward the road.
“The useful part of being angry is what you do before it makes you stupid.”
Lily considered that.
“That sounds like Grandpa advice.”
“I’m literally your grandfather.”
“Exactly.”
Years later, Elias was invited to speak at a state police academy class about integrity investigations.
He almost declined.
Retirement had finally begun feeling like retirement.
Mara bribed him with lunch.
He stood before forty recruits and wrote one sentence on a whiteboard.
A REPORT IS A CLAIM WITH A UNIFORM ON IT.
They stared.
Elias continued.