Chapter Twenty-One #2
Floyd got up, every movement careful. He took his jacket off the wall, slipped it on one-handed, and gestured for me to follow. In the hallway, deputies moved with the urgency of men who finally had the green light to settle an old score.
Miller checked his sidearm, then racked the shotgun and flipped the safety on.
Daniels carried a riot baton and wore the expression of a guy who’d paid for his own body-cam just to make sure the footage didn’t get “lost.” Even the dispatcher, a retired matron who’d raised five linebackers, gave me a nod of approval as I passed.
Floyd steered us to the back lot. His squad truck was waiting, engine running, the interior already faintly reeking of peppermint gum and gun oil. He slid behind the wheel and handed me the clipboard with the warrant clipped to it. “You’re the witness.”
I looked at the paper, saw Vivian’s name in black type, and felt a little giddy. “She’s going to lose her shit.”
He started the drive, one-handed. His face was blank but his knuckles bleached white on the steering wheel. “She’ll deny everything.”
I leaned back, watching the town roll by in reverse through the rear window. “Not for long.”
We pulled up three houses down from Vivian’s, a colonial the color of old teeth, hedges trimmed to military precision, not a single snowflake on the walkway. I imagined her inside, planning a new campaign against us, never suspecting that the troops were already at her gate.
We watched through the windshield as Miller and Daniels circled the block, parking the cruiser where it wouldn’t spook her. Latham got out, tucked his badge into his belt, and strode up the walk with the calm of a man about to serve the best meal of his life.
Inside the truck, Floyd’s hand found mine. He didn’t look at me, but he laced our fingers together and squeezed, thumb stroking the inside of my palm. My heart hammered against my ribs. I wanted to say something but couldn’t.
The neighborhood was dead quiet. No kids, no dogs, just the hum of far-off traffic and the distant whine of a chainsaw in someone’s garage. Everything else was winter stillness, as if the world had stopped to watch the moment.
Floyd broke the silence. “You ready for this?”
I nodded, but I don’t think I ever would be.
Through the windshield, I watched Latham rap on the front door, hard. Vivian opened it, and even from a block away, you could see the performance kick in—she plastered on her “I’m just a nice lady” smile, chin up, eyes big and innocent.
Latham said something, then flashed the warrant. She tried to step back, but Miller and Daniels flanked her, blocking the way. Vivian’s mouth opened, likely screaming, but the glass kept it mercifully muted.
They brought her out in cuffs. Not like the Law we’d already won.
As we drove back to the station without a word, the sun set behind the valley. Floyd’s hand never left mine, and for the first time in my life, I felt safe. We were a mess, both of us, but for the first time, the mess belonged to us alone.
Let her rage. Let the whole town talk.
I had him, and that was all that mattered.