Chapter 8: Fourteen Hours

The Beaufort County holding room has one bench, one drain, and a clock that runs four minutes slow.

I sat on the bench for fourteen hours.

They gave me a sandwich, a blanket and a cup of water.

Nobody questioned me.

I figured that out around noon, when I understood the deputy wasn't coming back with a clipboard.

My mother had called it in.

She hadn't called a lawyer.

At 7:18 pm the door buzzed.

The sheriff came in himself.

He was a big, tired man in his sixties.

He had fished with my father for twenty years.

"Your father and I used to eat lunch at that bench," he said. "I never thought I'd see you on this one."

"No, sir."

"Stand up, Roan."

I stood.

"You're free to go." He rubbed his forehead. "The deputy tells me you own half that building."

"On paper and in the will."

"Your friend the gunnery sergeant came by at noon with a stack of photographs and a copy of the will."

"Did he."

"He brought the clinic receptionist, too, who would like to tell me what happened to her desk."

He gave me a look.

"Your brother is going to have a bad week."

"Sir, I haven't asked for anything."

"I know. That's the point." He opened the door. "Go home, son. Wherever that is now."

Boone was waiting in the lobby, with Myra next to him, holding a gray hoodie.

They both looked as if they'd been there since noon.

Myra tossed me the hoodie.

I pulled it on and followed them out the front doors, into the evening.

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