Chapter 19: The Sheriff

I broke the second term on Tuesday at nine in the morning, and I knew exactly what I was doing.

Dread was asleep, finally, in the room over the diner.

I had slipped out from under his arm without waking him.

I put on Lo's cardigan, took the bus fare she kept in a jar by the register, and rode two stops to the county building.

The sheriff's office was on the second floor, with a frosted-glass door and a flag in the corner.

The sheriff himself was an old man with a heavy face and reading glasses on a cord.

He had been at my wedding. He had danced with my aunt.

"Betsy." He stood up behind his desk. "Sit. Is this about Clint?"

"It's about what Clint did to a man named Brogan McFadden on Route 9."

I laid a flash drive on the desk beside his computer.

I had copied the video onto it at five that morning, in the diner's back office.

He put it in and pressed play.

He watched with his glasses on his nose and his jaw tight.

When it ended, he watched it again.

Then he took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"That's a terrible thing," he said. "I'm sorry you had to find it that way."

"It's not about the bed, Sheriff. Sunday night he planted a gun in a man's truck. I watched his hand go under the seat and come out with it."

"Did anyone else see that?"

"His young partner stood beside me. He wouldn't say so."

"That's a serious accusation."

"It's a serious thing he did."

He didn't answer for a time.

He took the flash drive out of his computer and set it down on the blotter between us.

"Betsy, honey. I've known Clint since he was a rookie. He's the best young deputy I've got."

"He's a liar."

"He told me yesterday you've not been well."

He said it with real sorrow.

"He said you've been taking up with a motorcycle club. That you've been under a lot of strain since your father."

"Clint said that."

"He's worried about you."

"He's worried about the video."

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