He picked up a iron poker and stirred the dying embers.

A few orange sparks drifted up into the dark soot.

“The old kiln is a death trap,” Arthur continued.

“It is secluded.”

“No one will hear a gunshot out there.”

“I know,” I said.

My mind was racing, turning over every option like smooth stones in a creek.

I needed a place where Marcus could not use violence.

A place with witnesses.

A place that stood for the law.

“The sheriff’s office,” I said.

Arthur stopped stirring the fire.

He turned his head slowly, his cloudy eyes fixing on me.

“Vance?” Arthur asked.

“Sheriff Vance has been here for twelve years,” I said.

“He buys two sausage biscuits from my cart every Tuesday.”

“He knows me.”

“He knows Thomas.”

“Marcus wouldn’t dare pull a gun in the middle of the county station.”

Arthur let out a soft, whistling sigh through his nose.

“The law in Oakhill is thin, Kiera.”

“It is thin and easily torn.”

“It is the only shield I have,” I said.

I picked up the ledger and held it against my chest.