Julian took a step toward the deputy, his face darkening.

“I pay the taxes that fund your salary,” Julian said.

“And I am doing my job,” Vance said. “Get in your car, or the next place you go is the precinct.”

Julian stared at the deputy for five long seconds.

I held my breath, my finger hovering over the volume button on my phone.

In the diner, the waitress dropped a metal spoon onto the counter, the clatter making me jump.

On the screen, Julian finally turned away.

He walked back to his Mercedes, his movements stiff and jerky.

He did not get in immediately.

He stood by the open door, looking up at the windows of my mother’s quiet house.

Then, he slammed the door shut, the sound echoing through the speaker.

The SUV reversed down the driveway at high speed, spraying gravel onto the grass.

I let out the breath I had been holding. My ribs felt tight, like steel bands.

“Everything alright, hon?” the waitress asked, leaning over the counter.

She had a faded name tag that read ‘Bernice.’