A white SUV with the county sheriff’s emblem slid sideways across the entrance of the driveway, blocking his path.

The red and blue emergency lights erupted, painting the dark pine trees in brilliant flashes.

Dorian slammed on his brakes, his truck skidding to a halt inches from the deputy’s bumper.

Deputy Miller stepped out of the patrol car, his flashlight beam cutting through the darkness.

“Step out of the vehicle!” Miller shouted through his megaphone.

Dorian sat frozen behind the wheel.

I walked slowly down the driveway, the gravel crunching under my boots.

My phone buzzed in my hand.

It was a text from Mr. Voss: “The sheriff has the warrant for the vehicle search.”

I watched as Deputy Miller approached the driver’s side door, his hand resting on his holster.

“Out of the truck, Mr. Pike,” the deputy ordered.

Dorian slowly opened the door, his hands raised.

He looked at me over the hood of his truck, his eyes burning with hatred.

“This isn’t over, Maren,” he whispered as the deputy pulled his arms behind his back.

The cold metal of the handcuffs clicked loudly in the night air.