Chapter 5 - The Sheriff’s Warning
The bell above the door swung back and forth, its metallic clink-clink-clink sounding unnaturally loud in the sudden, heavy silence of the diner.
The tall deputy—a man whose nametag read Harkness—adjusted the heavy belt sagging under the weight of his sidearm and strode toward our booth with a long, unhurried gait. His face wore the lazy, arrogant smirk of a small-town lawman who enjoyed exercising absolute authority over a captive populace.
Behind him, the thick-necked man in the leather vest kept his distance near the door, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes darting toward the exits as if securing a perimeter.
"Well, well, well," Deputy Harkness drawled, stopping right beside our table and resting his heavy hand on the laminate surface. He looked down at me, his gaze lingering on the rental wheelchair, the wool blanket, and the expensive flannel shirt Nora had pointed out just minutes earlier. "Clara tells me we got a new visitor in town. And here I thought every stray dog had already been chased off the ridge."
I didn't flinch. I let my shoulders sink slightly into the vinyl cushion, projecting the posture of a tired, broken man who posed no threat whatsoever.
"Just passing through, Officer," I said, keeping my voice flat and unassertive.
Harkness leaned in closer, his stale breath smelling of cheap tobacco and stale coffee. "That's what they all say before they start asking questions they ain't got business asking. Cedar Hollow is a private community, friend. We take care of our own, and we don't take kindly to vagrants setting up camp where they ain't wanted."
Beside me, Nora stiffened. I felt the shift in her body language before she even spoke.
"He's sitting in a diner eating a plate of meatloaf, Sheriff," Nora said, her voice dripping with sharp, undisguised contempt. "Since when is eating a federal offense in West Virginia?"
Harkness slowly turned his gaze toward her, his smirk hardening into something unpleasant. "Watch your tone, Nora. Your daddy’s name might still carry some weight on the council, but you're skating on thin ice these days. People who associate with unknowns tend to catch bad luck around here."
A cold, razor-thin line of fury traced along my spine. In Boston, men like Harkness wouldn't have been allowed to shine my shoes. They were municipal noise—bribed, managed, and discarded when they became inconvenient. But here, stripped of my security detail, my bank accounts, and my legal leverage, this petty tyrant was attempting to intimidate a woman who had just offered a stranger a meal.
Before I could calculate the tactical risk of speaking up, the kitchen swinging doors pushed open, and Clara emerged carrying a heavy ceramic tray laden with two steaming plates of meatloaf and thick slices of cornbread.
She took one look at Harkness standing over our booth, her face tightening into a mask of bitter resentment.
"Evening, Deputy," Clara said evenly, setting the plates down on the table with a sharp clack. "You and your friend are blocking the aisle. Some of us are trying to run a legitimate business here, even if the county commissioners act like we don't exist."
Harkness straightened up, shooting Clara a warning glare before glancing back at the man in the leather vest by the door. A silent, microscopic nod passed between them.
"Just making sure our town stays safe, Clara," Harkness said, stepping back. He looked down at me one last time, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. "You finish that meatloaf real quick, Peter. And then you find yourself a bus out of the mountains before the sun goes down. Because if I see you in this town tomorrow morning, you won't be riding in that chair. You'll be crawling."
With that, the deputy turned on his heel, motioned to his companion, and walked out of the diner. The door slammed shut behind them, the sound echoing through the empty room like a gunshot.
For a long moment, nobody moved.
Clara let out a long, ragged breath, clutching her apron tightly in her fists. "Goddamn vultures," she muttered under her breath.
May you like
Nora didn't look at Clara. She was staring straight at me, her dark eyes wide with a mixture of fear and profound realization.
"They didn't come in here because you're a vagrant, Peter," Nora whispered, leaning across the table so softly Clara couldn't hear. "They came in here because they knew you were sitting in that chair. Which means somebody in this town—or somebody watching this town—already knows who you are."
