Chương 7
“You can make anything sound dangerous.”
“Some things are.”
Her expression sharpened.
“Like marrying someone who lies about being a Navy SEAL?”
Logan looked at her.
“Yes.”
She had not expected agreement.
He went to the window over the sink and shifted the blind with one finger.
No county vehicle sat outside.
Their neighbor, Mrs. Weller, was dragging a trash can toward the curb while arguing with a little terrier that refused to leave a pile of leaves.
Normal life continued with almost insulting confidence.
Logan’s old phone vibrated.
The message from Shaw contained Daniel Rusk’s number.
He called.
A man answered after two rings.
“Rusk.”
“My name is Logan Mercer.”
“Commander Shaw just warned me you’d call.”
“I wasn’t a commander.”
“She didn’t say you were.”
Logan glanced at Amelia.
“I need legal advice involving a county sheriff, possible public-corruption evidence, and my wife.”
“That is an unpleasant combination.”
“Yes.”
“Are police currently at your home?”
“No.”
“Has anyone been arrested?”
“No.”
“Has anyone served a warrant?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Rusk’s voice was brisk without sounding hurried.
“Tell me only what happened today first.”
Logan did.
When he described the milkshake, Rusk interrupted.
“Were there witnesses?”
“Yes.”
“Video?”
“Likely.”
“Any physical contact from you?”
“No.”
“Verbal threats?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Logan continued through the phone calls, Vance’s message, and Nora’s situation.
Rusk stopped him there.
“Do not retrieve anything.”
“That’s what Shaw said.”
“She’s right.”
“What about Nora?”
“Is she in immediate danger?”
“I don’t know.”
“That means we treat her as potentially pressured, not abducted by pirates.”
Amelia covered her mouth to hide a laugh.
Rusk continued.
“I’ll contact her directly if she agrees to speak with counsel, but first I need to establish who represents whom.”
“I need you to represent me.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“I don’t take clients without checking conflicts.”
“How long?”
“I can check now.”
Keys clicked.
“What’s your wife’s full legal name?”
“Amelia Rose Mercer.”
More typing.
“And Sheriff Dominic Vance?”
“Yes.”
“County administrator or supervisor?”
“Calvin Harris.”
Amelia corrected him.
“Caleb.”
Logan looked at her.
She winced.
“Caleb Harris,” he said.
“That matters,” Rusk replied.
“I know.”
“No conflict on those names.”
He paused.
“I can represent you provisionally for tonight.”
“What about Amelia?”
“She needs separate counsel before giving me detailed information that could create conflicts between you.”
Amelia’s jaw tightened.
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Because it’s correct.”
“I’m his wife.”
“That is a relationship, not a joint-defense agreement.”
She stared at the phone.
Rusk’s tone softened slightly.
“Mrs. Mercer, if you discovered what you believe is financial misconduct and copied records from your workplace, you need someone whose only job is protecting your legal interests.”
“What if protecting me hurts Logan?”
“That is exactly why you need separate counsel.”
The words settled between them.
Logan looked away first.
Rusk asked, “Do you trust the local police department?”
“There isn’t one,” Amelia said.
“Sheriff’s office handles most law enforcement.”
“State police?”
Logan answered.
“State Highway Patrol has coverage nearby, but this isn’t their normal lane.”
“Fine.”
Rusk thought for a moment.
“I’m going to contact the nearest FBI field office duty line and the state attorney general’s office through appropriate channels.”
Amelia stiffened.
“No.”
Rusk stopped.
“No?”
“If Dominic finds out I went federal, he’ll know I’m the one who copied everything.”
“He may already know.”
“You don’t understand this town.”
“Then explain the specific consequence you’re afraid of.”
Amelia stood and paced toward the refrigerator.
“My job.”
“That may already be at risk.”
“My mother’s house is on county land-access easements.”
“That’s more specific.”
“My sister owns a salon downtown.”
“More.”
“Dominic’s cousin sits on the zoning board.”
Rusk became quiet.
“And?”
Amelia rubbed the Yellowstone magnet with her thumb.
“Cal told me once that people who cause problems here discover how expensive permits can get.”
Logan looked at her.
“You never told me that.”
“You never told me you hunted terrorists.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Rusk cut through before the argument could widen.
“Mrs. Mercer, retaliation risk changes strategy, not the need for strategy.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we document pressure before we trigger more of it.”
He paused.
“Do not delete anything.”
“I haven’t.”
“Do not alter files.”
“I won’t.”
“Do not contact Harris.”
“Okay.”
“Do not contact Vance unless necessary for immediate safety.”
Her phone began ringing again.
All three of them heard it.
Vance.
Rusk said, “Do not answer.”
Amelia let it ring.
The call stopped.
A new text appeared seconds later.
Logan did not touch the phone.
Amelia read it herself.
Her face drained.
“What?”
She turned the screen toward him.
The message contained no threat.
Only a photograph.
It showed Nora standing behind the counter at the Rusty Spoon.
The image had been taken through the front window from across the street.
Beneath it, Vance had written six words.
You picked the wrong place, Amelia.
Logan stared at the photograph until the details stopped looking like a threat and started looking like evidence.
The image had been taken from an angle low enough to include the reflection of the pharmacy awning across the diner glass.
Nora was behind the register, shoulders squared, looking toward someone outside the frame.
Rusk’s voice came through the phone.
“Do not respond.”
Amelia’s thumb hovered over the screen.
“He knows.”
“Yes.”
“He knows Nora has it.”
“We don’t know that.”
“He sent me her picture.”
“He knows Nora matters to you.”
“That is enough.”
Logan watched Amelia’s breathing shorten.
He had seen that pattern before in men trapped inside overturned vehicles and flooded compartments.
Panic did not always look like screaming.
Sometimes it looked like a person becoming very efficient at making one terrible decision.
“Put the phone down,” he said.
Amelia glared at him.
“Don’t order me around.”
“Then consider it advice.”
“I’m going there.”
“No.”
“You don’t get to say no.”
Rusk cut in.
“Mrs. Mercer, going there creates exactly the situation Vance appears to want.”
“He’s threatening a sixty-year-old waitress.”
“Possibly.”
May you like
“Possibly?”
Rusk’s voice stayed even.
