“We can check things,” the sheriff said. “We’ll look into Paul. We’ll check the texts, the numbers. Don’t move on anything until we give the go-ahead.” He looked at Mark with a hand half-raised in the kind of neutral placation that said we’re on it.
People in the diner murmured. The owner made a quick offer to put coffee on the house while the sheriff’s deputy took Tessa and the baby to a back room to keep them out of the spectacle. Evan stayed to give a statement; he’d been at the hardware when Tessa first asked for work, when she’d mentioned being short on rent. A pattern emerged—someone vulnerable, a bully in the wings.
After the deputy left with Tessa’s phone and the sheriff had notes in hand, Mark turned to me like a man whose bones had been rearranged by a punch. He was quiet for a
