Liam sat at the table, the account ledger open to a page so dense with red ink that even from the door I could see the margin notes stacked up three deep.
He wore an old sweatshirt of mine, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hair back in a rubber band, and his face had that look I was starting to recognize: open, alert, already halfway through the next problem before you even laid it on the table.
Emilio was crashed out in the bounce chair, one foot hanging out at a bad angle, mouth making soft goldfish movements against the side of the harness. A toy rattle lay by his head, abandoned mid-play.
Liam saw Callaway, closed the ledger, and went still.
The sheriff took off his hat, held it at his side. “Morning, Liam,” he said.
Liam nodded, cautious.
I jerked my chin at the coffeepot, but Callaway declined, so I poured one for myself and stood at the counter, arms crossed, waiting to see which script the man was running.
He didn’t sit. Instead, he leaned one hip against the end of the table, hat dangling from two fingers. He said, “Figured I’d update you in person, given the particulars.” He looked at Emilio, then back at Liam. “File from Burke’s brother came in by courier yesterday. Quite a stack.”
Liam’s fingers curled around the edge of the ledger, white-knuckle.
Callaway let the silence stretch, then said, “What you told me last time? About the threats, the surveillance, the calls from that attorney—Sterling’s file lined it all up. There’s a lot there I can’t tell you about, because the FBI are already chewing on it, but I can tell you this much.” He dropped his voice just enough to flatten the vowels. “The Peterson girl is not getting out on a plea. Not after what’s in those files.”
He looked at Emilio again, then at the ledger, as if it were a piece of evidence. “She made a mess. Kidnapping, money laundering, interstate fraud—the federal boys are running up the charge count like it’s a contest. Her dad’s not much better.”
Liam’s mouth went tight, but he didn’t look away.
Callaway went on. “They got more on her than just you. There’s three other families in the county with statements now. Some from before you even moved out here.”
I whistled, just a little. “That’s a lot of paperwork.”
Callaway almost smiled, but stopped himself. “That’s not the half. Attorney who was running your face on the billboards—he’s flipped. Cooperating.”
Liam said, “What about the family?”
Callaway weighed the answer, then said, “Your parents won’t testify, but it doesn’t matter. They’re not on the line for any of it. Only connection is money, and that’s all up in civil.”
Liam nodded, but it was like the words bounced off a shield.
I said, “So we’re clear?”
Callaway nodded, solemn as a judge. “You’re clear. They’re out of plays.” He straightened, hat in hand, then looked at me and said, “Next time you’ve got a problem like this, maybe call it in before you pull a carbine and do a half-mile chase.”
I grinned. “No promises.”
He grunted, the way men do when they know the answer is honest but not satisfactory. He put his hat back on, gave a nod to Liam, and then went for the door.
He stopped, though, in the foyer, and turned to face me. Voice just loud enough for me, not for the kitchen. “You did the right thing. Just so you know.”
I let it land.
He nodded, stepped outside, and was gone.
I stood in the entry for a bit, watching the snow leak around the edges of the porch roof. Then I went back to the kitchen.
Liam was still at the table, hands now flat on either side of the ledger, eyes tracking nothing in particular. Emilio was still asleep, the bounce chair doing its slow, pendulum sway.
I dropped into the chair across from Liam and waited.
He looked up, blinked once, then said, “It’s over?”
I said, “It’s over.”
