Page 25 of Crossfire Creek Vengeance

“What’s going on?” Arden asked.

“I’ve got a material witness in my attempted murder,” he explained, his eyes locked on Shade. “Brett Calder, who goes by the alias Shade. He needs to be taken into custody and held long enough to give a full statement to see if he had any part in the attempt to murder me and an operative from Creed Response. Obviously, there’d be a conflict of interest if I took the statement since I was the intended victim.”

Arden didn’t hesitate. “I’m in the parking lot of the sheriff’s office, and I’ll be there under a minute.” The line clicked off.

Deacon put his phone away, slow and deliberate.

Shade’s face went red, then pale, then red again. He jabbed a finger at Deacon, voice rising. “I was trying to help you,” he snapped. “Trying to keep your dumb ass alive, and this is the thanks I get? Arrested? Detained? For what? I didn’t shoot you. I warned Jessa you were about to get shot.”

Deacon didn’t argue. Shade wasn’t wrong. Legally, the guy wasn’t going to stay in custody for more than five minutes after Arden got a statement out of him. Shade would rant, complain, and then walk right back into whatever hole he liked to crawl in.

But that wasn’t the point. The point was forcing Shade to give answers. Truthful ones under oath.

“Sit down,” Deacon said, calm as stone.

“Hell no!” Shade barked. “You have no right—”

The bell over the diner door chimed. Conversation dipped again across the room as Sheriff Arden Chase stepped inside.

She was a wall of quiet authority in tactical pants, black boots, and a gray polo with the sheriff’s star stitched over her heart. Her blond hair was cropped no-nonsense short, highlighting the strong bone structure in her face. The lines bracketing her eyes weren’t from age but experience of too many nights like this one, too many things she couldn’t unsee.

A stint in the Marines had molded her. Her time at the private security company, Maverick Ops, had sharpened her. Nearly a decade wearing the sheriff’s badge had turned her into the kind of woman people obeyed on instinct.

Her gaze swept the diner once and locked immediately on Deacon, then Shade.

“This is Brett Calder,” Deacon explained, tipping his head to Shade.

“Mr. Calder,” Arden greeted, stepping toward their booth. “You’ve been identified as a material witness in an attempted homicide. You’ll come with me to give your statement.”

Shade looked at Deacon again like he wanted to put his fist through his face. “This is bullshit, and you know it.”

“Maybe,” Deacon said with a shrug. “But it’s legal bullshit.” He shifted his attention to Arden. “I’ll be over shortly to listen to what he has to say.”

Arden nodded and then motioned toward the door. “Let’s go, Mr. Calder.”

Roman moved so the man could get out. Shade muttered a long, creative string of curses and finally slid out of the booth. Arden stayed close, not threatening, but firm. A Marine’s confidence. A cop’s control.

Shade glared at Deacon as he passed. “This isn’t over.”

Deacon leaned back, despite the pull in his ribs. “Didn’t figure it was.”

Arden ushered Shade toward the lot, her silhouette framed in the diner’s neon glow. Only when the door closed behind them did the tension in the booth shift. Roman was still rigid. Jessa, too. Deacon was fighting a dull pulse of pain under his ribs and the gnawing certainty that tonight was only the beginning of a shitstorm that promised to be lethal.

Roman reached inside his jacket and pulled out his phone. “While you were at the hospital,” he said, voice low, controlled to the point of strangulation, “I got something.”

He turned the phone so they both could see. A digital PDF filled the screen. Official letterhead. Clinical formatting. Numbers. Charts.

“A lab report,” Roman explained. “Independent. From a specialist in Austin. Someone I trust.”

Jessa’s fingers dug into the vinyl seat. “Roman… what is that?”

He swallowed, hard. “I had them re-run our mother’s autopsy.”

Jessa’s eyes widened. “Why?”

Roman didn’t blink. “Because something about her death never sat right with me. The timeline. The symptoms. The way she went from managing to… gone.”

He scrolled with a flick of his thumb. Toxicology results. Tissue analysis. Words Deacon recognized from a hundred case files, none of them ever good news.