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“You could make a killing with a few targeted renovations.”
“To the sheriff’s station?”
“Yeah, buddy. You get it. You know what I’m talking about.”
“No, I—”
Sheriff Dailey gets interrupted by a door—probably also antique hardwood—absolutely crashing open out front and my brother bellowing, “Who the fuck is in charge here? Come out where I can see you right the fuck now.”
I laugh, because that’s Mason’s rage-voice. It’s the one he used on the guy who made it hard to get his first mortgage.
I don’t laugh for long. It hurts.
The sheriff is gone. His pounding footsteps head away, like he doesn’t want to keep my brother waiting.
“Good instincts,” I tell the space he left behind.
“Evening,” he says. “I’m Sheriff Dawson, and I’m assuming you’re here about—”
“Where thefuckare you keeping my little brother?” Ouch.Littlestings. I’d prefercreative geniusorjustice enthusiastortall, handsome, and capable of taking care of himself,but I’ll take what I can get. “You sentsix mento harass him? Are you fucking kidding me? Six guys, and they’re claiming he was resisting arrest? How thefuckcould one unarmed guy who’s barely fucking paying attention—” Double-ouch. “—have six presumably fucking full-grown officers of the law with service weapons pissing their pants and kicking the shit out of him?”
Silence rings.
“Sir—” The sheriff starts.
“You’re fucked,” Mason shouts. “I’m going to own your ass. I’m going to make very fucking sure you get re-elected to work in this theme-park-ass jail and we can talk every single fucking day until you quit or die. You are going to be fucking miserable, and if—”
“Mase,” I call, because the poor theme-park sheriff has to be scared.
Heavy footsteps charge down the hall, every single one of them giving me a brand-new and distinct headache.
Then Mason’s the one oozing in front of theirs. He rattles them with one fist and snaps his head to the side. “What the fuck are you waiting for? Open this.”
Sheriff Theme-Park hustles to Mason’s side and pulls out his keys. His hands shake, and Mason stands there, openly judging him while he tries to get the key in the lock. Finally, the lock clicks, and Mason pulls it open and throws the bars right into my sheriff buddy’s face. He barely stops them from slamming into his nose.
Then my brother’s in the cell with me, crouching down like I’m five years old, his hands hovering a good six inches from my shirt.
“Don’t do that,” I tell him.
“I haven’t touched you.”
“You’ll hurt your knee.”
He looks up at me, and his face—
It’s red, from how angry he is, and his eyes look huge and green andsoworried. “My knee is fine. What happened?”
“I was trespassing.”
“I don’t care what they brought you in for. What happened?”
“There was a tip about some kids in a horror-show house.” Yikes—I think a little blood just trickled down my chin. I swipe at it with my sleeve. That hurts, too. “I was just looking.”
“Did you hit any cops?”
“Nope. Other way around. But I don’t think it was Tommy’s fault, actually.”
“Sheriff Dawson,” Theme-Park says quietly.
