Page 14

The careful balance of power and gentleness I witnessed in that courtroom feels different now. He wasn't just wielding intelligence like a weapon against injustice, he was protecting people the way no one had ever protected him.

That's when I notice the sedan.

We're stopped at a red light when it registers in my peripheral vision.

Black, tinted windows, hanging back just far enough to avoid obvious surveillance.

I might have missed it completely if not for the past week of hypervigilance, but I had been too lost in thought to catalog every vehicle like I should have.

The light turns green. Ash pulls forward. I follow, checking my mirrors.

The sedan follows, too.

Three blocks later, it's still there. Someone who doesn't want to be seen.

I tested my theory by suddenly taking a right down Maple Street instead of following Ash toward the station. In my rearview mirror, the sedan hesitated, then followed.

Definitely tailing me.

My pulse quickens, but I keep my speed steady, mind racing through options. Radio for backup? Santos is covering dispatch and is already spread thin. The irony of needing rescue from the very surveillance I've been rejecting all week isn't lost on me.

Instead, I test the sedan's intentions. Another turn, this time down the residential street that leads toward my apartment building. Still following, but hanging back, deliberate in its distance.

Just surveillance, then—information gathering, like the black sedan Santos described last week. Uncomfortable but not immediately threatening.

Then we hit the dead stretch between downtown and my building, and everything changes.

The sedan accelerates.

Suddenly, it's three car lengths behind me. Then two. Then close enough to see broad shoulders, hands gripping the steering wheel, eyes locked on my cruiser.

I press the accelerator, but the cruiser responds sluggishly. The sedan closes the distance, pulling alongside me in the opposite lane.

For a moment, we're parallel. Then the sedan swerves.

Hard right, directly into my lane. I yank the wheel right, tires squealing as I fight to avoid a collision. The shoulder drops off into a drainage ditch. If I hit that at this speed, I'll flip.

The sedan follows my movement, staying aggressive, maintaining pressure. This is deliberate intimidation, designed to terrify without quite crossing the line into attempted murder. Payback. For what happened today in court.

My radio crackles to life. "Sheriff, this is Santos. Got a call about a break-in on Westfield Drive. Are you close enough to respond? I'm stuck covering dispatch."

At least he can see where I am on the GPS. If he runs me off the road, Santos will know exactly where to find me. But I can't answer, can't take my hands off the wheel or my eyes off the road. Santos will know something's wrong when I don't respond.

The sedan makes another aggressive move, forcing me further toward the shoulder.

Then, as suddenly as it began, it's over.

The sedan drops back, tires smoking as it brakes hard. In my rearview mirror, I watch it execute a perfect U-turn and disappear in the opposite direction.

I'm alone on the empty road, heart hammering, hands trembling against the steering wheel.

The radio crackles again. "Sheriff? You copy on that Westfield call?"

I key the mic, forcing my voice steady. "Copy, Santos. I'm... I'll be there in ten minutes."

"Roger that. Thanks, Sheriff."

I drive toward Westfield Drive with my hands locked on the steering wheel, knuckles still white. My pulse hammers in my ears. The sedan could be anywhere now, behind me, ahead of me, waiting.

Mrs. Davis meets me at her front door in a bathrobe, wringing her hands. "I'm so sorry, Sheriff. I was sure I heard someone out there, but it's just those darn raccoons again."

I walk her through the motions. Check the garden, examine the overturned garbage can, test her locks. The routine steadies me. This is what I know how to do, help people, solve problems, keep communities safe.

But when I sit in the cruiser afterward, my pen trembles as I fill out the incident report. Three lines in, I can't hold the pen steady. I stop, flex my fingers.

They know where I live. Where I work. When I'm alone.

I stare through the windshield at Mrs. Davis's porch light, the only illumination on this quiet street. Too many shadows. Too many places to hide.

My radio crackles. Santos checking in about another call. Normal dispatch chatter that should be comforting but isn't. Because whoever was in that sedan knows our frequencies, our protocols, our response times.

I think about the printout on my desk this morning. Carman's face staring up at me from fresh printer paper. Someone researching my life, finding the exact pressure point that would hurt most.

I think about Ash's scarred face, a ten-year-old child marked for stealing bread.

Both of us scarred by different systems, both still fighting the damage.

My hands aren't shaking anymore. Just ready.

The threats are real. Getting worse. And I've been facing them alone because I'm too proud to accept help from someone who understands exactly what it costs to survive injustice.

Maybe it's time I stopped letting pride make me stupid.