In the car a few minutes later, the sirens blaring and lights flashing, Miles fishtailed around a corner, almost losing control of the car, and pressed the accelerator to the floor again.

He’d dragged Sims out of the cell and up the stairs, leading him quickly through the office without stopping to acknowledge the stares. Charlie was in his office on the phone, and the sight of Miles—his face white—made him hang up, but not soon enough to stop Miles from reaching the door with Sims. They went out at the same time, and by the time Charlie reached the sidewalk, Miles and Sims were heading in opposite directions. Charlie made an instant decision to go after Miles, and he called after him to stop. Miles ignored him and reached the squad car.

Charlie picked up his pace, reaching Miles’s car just as it was pulling out on the street. He tapped the window even as the car was still moving.  “What’s going on?” Charlie demanded.

Miles waved him out of the way, and Charlie froze with a look of confusion and disbelief. Instead of rolling down the window, Miles flicked on the siren, hit the gas, and tore out of the parking lot, his tires squealing as he turned onto the street.

A minute later, when Charlie called on the radio, demanding that Miles let him know what had happened, Miles didn’t bother to respond.  From the sheriff’s department, it normally took less than fifteen minutes to reach the Timson compound. With the siren blaring and the squad car speeding, it took less than eight minutes—he was already halfway there by the time Charlie had reached him by radio. On the highway, he hit ninety miles an hour, and by the time he reached the turnoff to the mobile home where Otis lived, his adrenaline was pumping. He was holding the wheel hard enough to make parts of his hands go numb, though in his state he didn’t realize it. Rage was surging through him, blocking out everything else.

Otis Timson had hurt his son with a brick.

Otis Timson had killed his wife.

Otis Timson had nearly gotten away with it.

On the dirt drive, Miles’s car slid from side to side as he accelerated again.  The trees he flew past were a blur; he saw nothing but the road directly in front of him, and as it veered to the right, Miles finally removed his foot from the accelerator and began to slow the car. He was almost there.  For two years, Miles had waited for this moment.

For two years, he’d tortured himself, lived through the failure.

Otis.

A moment later, Miles brought the car to a skidding halt in the center of the compound and pushed his way out of the car. Standing by the open door, he surveyed the area, watching for movement, watching for anything at all. His jaw was clenched as he tried to keep control.

He unsnapped his holster and began moving for his gun.

Otis Timson had killed his wife.

He’d run her down in cold blood.

It was ominously quiet. Aside from the ticking of the engine as it cooled, there were no other sounds at all. Trees were motionless, their branches absolutely still. No birds sat chirping on fenceposts. The only sounds that Miles could hear were his own: the rustle of the gun sliding out of his holster, the harsh rhythm of his breathing.

It was cold, the air crisp and cloudless, a spring sky on a winter day.  Miles waited. In time, a screened door cracked open, squeaking like a rusty squeezebox.

“What do you want?” a voice rang out. The sound was raspy, as if ravaged by years of smoking unfiltered cigarettes. Clyde Timson.

Miles lowered himself, using the car door as a shield in case shots broke out.

“I’m here for Otis. Bring him out.”

The hand vanished and the door slapped shut.

Miles slipped the safety off and found his hand on the trigger, his heart thumping hard. After the longest minute of his life, he saw the door creak open again, pushed by the same anonymous hand.

“What’s the charge?” the voice demanded.

“Get him out here,now !”

“What for?”

“He’s under arrest! Now get him out here! Hands above his head!” The door slammed shut again, and with that, Miles suddenly realized the precarious nature of his position. In his haste, he’d put himself in danger.  There were four mobile homes—two in front, one off to each side—and though he’d seen no one in the others, he knew there were people inside. There were also countless junked cars, a few on blocks, between the homes, and he couldn’t help but wonder whether the Timsons were stalling for time, closing in around him.  Part of him knew he should have brought help with him; he should call for help now. He didn’t.

No way. Not now.

In time, the door pushed open again and Clyde appeared on the doorstep. His hands were by his side; in one hand he held a cup of coffee, as if things like this happened every day. When he saw Miles’s gun pointed at him, however, he took a small step backward.

“What the hell do you want, Ryan? Otis ain’t done nothin’.”

“I’ve got to bring him in, Clyde.”

“You still ain’t said what for yet.”

“He’ll be charged when he gets to the station.”

“Where’s your warrant?”

“I don’t need a warrant for this! He’s under arrest.”

“A man’s got rights! You can’t come barging in here and making demands. I got rights! And if you ain’t got no warrant, you get the hell out of here! We’ve had enough of you and your charges!”

“I’m not kidding around, Clyde. Get him out here or I’ll have every sheriff in the county he............