“So you finally learned,” he said, dragging out a chair. “Guess that sl:ap knocked some sense into you.”
I said nothing. I poured coffee, steady and composed. He chuckled and reached for a biscuit—then looked up.
The color drained from his face.
At the head of the table sat Sheriff Thomas Reed, his hat placed neatly beside his plate. To his right was Pastor William Harris from First Baptist, hands folded, expression calm. Beside them sat my sister Elaine, who had flown in from Ohio after one quiet phone call the night before.
Daniel’s mouth opened, then closed.
“What… what is this?” he whispered.
“Sit down, Daniel,” Sheriff Reed said evenly. “We need to talk about last night.”
The only sound in the room was the ticking clock. Daniel stood frozen, finally realizing the breakfast was not an apology—it was a reckoning.
He hesitated, glancing between the sheriff and the pastor, searching for humor that didn’t exist, before sinking into the chair as if his strength had left him.
