“Someone put their hands on my son. That’s all I need to understand.”
The Milwood Creek Sheriff’s Station sat on Main Street, a brick structure that had served as the law enforcement hub since 1947. Inside, Deputy Susan Parsons sat at the front desk, a woman in her fifties with kind eyes that had seen too much of Carl’s corruption to maintain any illusions about justice.
“Need to speak with the sheriff,” Victor said. “It’s about my son.”
Susan’s expression shifted—sympathy mixed with resignation. She picked up the phone, spoke quietly, then nodded toward the hallway. “Go ahead.”
Sheriff Carl Gaines’s office reflected the man perfectly. Oversized desk, walls covered in commendations and photos with politicians, a gun cabinet displaying weapons that had nothing to do with law enforcement. The sheriff sat behind his desk, boots propped up, not bothering to look up when Victor entered.
“Heard your boy had some trouble today,” Carl said, still focused on his computer screen. “Kids will be kids, Ramsay. Part of growing up.”
“Someone assaulted my son. Those bruises didn’t come from roughhousing.”
Now Carl looked up, and Victor saw the calculation in his eyes. The sheriff was a big man—six-two, carrying an extra forty pounds that hadn’t slowed him down much. His gun sat in its holster like a natural extension of his body.
“‘Assault’ is a strong word. According to what I heard, Drew started the altercation. My boy was defending himself.”
“Your boy is seventeen and built like a tank. My son is fifteen and weighs one-thirty soaking wet.”
