I turned slowly.
One grocery bag hung from my wrist. Another rested against my hip. Standing behind me in the parking lot of Miller’s Market on East Twelfth Street were two Austin police officers. It was the same neighborhood where my grandmother used to buy peaches by the crate every summer, long before luxury apartments and coffee shops started replacing family businesses.
“My vehicle?” I asked.
“The black sedan,” the taller officer replied, nodding toward the car parked several spaces away.
His nameplate read Anderson.
The younger officer beside him—Clark—kept one hand hovering near his duty belt as if he was waiting for an excuse to use it.
“That is my car.”
Anderson looked me over carefully.
From the navy business suit.
Continue on the next page:
