"Could be a very long wait." Matthews leaned forward. "Might want to get back on the road. Safer that way."
A woman in her early 30s with a messenger bag approached the counter, pretending to check a bulletin board. She had quick, observant eyes and a press pass partially hidden under her jacket. "Excuse me," the woman said quietly when Matthews stepped away. "Are you Immani Ree?"
Immani turned slightly, evaluating the stranger. "Who's asking?" "Mina Dwarte. I run an investigative podcast."
She kept her voice low. "I've been looking into stories about this county for months. Your name came up on a rumor board. Something about a sealed federal case a few years back."
"Not interested in publicity," Immani said firmly. "I get it. But before you walk away..." Mina pulled out her phone and showed her a spreadsheet. "These are missing drivers, mostly Black and brown."
"All disappeared along this same corridor over the past two years. Local cops claim they have no records. But the pattern speaks for itself." Immani finished studying the names and dates.
"I can help," Mina pressed. "My audience knows how to amplify stories that need telling. Make them too public to bury." Immani was about to refuse again when movement at the main entrance drew everyone's attention.
Sheriff Hollis Van swept in like a politician working a room. His uniform was crisp, his smile practiced and warm. He moved through the lobby, shaking hands, calling people by name, radiating authority wrapped in folksy charm. "Sarah, how's that grandbaby doing?" he asked the clerk.
"Matthews, good work on that highway patrol coordination." Each interaction was perfectly calculated, reminding everyone who controlled their comfort, their careers, their security. Then Van turned, and his eyes met Immani's. There was no surprise in his face.
No confusion. Just calm recognition, as if he'd been waiting for this moment. His smile never wavered. "Welcome to Pine Hollow," he said, voice carrying across the now-silent lobby.
"I don't believe we've had the pleasure." He extended his hand. The gesture wasn't friendly. It was a challenge, a public move, forcing her either to accept his dominance or mark herself as hostile.
Immani noted how everyone watched, how phones appeared ready to record, how the security guard's hand drifted toward his weapon. Immani kept her hands at her sides, neither accepting nor refusing, just standing her ground, face composed, eyes steady on his. She'd faced down warlords and cartel bosses. This man was dangerous, but he wasn't unique.
The moment stretched, heavy with tension. Van's smile remained fixed, but something cold flickered in his eyes. The look of a man unused to having his authority questioned, especially in his own courthouse. Around them, the lobby had gone completely still.
Everyone watched the silent confrontation between the truck driver who wouldn't back down and the sheriff who expected absolute submission. The air felt charged, like the moment before a storm breaks. Sheriff Van followed her out of the courthouse, his footsteps unhurried on the concrete steps. The morning sun cast his shadow long across the sidewalk, stretching toward her like a reaching hand.
"Miss Ree," he called, voice gentle as a prayer. "A moment of your time." Immani turned, maintaining precise distance. Van's sheriff's badge caught the sunlight, a deliberate flash of authority.