He tosses it onto the floor near her feet. It skitters under the edge of the booth. There you go. Don't lose your little toy. His friends laugh.
Chase kicks his boot toward it, not quite touching it. Just enough to make her flinch. Josie doesn't flinch. She kneels down slow and steady and picks it up. Two fingers like it's something precious.
She stands up straight, looks Grant dead in the eye. I don't look for trouble, she says quietly. But I don't run from it either. She turns and walks back toward the kitchen, leaving him standing there, unsure what to say next. Frank Doyle sets his coffee cup down slowly.
He didn't look away from that moment. Not once. Something about the badge caught his eye before it hit the floor. The shape of it, the style of the star, the way the metal had worn down on one side, like it had written against someone's chest for years. He's seen a badge like that before.
A long time ago, longer than he cares to think about most days. He can't place it yet. Not exactly. But something in his gut has gone tight, the way it used to before a call that mattered. He watches Josie disappear into the kitchen, calm, unshaken.
21 years old, he thinks, and she just stood there like she's faced worse. Much worse. He picks his coffee back up. Doesn't drink it. Just sits there turning something over in his mind, the way he used to turn over evidence.
Careful, patient, not ready to jump to conclusions yet. In the back, Josie leans against the steel counter, alone for just a moment, she takes the badge out of her apron pocket, turns it over slowly in her palm. The silver star, the worn edge, a small engraving on the back only she knows how to find. Even in the dark, even with her eyes closed, she closes her hand around it. Closes her eyes, a memory surfaces brief and unbidden.
A porch, an evening, the smell of cut grass, a man's voice low and warm. Telling her a badge doesn't make someone brave. What you do when no one is watching, that's what makes someone brave. She was maybe 12 when he told her that. Sitting on the porch steps, knees pulled to her chest, listening the way children listen when they sense something important.
She didn't know then how soon she'd need it. She opens her eyes, slides the badge back into her pocket, straightens her apron, smooths the front flat, then walks back out onto the floor like nothing happened. The old couple in the corner booth watch her return. The husband, thin in his 80s, Cane hooked on the table, catches her eye, gives her a small nod. You handled that well, young lady, he says quietly.
His wife pats the seat beside her. An invitation more than a request. Josie pauses. Thank you. I'm sorry about the scene.
Wasn't your scene to be sorry for? The old man says. That boy's father was the same way at his age. Some things get handed down whether we want them to or not. His wife adds gentler.
Not everyone in this town is like that. Most of us just don't know how to say something when it's happening right in front of us. Josie looks at them for a moment. Something in her softens. "Thank you, " she says again, quieter this time.