Chapter 2: Unknown Number

Jude gets named.

I head over to Della’s.

Front door’s locked,
chained tight—
chairs still upside-down
in the window glass.

I cut around back.
Side lot’s quiet.

Back door’s cracked—
same as always,
just a sliver of light
leaking out into the dark.

I knock once.

“Door ain’t locked,” she calls.
Her voice slips easy
through the stillness,
like she’d known I was coming—
like the bar’d been
listening for me.

I push in.

Inside, the air hangs heavy—
bleach laid over bourbon,
fryer grease underneath.
One smell covering another.

That’s how this place cleans up.
Nothing disappears.
It just learns
a different stink.

Register dark.
Beer signs dead.

Morning slips
through the blinds in narrow bars,
catching dust above the tables.
The place ain’t open yet,
but it still feels used.

At first, all I see
is Della’s ponytail,
pulled hard from her face
as she checks off a list
behind the bar.
Even this early,
nothing about her
has come loose.

Her eyes cut up—
just a flick,
enough to size me up.

“Well,” she says, “there you are.”

“Don’t start.”

“Honey, if I was gonna,
you’d know it.”

I take my usual spot—
same stool,
nicked wood,
sticky in places
no scrubbing ever fixes.

My hand finds the edge,
and the same old splinter
finds me back.

“What’re they saying?” I ask.

Della lets out a laugh,
low and bitter,
like she’s got nothing sweeter
left to give.

“Same thing they always say
when a certain trouble
shows up.”

She leans in.
“Sheriff’s already calling it.
Rolled it off his tongue
like he’d read it off a card.
Domestic. Tragic.
All pressed and proper,
like Sunday clothes.”

“Already?”

She shrugs. “People want a name
for what scares ’em.
Helps ’em sleep at night.”

“And Jude?”

Her mouth tightens.
“What about him?”

“Where is he?” I ask.

She turns,
pours herself a cup of coffee.
“County’s got him.”

“Arrested?”

“They ain’t calling it that.”

“Then why’s he still there?”

Della looks into her coffee.

“They’re saying drunk.
That Wade followed Jude, angry.
Others say Jude’s truck
has fresh dents,
and blood’s on it.”

“Who’s saying it?” I ask.

“Half the county’s repeatin’ it
like they saw it
with their own eyes.”

with their own eyes.”

“Did you?”

“I was working,” she says.
“Bar don’t keep itself.
They call at the lodge, I pour.
Bills spend easier than pride.”

Ice machine kicks in the back.

“What’d you see?” I ask.

She lifts her cup, sips, winces.

“Just know men turn up the volume
when eyes are on ’em.
Can’t help it.”

She sets the cup down.
“Wade was working the room.”

“Jude?” I ask.

“Jude looked like he wanted
to be anywhere else.”

“You see ‘em leave?”

“I saw plenty of people leave,”
she says. “That ain’t the same thing.”

I let that sit.

“You need to be careful,” she says.

“With what?”

“With lookin’ interested.”

She doesn’t blink.
I don’t say a word.
Nothing else comes across the bar.

So I leave her there
and head for the courthouse.

###

The square’s busier than it ought to be.

Trucks jammed along the street.
News vans by the curb.
People in loose packs,
zipped up, coffee in hand,
waiting on something
they can carry off
and repeat later.

The courthouse sits in the middle.
Old brick. White trim.

A handful of crows perch
along the power line,
black and still
over the whole square.

For a breath,
they hold there.

Then the reporters move in
around Sheriff Vance,
already planted on the steps,
and the crows break loose.

He holds himself right for the cameras,
shoulders squared, face set,
like nothing could catch
him off guard.

I keep to the rail and listen.

“We lost a good man,” Vance says.
“Deputy Wade Larkin
served with integrity and heart.
Right now, our focus is on the facts.
We want to keep emotion out
of a clear-eyed investigation.”

A reporter asks
if they have a suspect.

Vance doesn’t blink.

“We have a person of interest.
Someone close to the victim.
That’s common in cases like this.”

Common.

That word shuts the air down.

A young reporter steps forward.
Barely twenty-four,
mic pressed to his chest.

“Sheriff, is this domestic?”

The question sounds brave.
It ain’t.

Vance pauses,
makes it look like he cares.

“All signs point to personal,” he says.
“Alcohol was involved.”

That’s the move.
Personal.
Alcohol.
Close.

Big words, heavy as tarps,
dragged over the mess
before anybody
gets a look.

I stop watching Vance.

Start watching the crowd.

Heads dip along.

A crow cuts low
across the courthouse lawn,
black wings near enough
to make one woman flinch.

Then it’s gone,
and the square closes over
like nothing passed through.

Folks start working their faces
into something fit for mourning.
I’ve known that look
all my life.
Hawthorn puts it on
for funerals,
casseroles,
and trouble that lands
at somebody else’s door.

Folks here figure
if they look sorry enough,
they’ve done their part.

But something else
has gathered in the air.
Something watchful.

Whatever it is,
it ain’t grieving Wade.

###

When it’s done,
Vance steps back from the mic
and spots me.

Comes down the steps slow—
like it’s any other morning
and all he’s got left
is dust to sweep
off the porch.

“Cal,” he says.
“You doin’ all right?”

“I knew Wade
before he worked for you.”

Vance’s jaw goes tight.
He clears his throat,
gives me one dry nod,
then turns to the crowd,
leaving my answer
where it fell.

“Still gets into folks
in a small town.”

“Yes,” I say. “It does.”

He steps closer,
drops his voice.

“You were there last night.”

“I said I was.”

“Close enough to see Wade
leave the room?”

There it is.

Not a question.
A place he wants me standing in.

“I saw people drinking,” I say.
“Talking. Laughing too loud.
Same as always.”

Vance watches me.

The crowd keeps moving
behind him.

“You remember anything else,”
he says, “you come find me.”

“I know where you are.”

“If you think of anything,” he says.

“I’ll let you know.”

He gives me a smile. No comfort in it.

“Appreciate that.”

He walks off.
That’s all I needed to know.

Camera clicks.

A woman in a visor
lets a “Lord have mercy” drift out—
meant for nobody,
just settling into air.

A reporter tucks away his notes,
mind already halfway gone.

By then,
the story’s already moving.

Jude’s name starts drifting
through the county,
thin as smoke.

Good man, bad night.
That’s what they’ll make of it—
something close,
something ugly,
something small enough
for folks to swallow
before supper.

I look back at the courthouse.
Vance working the press
like it’s just business.

The crowd breaks apart
in small packs,
each carrying Vance’s words
toward another part of town.

By supper,
nobody’ll remember
who said it first.
Only that it’s true.

Nobody’s asking
what put Wade in that ditch.

Nobody’s wondering
who else couldn’t sleep last night.

By the time I slide behind the wheel,
my phone goes off.
I look down.

Unknown number.
Jude’s got trouble enough.
Don’t you go making it worse.

I read the message again,
courthouse shrinking
in the mirror.

That’s a lie.
Jude’s in it now.

Which means—I am too.

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