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.
“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
and the air settles over me—
bleach laid over bourbon,
That’s how this place cleans up,
one smell covering another.
Nothing disappears.
It just learns
a different stink.
Past the dark register
and the dead beer signs,
morning comes through the blinds
in narrow bars,
dust turning slow
above the empty tables.
I walk farther in,
last night’s fryer grease
catching at my soles.
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?” I ask.
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 cup.
“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.”
“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 wait, but nothing else
comes across the bar.
Whatever she’s holding back,
she means to keep.
I leave her with it
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,
when 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 body tarps,
drag over the mess
before anybody
gets a look.
I let Vance keep talking
and watch his words
land in the crowd.
Heads dip along.
A crow skims the courthouse lawn,
wings brushing low enough
to make a woman flinch—
then clears the heads
and leaves the square
standing still
around her.
Folks start working their faces
into something fit for mourning.
I’ve known that look all my life—
Hawthorn wears it to funerals,
brings it with a casserole
when trouble lands
at somebody else’s door.
Look sorry enough
and you’ve done your part.
But eyes keep moving
through the crowd,
settling on whoever speaks.
Whatever’s gathered here,
it ain’t come
to grieve 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 presses his lips together,
holding back whatever
he almost said. 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,
his voice dropping
into the space between us.
“You were there last night.”
“I said I was.”
“Close enough to see Wade
leave the room?”
There it is.
He wants me saying
I saw Wade leave—
my words
in his version.
“I saw people drinking,” I say.
“Talking. Laughing too loud.
Same as always.”
Vance keeps his eyes on me
while the crowd shifts
behind him,
faces passing
over his shoulder.
“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 the air.
A reporter pockets his notes
while Jude’s name
slips through the crowd,
thin as smoke,
headed for the rest
of the county.
Good man, bad night.
That’s how they’ll tell it—
something ugly
cut small enough
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.
They’ll have heard it
from enough mouths
to call it true.
Vance has them looking
at Jude so hard
nobody’s asking
who else had reason
to want Wade
in that ditch.
I slide behind the wheel
and my phone goes off.
Unknown number.
Jude’s got trouble enough.
Don’t you go making it worse.
I read it twice
before pulling away,
the courthouse shrinking
in the mirror.
Whoever sent it
knows I’m asking—
wants me to leave Jude
where they’ve put him.
Jude’s in it now.
So am I.
