“What’s he want me to see?” Tyler asked.
“I honestly have no idea,” I said.
Then I looked up at the gray house.
Brent was already on his deck.
He was standing at the railing in a dark blue bathrobe, holding his coffee mug, staring down at us. At the county car. At Tyler. At me.
He’d seen the car pull up. He’d come out to watch.
Of course he had. He wanted to see the inspector write it up. He wanted to see my father lose.
Tyler followed my eyes. He saw Brent too. Brent lifted his mug a little. Like a toast.
Tyler didn’t toast back.
At six o’clock exactly, headlights came down the road through the fog.
One pickup. An old red Ford with rust on the wheel wells. It slowed down, pulled off onto the shoulder, and parked along the ditch at the bottom of Dad’s property.
