The Arrival
Minutes later, red and blue lights flashed against the diner windows. Sheriff Tom Harlan, broad-shouldered and steady, stepped through the door, hand resting on his holster.
“Afternoon,” he said carefully. “Sir, I need to see some ID.”
The man — “Michael Anders,” according to the papers — was all confidence. He produced documents with steady hands: a driver’s license, a birth certificate, custody papers. Every detail matched perfectly.
Even Daniel felt the doubt flicker for a second.
Sheriff Harlan frowned. Protocol was clear — without hard proof, he couldn’t detain the man. The girl sat silently beside him, a red mark blooming on her cheek.
“Everything seems in order,” Harlan said slowly.
The man smirked, gathering his things. “Told you. Can we go now?”
But then the girl — the tiny, trembling child — tugged at the sheriff’s sleeve.
Her voice was a whisper, but it carried like a gunshot.
“That’s not my daddy.”
The diner erupted in murmurs. The man froze, his jaw twitching.
Sheriff Harlan’s instincts kicked in. “Sir,” he said, his tone hardening, “I’m going to need you to come with us to the station. Just routine questions.”
The man hesitated — too long. His eyes darted, calculating.
Daniel moved closer, subtly blocking the exit.
