“No idea,” I replied. “We’ll see if DNA gets us anything conclusive.”
He was quiet. “They have to confirm it’s mine, too, don’t they?”
“They do,” I told him. “But they will.”
Elliot ate his cheese curd, his expression serious. “And then what?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“He gets fined? Arrested?”
I blew out a breath. “Arrested, certainly. For attempted vehicular homicide, if nothing else. Unless they can ID the other shifter as—” I broke off.
“Dead?” Elliot supplied.
I nodded, kicking myself internally for bringing the whole thing up. I’d wanted to share good news, but it wasn’t, not really. It meant that Smith was making progress on the case, but I was starting to understand why police didn’t keep people constantlyupdated. Because every step forward raised more questions and did surprisingly little in real terms. Yeah, we’d found the blood samples, and that would move things forward, but there hadn’t been an arrest or even an arrest warrant. We were just waiting to see if this really was it, or if there were two other shifters out there somewhere who’d been hit by an ATV.
It didn’t seem likely, given how small a town Shawano was, but it was technically possible. So we had to wait.
I knew that was ultimately a good thing—the fact that we had to assume innocence until guilt was at least plausible if not proven before we arrested people, deprived them of their liberty. Certainly before we permanently locked them away—or, at least, for a long time.
“So how long is the prison sentence for failing to run someone over with an ATV?” Elliot asked, his tone dark. “Assuming we can even prove that he hit me on purpose.”
“Ten years, I think,” I replied.
“So like five for good behavior, assuming it’s the maximum penalty, and then he gets out and comes after me again.” Elliot was definitely not happy.
“I mean?—”
“Unless someone was killed. Then what?”
“Twenty-five if there’s no prior conviction, I think,” I answered. “More if there is.”
“And if it’s both of us? Does that make thirty-five, or just the twenty-five?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted, feeling worse than ever. “It probably depends on the judge.”
Elliot sighed. “Great. So like two years, then.”
I wanted to argue with him—but I knew better. I knew that judges were often biased against shifters. Against Indigenous people. Maybe even against gay men, depending on who they were. So it was possible Elliot was right—a judge could issue ashort sentence using whatever bullshit excuse Buettner came up with.
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, staring down at my food, no longer hungry.
“Seth.”
I looked over at him.
“Thanks for letting me know what’s going on.”
I sighed. “Sure.” I poked at some of the salmon that had fallen out of my gyro with a fork.
“Seth.”
“What?” I asked without looking over.
“Look at me?”
I looked at him, finding his expression serious. “What?” I repeated.
