Tom's hands clench into fists at his sides. "You calling me a liar, Sheriff?"
"I'm asking you a question. Simple one. Did you hit your wife?"
The silence stretches between us, thick with tension. Sarah's breathing is shallow, rapid. Tom's face flushes red, whether from anger or alcohol, I can't tell.
"She ran into the door," he finally says. "When she was cleaning up the glass. Wasn't watching where she was going."
It's a lie. We all know it's a lie. But proving it, getting Sarah to admit what really happened, that's the hard part. The part that keeps me awake at night, knowing there are women in this town who go to bed afraid of the men who should protect them.
"Tom, you know what I think?" I close my notebook, slide it back into my pocket. "I think you've had enough to drink tonight. I think maybe you should sleep it off somewhere else. Give everyone a chance to cool down."
"This is my house." His voice rises, and Sarah flinches. "You can't make me leave my own house."
"Actually, I can." I step closer, using every inch of my six-foot-three frame. "I can arrest you for disturbing the peace. For destruction of property. For assault, if Sarah decides to press charges." I pause, letting that sink in. "Or you can take a walk. Sleep on your brother's couch. Come back tomorrow when you're sober and ready to have a real conversation with your wife."
Tom looks like he wants to fight. His fists are still clenched, his jaw working like he's chewing on words he wants to spit at me. But he's not stupid enough to take a swing at a sheriff. Not tonight, anyway.
"Fine." He pushes past me, grabbing a jacket from the coat hook by the door. "But this is bullshit, McKenna. Complete bullshit."
"Tom." I catch his arm as he tries to leave. "If I have to come back here tonight, if I get another call about raised voices or broken glass, you're going to jail. We clear?"
He jerks his arm away but nods. The front door slams behind him hard enough to rattle the windows.
Sarah and I stand in the sudden quiet, listening to his truck start up and pull away with a squeal of tires.
"Thank you," she whispers, finally meeting my eyes. "I know it doesn't... I know this doesn't solve anything, but..."
"Sarah." I keep my voice gentle. "You don't have to live like this. There are options. Shelters. Legal protections."
She shakes her head. "He's not always like this. When he's not drinking, he's..."
"A different man. I know. I've heard it before." And I have. Too many times. "But the drinking's not stopping, is it? It's getting worse."
She doesn't answer, just starts picking up pieces of broken glass with trembling fingers.
"Leave that." I kneel down beside her, taking the sharp fragments from her hands. "I'll clean it up. You go put some ice on that cheek."
For a moment, I think she might break down. Might finally admit what we both know is happening in this house. But she just nods and disappears into the kitchen.
By the time I finish cleaning up the glass and right the overturned furniture, she's back with a bag of frozen peas pressed against her face.
"You got somewhere you can go tonight?" I ask. "Sister, friend, someone who wouldn't mind you staying over?"
"I'll be fine here. Tom won't come back tonight when he's this drunk. He'll pass out at Billy's place and sleep until noon."
"And tomorrow?"
She doesn't answer.
I pull a business card from my wallet, write my personal cell number on the back. "If things get bad again, if you need help, you call me. Day or night. Promise me."
She takes the card with shaking fingers. "I promise."
The drive back to my cabin takes twenty minutes, but I spend another hour in my truck in the driveway, engine running, heat blasting against the early morning cold. Thinking about Sarah Henderson's bruised face. About all the Sarah Hendersons I've encountered over the years. About the ones I couldn't help, couldn't save.
About how many times I'll get called back to that house before something permanent happens.
When I finally make it inside, dawn is starting to creep over the mountains, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. I pour myself a cup of coffee, stronger than motor oil, and settle into the chair by my front window.
