A quiet gasp rippled through the diner. Sarah took a half-step forward, her voice trembling. “Deputy Miller, please... he’s just a customer, he didn’t do anything wrong—”
“Shut your mouth, Sarah!” Brad snapped without looking at her. “Unless you want me to inspect your kitchen for health violations and shut this dump down by noon.”
Brad turned back to Marcus, unsnapping the leather strap on his handcuff holster. “Last chance, old man. Get down on your hands and knees and clean up your mess, or I’m dragging you to a cell for disturbing the peace and resisting an officer.”
Marcus didn't panic. Instead, he unbuttoned his jacket, reached inside his inner pocket, and pulled out a clean white handkerchief. He calmly wiped his fingers, folded the cloth, and placed it back inside his coat. Then, with unhurried grace, he unlatched the brass clips of his briefcase.
“You think you’re pulling a stunt?” Brad sneered, reaching out to grab Marcus by the collar of his suit. “You’re coming with me!”
Before Brad’s hand could make contact with Marcus’s shoulder, the glass front door of the diner burst open with a loud chime.
A woman rushed in, her hair disheveled, gasping for air as if she had run three blocks in her dress shoes. It was Margaret Miller—Brad’s mother, and the widow of the late, notorious Sheriff Thomas Miller.
Margaret’s eyes swept across the diner and landed on the man sitting at the counter. The moment her gaze locked onto Marcus, all the color drained from her face. Her leather purse slipped from her hand, hitting the floor with a thud.
“Brad!” Margaret shrieked, her voice cracking with pure terror. “Brad, put your hands off him right now! My God, Brad, stop!”
The entire diner stared in absolute disbelief. Brad froze, his hand hovering inches from Marcus’s collar, staring at his mother in utter confusion.