Ben’s beam of light was searching the floor. Having finished examining the ceiling, she joined him. Two long tables were littered with buckets and tubes. Two bathtubs sat against one wall.

“Do you ever watch that cable TV show Real LEO?” Ben asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Never heard of it.”

“In the show, television cameras follow cops around on arrests and raids and stuff. It’s a cool show. My roommate tapes it and I’ve watched it with him a lot of times. Last week, they followed this SWAT team in Texas that raided a house. The basement looked like this.”

Rachel’s heart filled with dread. “What was that room for?”

He shone the beam of light off to the side so as not to blind her. His eyes were wide with disbelief. “It was a meth lab. I think your dad was cooking meth.”

* * *

Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, filling out paperwork was Vaughn’s least favorite part of his job. Not today, when that paperwork was admitting Wallace Meyer Jr. to jail. This morning, he took his time, watching the prison guards walk Junior through his print and DNA collection, waiting outside the medical exam room while Junior underwent evaluation and a body cavity search and personally escorting him to his cell in solitary.

He would’ve loved to parade the smugly confident boy past the rows of cells first, but alerting them to the presence of the police chief’s son would’ve been advertising for trouble. Just about every prisoner had a grudge against Wallace Sr. and the rest of the Tucumcari Police Department, and would like nothing better than to introduce Junior to their fists or shivs, or worse.

Standing at the counter in the jail’s office, he watched the sun rise through the window and filled out the paperwork at a leisurely pace, relishing every minute of it.

The prison warden sidled up to him, setting his coffee mug and an elbow on the counter. “I haven’t heard that song in a while.”

“What song is that?” Vaughn asked.

“The one you were whistling. ‘Southern Nights.’ Great song.”

Vaughn hadn’t been aware he was whistling, much less “Southern Nights.” Damn, Rachel, to sneak her way into his subconscious like that.

The office secretary rolled her chair to the small television in the corner, which had been running through the local news on mute. “He’s on, everybody.”

Vaughn glanced at the screen. Wallace Meyer stood in dress uniform behind a podium. With all that had been happening, he’d forgotten all about Meyer’s conference to tout his impressive drug arrest record.

The prison warden sipped his coffee, then gestured with the mug toward the television. “It’s a strange day for Chief Meyer to hold a press conference. Everyone here expected him to cancel it given what’s going on with his boy.”

Vaughn’s cell phone rang, but Meyer had started to speak, and Vaughn couldn’t wait to hear what he had to say so he turned the volume off.

“Over the past twelve months, the Tucumcari Police Department has staged a city-wide crackdown on drug dealers and users. We have the numbers to prove that our tough new stance on drugs is paying off.”

He prattled on about arrest statistics, and Vaughn smiled a private, ironic smile knowing Junior’s tox results were in and he’d been loaded on meth at the time of the Parillas Valley shooting. That would change Meyer’s tune once word got out.

“In our continuing effort to protect and defend the citizens of our fine city against the criminals who would use it as a playground for their unlawful and immoral conduct,” Meyer continued, “today marks the beginning of a new city-wide crackdown on another type of criminal behavior, one closely linked with drug abuse—shoplifting.”

So that’s how it was going to be. All this time, Vaughn had expected Meyer to go after Rachel for shooting his precious son, but he’d decided instead to attack Vaughn’s family. He’d been joking about the idea to his dad, but maybe he would spring for a nice, long cruise for Gwen and his folks after all.

“Shoplifting, even petty shoplifting, hurts our community, bleeds revenue from small businesses, and damages our already-struggling local economy. Times are tough, and we can no longer issue ineffective slaps on the wrists of those who violate the law. This morning, I’m calling for the city council to adopt stricter penalties for shoplifters, most importantly, serial shoplifters. I have a message to those among us who have no respect for this country’s laws, their neighbors, or local businesses: be warned. We will catch you and you will pay.”

Meyer looked directly into the camera, hellfire in his eyes. Vaughn’s stomach lurched. He fumbled for his cell phone.

“As I speak,” Meyer continued, “the Tucumcari police are searching the home of one of Tucumcari’s most flagrant serial shoplifters after receiving an anonymous tip this week that this individual is responsible for a rash of larceny across our city.”

Vaughn couldn’t hear what Meyer said next over the pounding of his heart. His hands unsteady, he brought his phone out to look at the display screen. He’d missed ten calls in the last five minutes. All from his dad’s cell phone.

He dialed his dad’s phone, but it went straight to voice mail. He hit the speed dial for his parents’ land line. The answering machine clicked on. Gwen’s phone did the same. Mom didn’t have a cell phone, which left him out of options.

No. Please, God, no.

His legs felt like they were trapped in concrete. The weight of the universe pressed down on him, smothering him where he stood. Scrubbing a hand over his hair, he clutched his phone and tried to concentrate on the words of the local news anchor who’d returned to the screen.

“Our sources here at Local KQSN News believe the arrested suspects to be the family of the Quay County Sheriff, Vaughn Cooper . . .”

He stumbled away from the desk, fighting for air. The room had gone dead silent. He tore his gaze from the screen to look at his employees. Every one of them was staring at him, some with pity, some with shock, others with cruel judgment.

“. . . Sheriff Cooper’s parents, Greg and Maria Cooper, along with their daughter Gwen Cooper, who has a long history of petty shoplifting charges. Our cameras are on the scene of the breaking news this morning. Whitney Numos is standing by with a report.”

The image snapped to a field reporter standing in a street, the home behind her instantly recognizable.

“No.” Panic, like thousands of needles digging into him, almost dropped him to his knees. He spun in place, searching for the door. He couldn’t remember where it was, but he had to get out of this room. Had to get to his parents before the unimaginable happened, if it hadn’t already. Oh, God, he had to save them. Digging through his pocket for his car keys, he rubbed his eyes as his vision grew dark around the edges. Someone was talking to him, their voice muffled by the whoosh of blood in his ears, the taste of acid on his tongue.

“. . . This dramatic footage was filmed moments ago, when Tucumcari police surrounded a local area house, their battering ram ready should the owners refuse them entrance.”

In a trance, he forced his eyes to the screen. Police in SWAT gear ran around the perimeter of his childhood home. The sight of a long, black metal battering ram jolted his system. With a strangled gasp of horror, he turned and ran. He must’ve found the door because the next thing he remembered, he was in his patrol car, the sirens and lights on, blazing down the road to his parents’ house ten minutes away.

The only thoughts in his head were, This is my fault. I did this to them. I failed my family.

He ground to a stop as close to the police barricade as possible and fought his way through the crowd. Gwen sat in the back of a squad car, sobbing. He couldn’t find it in himself to feel sorry for her. He scanned the scene for his parents, and when he saw them near the open garage door, he tipped over the edge of sanity.

“Get those off of her!” he bellowed, jumping the barricade. He evaded the officers lunging at him as he ran toward the man handcuffing his mother.

“Get those off of her! You son of a bitch, that’s my mother.”

He was tackled halfway up the driveway, dropped to his stomach by someone dressed in black, the wind knocked clean out of him.

“Sir, stop. Don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”

Like it could get any harder.

“Vaughn, don’t worry,” his mom called. The quaver in her voice cut his heart out. “We’re going to be okay once this is sorted out.”

Oh, hell, she was trying to comfort him. His mother, while being cuffed and read her rights, was worried about him. It was more than he could take. He dropped his forehead to the concrete and swallowed the bile rising in his throat. Let this be a nightmare. Please, God.

But when he looked up again, it was to see his mother being walked past him toward the squad car. “No, no, no.”

His dad marched past his line of sight next. “Don’t lose it, Vaughn. We need you to keep a cool head. Keep it together for your mom.”

Keep it together? He’d already spiraled into hell.

But Dad was right. Whatever had happened to bring this on, he couldn’t do his parents any good in his current wretched state. He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing into the ground.

You’ve failed them so completely that somehow you must find the will to pull it together and right the wrongs you’ve caused.

“Let me stand,” he said to the person holding him down. “I won’t make a scene.”

Maybe because of his title, or maybe it was because the officer accepted the resignation in his voice, but he moved his knee away from Vaughn’s ribs and stood aside for Vaughn to push himself up. He kept his back to the patrol car his parents were being led into, knowing that if he saw his mom, he’d lose it again.