Chapter 11 - The Sheriff's Warning
The gravel crunched under the heavy tread of standard-issue boots as Sheriff Miller walked up the long dirt driveway, his silver badge catching the sharp, pale sunlight of the county road. I left Elena and the sleeping baby inside the quiet, shaded interior of the farmhouse, stepping out onto the weathered wooden porch to intercept him before he reached the steps.
Sheriff Miller was a man who had lived in this county for thirty years, his face weathered by wind and small-town politics. He wore his Stetson pushed back slightly, his expression cautious rather than aggressive.
"Mr. Varric," he said, stopping a few paces short of the bottom step and resting one hand near his utility belt out of sheer habit. "Didn't expect to find you out here at the old family place. Thought you were hooped up in that glass tower of yours down in the city."
"Plans change, Sheriff," I said, keeping my voice level, measured, and entirely devoid of defensive tension. I reached into my back pocket slowly, pulling out my wallet to extract my driver's license, though Miller had known who I was since I was a teenager. "The city gets loud sometimes. I needed some quiet air."
Miller took the ID, glanced at it more out of protocol than necessity, and handed it back. "Quiet is fine, Mr. Varric. But quiet usually doesn't involve concerned citizen welfare checks logged by high-priced corporate legal teams."
The mention of Marcus Vance's tactics didn't surprise me, but hearing it articulated by a local lawman brought the reality of our situation crashing down.
"I imagine Mr. Vance has a lot of time on his hands," I replied, leaning slightly against the porch railing to project an aura of calm domesticity rather than fugitive panic. "He tends to worry about things that don't belong to him. As you can see, I am resting here at my private property with authorized staff, completely safe and entirely accounted for."
Miller looked past me toward the house, his eyes lingering on the lace curtains of the front window. "Staff," he repeated, chewing the word slowly. "That young woman in the maroon uniform? Seen a car matching her description parked out back. People in town talk, Varric. When a billionaire drops off the radar and a maid goes missing from a grand estate, the switchboard lights up."
"She isn't missing, Sheriff. She's employed by my household, and she's assisting with the care of my son," I said, keeping the line between employer and protector razor-thin. "If Mr. Vance filed a report implying otherwise, it's a malicious waste of county resources."
Miller nodded once, a slow, deliberate movement that signaled he understood the politics at play even if he didn't care for them. He wasn't Vance's errand boy, but he was a man who had to answer to county commissioners and state troopers who read the financial pages.
"Look, Mr. Varric, I know who signs the checks that built the new community center, and I know who pays property tax on half this county," Miller said, lowering his voice slightly. "I'm not here to harass you or run a custody check. But I have a job to do. And I'm telling you as a neighbor—those media vans from the city networks? They've been stacking up near the county line for the last two hours. They found your license plate toll records."
A cold knot tightened in my chest, though my face remained impassive. "How long before they cross the line?"
"Not long. Someone leaked your general coordinates," Miller said, pulling a small notebook from his pocket and tapping it against his thigh. "Once they cross into township jurisdiction, my hands are tied regarding public right-of-way. I can keep them off your private gate for twenty-four hours under rural access laws, but after that, it's a circus."
"I appreciate the warning, Sheriff," I said quietly.
"Take it as professional courtesy," Miller replied, turning his boots back toward the gravel drive. "You've got a child inside, Mr. Varric. Whatever corporate war you're fighting down in the city, don't let it burn down the county."
May you like
He didn't wait for a response, just raised two fingers in a brief salute and walked back down the driveway toward his cruiser. I watched him go, listening to the crunch of tires fade away into the afternoon wind. The farmhouse had offered a brief sanctuary, but Miller's warning made it clear: our time here was finished.
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