Brooke Hayes knew the man in the police uniform was watching her before she ever reached the front steps of the Red Mesa Roadhouse.
She could feel it.
Some looks were casual.
Some appreciative.
Some rude.
This one followed her.
It began when she stepped through the heavy wooden front door into the hard Texas sunlight and paused beneath the weathered awning to put on her sunglasses.
The morning storm had passed less than an hour earlier, leaving the parking lot dark with moisture even though the sky had already turned bright blue.
Sunlight flashed from puddles.
Chrome motorcycles gleamed beside the building.
An enormous American flag moved lazily above the porch.
Brooke adjusted the strap of her black handbag and looked toward the parking lot.
Her car sat near the far end, a black Lexus sedan parked between two pickup trucks.
She had only come to Red Mesa for twenty minutes.
That had been the plan.
Drop off paperwork.
Speak with the charity organizer.
Leave before the motorcycle crowd arrived.
Instead, the meeting had taken nearly an hour because the hospital foundation had changed the insurance requirements for the benefit ride scheduled that afternoon.
Brooke had spent most of that hour sitting inside a booth with an accountant and the bar owner while country music played quietly overhead.
She had ordered sparkling water.
Nothing stronger.
That detail should not have mattered.
It eventually would.
She walked down the porch steps.
The burgundy dress she wore ended above the knee and fit close to her body without being extravagant. She had chosen it because she was supposed to attend a birthday lunch in Fort Worth after leaving the roadhouse.
Her long black hair fell in loose waves down her back.
Small gold earrings.
Black heels.
No jacket now that the storm had cleared.
Nothing about Brooke suggested she wanted attention from strangers.
That had never prevented strangers from deciding otherwise.
She reached the sidewalk beside the parking lot.
“Ma’am.”
Brooke stopped.
Not because the voice was loud.
Because of the authority deliberately placed inside it.
She turned.
Officer Grant Mercer stood beside a marked county patrol car approximately twenty feet away.
White.
Late thirties.
Tall.
Muscular enough that his dark navy uniform pulled tightly across his shoulders.
Short brown hair.
Clean-shaven face.
The expression of a man accustomed to having questions answered quickly.
Another officer stood beside the passenger door.
Younger.
Maybe early thirties.
He had been looking down at something near the cruiser.
Now he looked up.
Grant started walking toward Brooke.
“Hold up.”
Brooke remained where she was.
“Is there a problem?”
Grant stopped too close.
Not touching.
Close enough to make the distance intentional.
His eyes moved over her.
Down.
Then back up.
Brooke noticed.
Of course she noticed.
Women always noticed.
“What were you doing inside?”
Brooke looked toward the roadhouse.
“Inside the bar?”
“Yes.”
“I had a meeting.”
Grant smiled faintly.
“A meeting.”
“Yes.”
“At Red Mesa.”
“That’s where we’re standing.”
The second officer looked away for half a second.
Grant’s smile disappeared.
“You drinking?”
“No.”
“You were inside a bar for almost an hour.”
“I can enter a bar without drinking alcohol.”
“I didn’t say you couldn't.”
“Then why are you asking?”
Grant shifted.
“Routine.”
Brooke glanced toward his cruiser.
Lights flashing.
Not emergency siren.
Just lights.
“Did something happen?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
Brooke looked around.
People moved near the motorcycles.
Two bar employees carried folding tables outside.
A man in a black leather vest was tightening a strap on a Harley.
Nothing seemed wrong.
“What are you trying to figure out?”
Grant looked toward her car.
“Which one is yours?”
Brooke followed his eyes.
“Why?”
“Simple question.”
“It is.”
Grant stared.
Brooke understood the interaction now.
The problem was no longer whatever imaginary investigation he had approached with.
The problem was that she was not participating in the expected rhythm.
Question.
Answer.