Now he sat in his office while a television broadcast showed his own face, frozen in the instant he pointed at Karen beside the Ducati.
The reporter discussed the attorney general's investigation.
Kavalik turned off the television.
Then threw the remote against his desk.
It bounced onto the floor.
He stared toward the window.
Outside, the county flag moved beneath a cloudy sky.
For the first time in years, he felt powerless.
A knock sounded.
“Come in.”
His chief administrative deputy entered.
“Sheriff, the attorney general's office has sent another preservation notice.”
Kavalik looked up.
“What do they want now?”
“Financial records, tow assignments, internal messages, and personnel documents.”
The sheriff's expression hardened.
“Are we cooperating?”
“We're legally obligated to preserve relevant materials, sir.”
Kavalik stared.
Then said coldly, “I know what we're obligated to do.”
The deputy didn't answer.
Kavalik stood.
“What about Halverson?”
“He's working through counsel.”
The sheriff's jaw tightened.
“Put him on administrative leave.”
The deputy hesitated.
“On what basis?”
Kavalik stared.
“Failure to support the department.”
For a moment, the room was silent.
Then the deputy said carefully, “Sir, participating in an authorized investigation isn't misconduct by itself.”
Kavalik's face reddened.
“Are you lecturing me too?”
“No, sir.”
“Then get out.”
The deputy left.
Kavalik stood alone.
For years, people had entered that office seeking favors.
Now they entered carrying documents that limited what he could do.
He hated it.
But hatred wasn't going to make the records disappear.
Karen had been avoiding her father's garage.
It wasn't because she didn't want to enter.
She simply hadn't found the strength.
After Gabriel's death, her mother had moved most of the household belongings into storage, but the garage remained almost untouched. The workbench still held his favorite tools, and his handwritten service logs were stacked in careful piles near the window.
One Saturday afternoon, Karen finally unlocked the side door.
The smell reached her before she stepped inside.
Oil.
Rubber.
Old leather.
And the faint scent of the citrus hand cleaner Gabriel always used after working on engines.
She stood motionless.
For a moment, the grief was so powerful that she considered leaving.
Then she saw the photograph beside the workbench.
Gabriel standing next to the red Ducati.
His smile enormous.
His hands blackened with grease.
Karen laughed through tears.
“Still showing off, Dad.”
She approached the bench.
For a while, she did nothing more than look at the familiar objects.
A torque wrench.
A cracked ceramic mug.