Kavalik laughed without humor.
“Somebody like you owns a Ducati this nice?”
Behind him, Halverson looked toward the ground.
Karen noticed.
She noticed everything.
The sheriff's right hand hovering near his belt.
The younger deputy's discomfort.
The patrol SUV positioned behind her without a clear explanation for the stop.
And the fact that neither officer had identified a violation.
“My registration is valid,” she said. “You're welcome to verify it.”
Kavalik's eyes narrowed.
“I didn't ask you for a lecture.”
“I'm offering the information you're questioning.”
“Where'd you get the motorcycle?”
Karen looked toward the red fuel tank.
For a moment, the polished paint reflected a memory so clearly that she almost heard her father's voice.
Never rush the machine, baby girl. The motorcycle tells you what it needs if you learn to listen.
She swallowed.
“It belonged to my father.”
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
“What, he just handed you the keys?”
Karen's expression softened briefly.
“He left it to me.”
Kavalik stared.
“Convenient story.”
Karen felt a sharp, familiar sadness.
Her father had loved that motorcycle.
He had spent nineteen years maintaining it, cleaning it, repairing minor problems, and explaining every mechanical detail to anyone willing to listen. The machine was a red 2007 Ducati 1098, beautiful even after thousands of miles, with carefully maintained paint and subtle custom details only Gabriel could have designed.
When he died, Karen found the keys in a wooden box beside his will.
Attached was a handwritten note.
Ride it when you need to remember that life is still worth enjoying. And keep the rubber side down.
She'd cried so hard she couldn't open the garage for three days.
Now a stranger wearing a sheriff's badge was looking at the machine as though she must have stolen it.
Karen slowly reached toward her jacket pocket.
“I have the registration and insurance information.”
Kavalik's voice exploded.
“KEEP YOUR HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!”
She stopped immediately.
“Then tell me how you'd like me to retrieve the documents.”
“Don't tell me how to do my job.”
“I wasn't.”
“Sounds like you were.”
Halverson approached from beside the patrol vehicle.
“Ma'am, maybe you should stop talking.”
Karen turned toward him.
“Deputy, I'm asking why I'm being detained.”
His expression tightened.
Kavalik answered before he could speak.
“Because I said so.”
Karen looked directly at the sheriff.
“That's not a reason.”
For a moment, the older man's face seemed to change color.
Then he stepped forward.
“Turn around.”
Karen remained still.