Chapter 5 - The Interrogation Room
The air inside the county sheriff’s station smelled of stale filter coffee, damp floor wax, and yellowing paper files. The room was small, windowless, and illuminated by a buzzing fluorescent tube that cast sickly greenish shadows across the cracked plaster walls.
Leo sat on an oversized wooden chair, his scuffed boots dangling several inches above the linoleum floor. He still wore his dust-stained blue shirt, but the red bandana had been taken from him—confiscated as "potential evidence" by Sheriff Miller upon their arrival at the station.
On the other side of the heavy oak table sat Harlan Vance. He had placed a paper cup of warm chocolate milk in front of the boy, but Leo hadn't touched it. The child sat with his shoulders hunched, his small hands tucked tightly between his knees, his red-rimmed eyes fixed on the grain of the wooden table.
"Leo, son," Vance began, his voice dripping with an artificial, practiced warmth. He leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table, and forced a gentle smile onto his face. "You gave everyone a real fright out there today. That bull... it's a dangerous killer. You could have been torn apart."
Leo didn't answer. He didn't blink.
"Your father was a good man, Leo," Vance continued, his eyes searching the boy's impassive face for any sign of weakness. "A hard worker. But he was troubled. He owed a lot of money to the bank, and when men get overwhelmed... sometimes they make terrible choices. They wander off. They leave things behind."
"My dad didn't leave me," Leo said softly. His voice was low, flat, but carrying an incredible weight of conviction.
Vance leaned a fraction closer. "The sheriff found his truck by the river bridge, Leo. The door was wide open. His boots were on the mud bank. All the evidence says he jumped."
"My dad didn't jump," Leo repeated, raising his head for the first time. His brown eyes locked onto Vance's face with an intensity that made the older man's heart skip a beat. "He told me he was going to meet you at the old mill on Tuesday night. He said he was going to give you the paper that proves the spring on our land belongs to our family, not the rodeo."
Vance’s artificial smile stiffened. His fingers twitched against his leather belt.
"Did he give you that paper, Leo?" Vance asked, his voice dropping its friendly tone, becoming quiet and sharp. "Before he went to the river... did he hide something in your house? In his tool shed? Or maybe... inside that red cloth you carried today?"
Leo stared at Vance. The child was young, but he possessed the quiet, sharp instinct of someone raised in the wilderness. He saw the subtle twitch in Vance’s eyelid, the tightness around his mouth, and the way his hands shook slightly when he mentioned the paper.
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Leo realized in that exact moment: the man sitting across from him wasn't trying to help him find his father.
He was looking for the evidence that could destroy him.
