Page 7 of Fatal Fame
"You ready for this?"
Callie Thorne's voice carried the kind of authority that made people sit up straighter, even when she was asking a simple question. She stood beside the Adirondack County Sheriff's Office patrol SUV, keys jingling in her hand, studying Mia with a measured gaze.
"I think so," Mia said, though her stomach was doing somersaults. She'd asked Callie about doing a ride-along during her lunch break, hoping to get some real-world perspective on law enforcement work. What she hadn't expected was for Callie to actually say yes.
"Ground rules," Callie said, opening the passenger door. "Seatbelt stays on. Eyes open, mouth mostly shut unless I ask you something. If I tell you to stay in the vehicle, you stay in the vehicle. If I tell you to get down, you get down. Clear?"
"Clear."
The interior of the patrol SUV was a study in controlled chaos—radio crackling with periodic updates, computer terminal mounted between the seats, shotgun locked in its rack, vinyl seats that squeaked with every movement. Mia buckled herself in and tried to look like she belonged there, like she wasn't a teenager playing dress-up in the adult world.
Callie started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot, windshield wipers keeping time against a light drizzle that made the pines blur past the windows. The lake threw up gulls that wheeled and cried out above the water, and in the distance, the mountains disappeared into low-hanging clouds.
"So," Callie said, adjusting her rearview mirror, "FBI, huh?"
Mia shot her a look. "How did you?—"
"Small town. Word travels." Callie's tone was neutral, but Mia caught the hint of a smile. "Your dad mentioned it to someone, who mentioned it to someone else, and so on. You know how it is."
"Yeah, FBI. That's the plan, anyway."
"Good plan. Federal work's got its perks. Better resources, bigger cases, less politics." Callie turned onto Route 73, heading toward the lake. "Course, it's also got its own brand of bullshit, but every job does."
The radio crackled: "Unit 12, we've got a report of an impaired driver at the Cascade Trail turnout. Attempting to get into a car.”
Callie reached for the microphone. "Unit 12 responding." She glanced at Mia. "Drunk tourist, probably. Happens more than you'd think."
Mia felt her heart rate spike as Callie hit the lights, not the sirens, just the red and blue flashes that cut through the gray afternoon. "Is it dangerous?"
"Could be. Depends on how drunk and how stupid." Callie's hands were steady on the wheel, her voice calm and professional. "That's the thing about this job, you never know what you're walking into. Could be someone who just needs a ride home, could be someone who wants to fight the world."
They pulled into the Cascade Trail turnout, where a red sedan sat at an odd angle across two parking spaces. A middle-aged man in tourist gear—khaki shorts, polo shirt, hiking boots that had never seen a trail—was fumbling with his car keys near the driver's side door, swaying slightly as he tried to unlock it.
"Stay here," Callie said, unclipping her radio.
Mia watched as Callie approached with measured steps, her stance professional but non-threatening. "Afternoon, sir. I'm Deputy Thorne with the Sheriff's Office. Mind if I have a word with you?"
The man looked up, keys still in hand, his eyes having trouble focusing. "Just heading home, officer. Wife's expecting me."
"I can see that. How about we make sure you get there safely?" Callie's voice remained calm as she guided him through field sobriety tests that he clearly failed. Instead of escalating to an arrest, she de-escalated, convincing him to hand over his keys and call his wife for a ride.
"The badge doesn't make you brave," Callie said when she returned to the SUV twenty minutes later, having arranged for the man's wife to pick him up. "Choices do. You could have the biggest gun and the shiniest badge in the world, but if you make bad choices, you're still going to get yourself or someone else hurt."
They drove in comfortable silence for a while, taking the long way back toward town. The rain had stopped, and shafts of sunlight broke through the clouds, turning the lake into a sheet of hammered silver.
"Mind if I ask you something?" Callie said as they passed a turnoff.
"Shoot."
"Are you afraid of being Noah Sutherland's kid forever? I mean, does it bother you that people will always see you as the cop’s daughter instead of just... you?"
Mia considered the question. "I guess."
They were passing Rebecca’s parents’ house now, a modest two-story colonial set back from the road, its porch dark and empty, wind chimes hanging motionless in the still air. Mia felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.
"Sad event," Callie said, following Mia's gaze.
"You remember what happened?"
