I adjusted the brass buckle on my duty belt.

“Then we keep our own copy.

Every hour on the hour.”

At a quarter past one I was in the commissary parking lot with a paper sack against my hip.

The receipt said eighty-four dollars and seventeen cents.

Three boxes of cereal sat on top, one for each of my kids.

I had the trunk open when the white Mercedes pulled in close enough to shade my bumper.

Vivian Harmon stepped out with a white silk scarf tied at her throat.