His shiny black loafers left the floor entirely, his feet dangling uselessly two inches above the scuffed linoleum.

“Drop that envelope,” Wyatt said.

“Put me down!” David yelled, his face going purple as his fingers scrabbled at Wyatt’s thick wrists.

“This is assault!

I’m a regional director for a national firm!”

“I don’t care if you’re the governor,” Wyatt said.

A customer who’d been standing two lanes over in the hardware line came around the magazine rack.

He was about fifty-five, in a worn canvas work jacket, with gray at his temples and a deep crease between his eyebrows.