Page 23 of Broken Ride

Law enforcement credentials. Not a private citizen. Not a stalker with a computer and too much free time. A cop.

"They're coming from a terminal in the Canadian County Sheriff's Office in El Reno, Oklahoma."

My fist closes on the table. The knuckles pop loud enough that Torres glances at my hand, then back at my face without comment.

The name is already forming in my head before she says it. Not because I know it. Because I know the shape of it: a deputy using official databases to hunt a woman who can't go to the police because the police is what she's running from.

"The deputy's name is Garrett Voss," Torres says.

The name lands like a boot heel on asphalt. Solid. Final.

"Married Delaney Ann Prescott." Torres watches my face when she says the name, registering whether I recognize it. I do. Laney. Delaney. "The marriage ended with a protection order that was vacated on appeal."

Vacated. A court looked at a woman's request for protection and took it away.

"Since then, Voss has used his law enforcement access to track her across multiple states. The searches aren't authorized. They're personal."

My hands flatten on the table. I need them pressed against something solid.

"The Oklahoma calls," I say.

"Likely his. Different burner phones, same area code. Classic harassment pattern. Enough contact to maintain psychological pressure, not enough to trigger a traceable threat."

"Does he know where she is?"

Torres meets my gaze. Her expression hasn't changed since she sat down, and I'm beginning to understand that it never does.

"The GPS coordinates confirm the phone was at the fairground when the photo was taken. The Oklahoma registration is suggestive. Once the carrier responds to the disclosure request, I'll know whether this phone has been tracking the circuit or whether yesterday was a one-time visit."

"Suggestive." The word tastes like ash.

"I know that's not what you want to hear. But until I can tie the prepaid account to Voss directly, I can't move on him. What I can tell you is that this deputy has been abusing his database access for over a year, and that pattern alone is enough for an internal affairs investigation. I've already flagged it with the Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation."

"OSBI takes months."

"It does." Torres closes the tablet. "Mr. Ashcroft. Your veterinarian is dealing with two separate threats. The Thornton investigation makes her a target for a criminal organization. Voss makes her a target for a man who carries a gun and has access to every law enforcement database in the country. Those are different problems that require different responses, and I'd strongly advise against trying to handle either of them yourself."

She lets that sit. I let it sit too, because the alternative is telling a federal agent that handling things myself is the only speed I've got, and I already know what she'd say.

"I need to talk to Dr. Brooks," Torres says. "Can you arrange that?"

"You can ask her yourself. I don't arrange conversations on her behalf."

The corner of Torres's mouth moves. Not a smile. The acknowledgment of a boundary she was testing. "Fair enough. Have her call me."

I drive back to the fairground with Garrett Voss's name sitting in my chest like a piece of hot shrapnel. The fury is still there, but it's changed shape. Less blind, more specific.

A deputy in Canadian County, Oklahoma. He married a woman named Delaney Ann Prescott. He hurt her badly enough that she changed her name and her entire life. She still can't stop flinching when an arm moves too close to her face.

The Oklahoma calls she won't answer. The nightly truck checks. The exit-facing parking, the surveillance photograph on her phone, every piece pointing back to a husband who won't let go.

She's fighting two wars. One she chose when she started pulling Thornton's records. One that followed her from Oklahoma and won't stop following until someone stops it.

My instinct is to get between her and both threats. To park myself outside her door and wait for Voss to show his face so I can introduce him to every year of damage that's been building in my shoulders and my back and my fists. The violence feels righteous. Necessary. The only language a man like Voss would understand.

Then I think about the flinch.

She didn't flinch at me. She flinched at unexpected movement. At the possibility of impact.