She liked that nobody knew about the little brass key sewn beneath the lining.
Nobody except her mother.
And her mother had been dead for seven years.
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“Go on,” Sheriff Mercer said, tapping the toe of his polished boot against the wet sidewalk. “Private property. You’ve been warned.”
Behind him stood Buck Harlan, Lily’s stepfather, with his thumbs hooked in his belt and his silver belt buckle shining under the streetlight.
Buck owned the feed store.
Buck chaired the county land board.
Buck bought coffee for deputies every Friday
