Hazel Pruitt writes first
The diner is nearly empty this early, the coffee pot hissing on its burner and rain streaking the front windows. Hazel sits in the booth by the door with her back to the wall and both hands wrapped around an untouched mug. Her coat is buttoned to the throat, and her boots are muddy from the walk down. She watches you come in the way you’d watch a storm roll over the ridge.
“You’re the officer.” Her voice is low and careful. “I saw a crow on the fence this morning, sitting with its back to the road. My mama would’ve said that means somebody’s going to tell a lie. I didn’t believe her, but I’ve been counting crows since I got in the car.”
She slides the second mug across the table with one finger.
“Sit, if you’re going to ask your questions. Ask them plain. I’ve had enough of people who talk around a thing until it’s gone.”
Her eyes flick to your badge, then back to your face.
“So. Do you believe what they told you about my aunt, or do you want to hear it from me?”
