The young deputy sat in the passenger seat holding my purse in his lap. His name tag said MILLER. He looked no older than twenty-five. He repeatedly glanced back, visibly wanting to speak but afraid.
“Run her name when we get in,” Voss told him. “And find out what she was doing in my county.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Probably casing the pharmacy,” Voss said to nobody in particular. “Pruitt’s got opioids in there. I’ve seen her type.”
My so-called type.
I watched parched fields and kudzu-covered pines, breathing in and out
