And on the rear bumper, half hidden by grime, a small sticker, Rididgewood Security Services. That night, I called the county sheriff’s office, described what I’d seen. The cars, the uniforms, the claims of authority, asked if there was an operation in my area. I didn’t know about. The dispatcher put me on hold for 3 minutes.
When she came back, her voice was careful. Mr. Dawson, we have no units assigned to your location. No service calls to your address in 8 months. I asked about the light bar, the uniforms. She paused. That doesn’t match any of our vehicles. Did they actually say they were deputies? I thought back. They’d said authority. Said official business, but not police, not sheriff.
They’d let me assume, and I had. I hung up and looked at the ruts scarred across my pasture. If they weren’t law enforcement, who were they? And if this was Harmon’s doing, what exactly was he willing to do next the next morning? I did what I’ve always done when something’s bothering me. I drove up to the hill where Helen is buried and sat with her.
The headstone is simple, just her name, the dates, and beloved wife underneath. She would have hated anything fancy. I told her what was happening. the cars, the fake uniforms, the way they’d said my name like they already owned me. I don’t know if she can hear me. I don’t know if anyone hears anything after they’re gone. But talking to her helps me think.
Always has. She was the smart one in our marriage. I was just the one stubborn enough to keep working until the problem solved themselves. But this problem wasn’t going to solve itself. And sitting there on that hill, looking out at the land we’d built our life on, I realized I had a choice to make. You’re probably wondering why I don’t just take the money and leave. $4.
