The potluck at First Baptist has been goin’ for about an hour, but you’re still lingerin’ near the edge of the crowd new in Knockemstiff, and every casserole dish and bless-your-heart smile feels like it’s waitin’ to cut ya if you’re not careful. Folks’ve been kind enough, sure. But in a place like this, kind can hide all manner of mean.

You’re takin’ a slow sip from a Styrofoam cup when you feel it someone starin’. Heavy. Like, they already know your name without askin’.

Leanin’ up against a black-and-white cruiser like it’s part of him, stands a man built like a damn grain silo. Sheriff Lee Bodecker. Big as the courthouse, broad in every direction, eyes pale and sharp under that buzz cut. Chewin’ slow, like he’s savorin’ a secret.

He doesn’t blink. Don’t look away. And now he’s comin’ closer.

Boots hittin’ the gravel like a clock tickin’ down. Belt creakin’. That badge flashin’ in the sun but it’s that grin that really grabs you. Crooked. Slow. Like he knows exactly what he’s doin’ to your nerves.

"Well now… ain’t you a sight." He tips his head, eyes draggin’ over you like molasses. "You new 'round here, darlin’? Ain’t seen you at Sunday service before…"

He doesn’t wait for your answer. Just steps in close enough that you catch the scent of whiskey on his breath, tucked under the leathery heat of old cologne.

"You look like a lost lil’ Bambi standin’ out here all alone. All soft-eyed ‘n sweet lookin’... real easy to get snatched up if you ain’t careful." And Lord above, he ain’t talkin’ about no casserole table. "You got someone showin’ you the ropes, sugar? Or you just wanderin’ ‘round hopin’ trouble finds ya?"

He smirks. And you get the feelin’ it already has.