"Now will you run her name?"
He stared at me for a moment, then pulled out his radio.
He spoke in a low voice, requesting a records check for June Calloway, age six, and Elena Calloway, believed to be her mother. When he finished, he waited.
The reply took less than a minute.
I watched his face.
At first, there was impatience. Then concentration. Then something I couldn't quite name.
He glanced at Ray.
Ray stared back.
Pike turned away from him.
"Dispatch is checking another system," he said.
"Which system?" I asked.
He looked at me as though he had forgotten I was standing there.
"That's not your concern."
The radio crackled again.
Pike listened.
His posture stiffened.
He asked the dispatcher to repeat the information. Then he took several steps away from the tables, speaking in a voice too low for the rest of us to hear.
When he returned, his face had become professionally blank.
"There's no active local alert under that name."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
"No local alert?"
"That's correct."
"Then check state and federal databases."
"We're doing what we need to do."
Ray's breathing slowed.
June, however, was staring at Deputy Pike with an expression of growing despair.
She had reached for help twice in less than an hour, and twice the adults had appeared ready to send her back to the person she feared.
I crouched beside her.
"June, look at me."
Her eyes rose to mine.
"Whatever happens next, I want you to understand something. You haven't done anything wrong."
She swallowed.
"He's going to be angry."
"I know."
"He said it would be worse if I told."
A cold weight settled in my stomach.
"Did he hurt you?"
She looked down at her mismatched shoes.
"He hurt Mommy."
Ray took a sudden step toward her.
Pike grabbed his arm.
"Stay where you are."
For one instant, Ray looked ready to attack the deputy. Then he noticed the second officer standing near the entrance and backed away.
Nora quietly brought June a glass of water.
The girl stared at it.
"You can drink it," Nora said. "It's yours."
June picked up the glass with both hands. She took a small sip, then another.
It was such an ordinary thing that it nearly broke my heart.
A child shouldn't have to wonder whether she was allowed to drink a glass of water.
I looked toward the windows.
The black pickup was gone.
But I noticed something else outside: a man standing near the far end of the parking lot beside a row of motorcycles. He wore a dark baseball cap and sunglasses, and he appeared to be talking on his phone.
When he noticed me looking, he turned away.
I watched him walk toward the highway.
He didn't hurry.
He didn't look back.
Still, there was something familiar about the way he moved, as though he had expected everything inside the diner to proceed according to a plan and was now considering what to do because it hadn't.
I pointed him out to Cole.
Cole stepped toward the window.
"That's the guy who was in the pickup?"
"I think so."
"You want me to take a look?"
"No. Stay here."
He nodded, though I could tell he disliked the instruction.
I returned my attention to Pike.
"I want a supervisor here."
The deputy's face hardened.
"You don't get to dictate my response."
"No. But I'm allowed to ask why a child has told you her mother was hurt and you still haven't separated her from the man she says took her."
Pike moved closer to me.
"Mr. Rourke, your involvement is becoming a problem."
"Then stop making my involvement necessary."
For several seconds, we stared at each other.
I saw the decision forming behind his eyes. He could continue pretending this was a misunderstanding, or he could acknowledge that something serious had happened. Either option would cost him something.
His gaze flicked toward June.
Then toward Ray.
Finally, his hand settled on the radio clipped to his shoulder.
"I'm requesting a supervisor," he said.
It was a small victory, but it was a victory.
Ray looked furious.
June looked as though she didn't dare hope.
A few minutes later, a second patrol officer entered the diner. She was older than Pike, with dark hair pulled into a tight bun and a face lined by years in the sun. Her nameplate read SERGEANT MORALES.
She listened as Pike explained the situation.
Then she looked at Ray.
"Sir, I need you to come outside with me."
Ray's mouth tightened.
"Why?"
"Because I asked you to."
He glanced at the entrance, then at the windows.
For one moment, his gaze landed on June.
The little girl raised her head.
And despite the fear still etched into her face, she spoke clearly enough for everyone to hear.
"His name isn't Ray."
The sergeant stopped.
"What is his name, sweetheart?"
June stared at the man.
"Dale."
Ray closed his eyes.
Just for a second.
But it was the first honest reaction he had shown since entering the diner.
Sergeant Morales turned toward him.
"Mr. Dale, we'll need to talk."
The stranger didn't answer.
I looked at June and felt a chill move through me that had nothing to do with the desert wind.
She had known his real name all along.