She put the car in park. Rolled down her window. Waited with her hands visible on the wheel, the way she always told people to do, the way that kept things calm.
Two officers stepped out of the patrol car. The first was big — tall, thick through the shoulders, with a face that looked like it hadn’t smiled in years.
He walked toward her window with the loose, rolling swagger of a man who liked being the one people were afraid of. The second one hung back a few steps, arms crossed, eyes narrow, studying her through the glass like he was deciding something.
“Documents,” the first one said. Not a greeting. Not even really a request.
Victoria reached into the glove box without hurry and handed over her license and registration. She kept her voice even.
“Good evening. Is there a problem, officer?”
He didn’t answer her. He flipped through her papers slowly, turning them over, checking them against nothing in particular. He walked a slow circle around her car, running his eyes over the tires, the plates, the windshield. He came back to her window and just stood there a moment, papers in hand, saying nothing.
