“Sheriff, to the best of my knowledge, I have only been on Doris McKinnon’s land and on my own property. I did not cross that fence, the only one I’ve seen marked as Sea-2-Sea land.” I pointed toward the fence on the south side of the silo.

“Your property? What the hell are you talking about?”

I smiled blandly. “I’m a citizen and a taxpayer, and that enclosure is labeled property of the air force, which is part of the U.S. government. Which means I own a one-three-hundred-millionth share in it.”

“Like fuck you do. Like fuck you do.” He swung open the door to the squad car.

If he was going to arrest me or beat me up, I wished I’d had time to change out of my wet socks and mud-laden shoes. My feet were acutely uncomfortable. My options were limited: If I took off, he’d flag me down. If I stayed, I was a sitting duck. If I reached for my phone to call Luella Baumgart-Grams, the Kansas City lawyer, Gisborne would enjoy shooting me, with the righteous claim that he thought I was pulling a gun.

I kept my hands on the steering wheel, looking grimly ahead. Another cloud of dust was rolling toward us. Reinforcements. Great.

The car rolled to a stop behind Gisborne; the dust settled. It was a dark SUV, not a squad car. Squinting in my side mirror, I couldn’t see the emblem, couldn’t tell if it was a Buick or some other make, but when the door opened, I knew the driver: Colonel Baggetto, back in military dress. The ribbons and medals on his left breast would have sprained a weaker man’s traps.

When Gisborne turned to look at him, I took my hands from the steering wheel. My fingers were stiff—fear making me clench my muscles—and it was hard for me to open the car door.

“Colonel Baggetto—I thought you were addressing KU’s soldiers-in-training today.” I’m always grateful when my voice is steady at times like this, my mother’s vocal lessons paying off.

“We finished about an hour ago. I was on my way back to the fort when I heard there was some kind of fracas at the silo.” He smiled easily at the sheriff and me.

“It’s posted U.S. Air Force. I thought you were army,” I said.

“Nearest air base is a hundred and eighty miles away. Someone called someone who knew someone who knew I was in the area, asked me to check on it for them.”

“It’s under control,” the sheriff said. “You don’t need to stick around.”

“What happened?” Baggetto asked him. “Don’t tell me Warshawski vandalized the silo—it was decommissioned decades ago, and I’d think she’d have better things to do with her time than spray-paint old concrete.”