Joey squared his shoulders. "I'm handling family business."
Randall snorted. "That's what your daddy used to say right before he'd get himself arrested for a fourth time."
Joey reddened, eyes flashing. "Don't talk about him."
"I'll talk about whatever I damn well please," Randall said, barely raising his voice. "You're standing on someone else's land. You're yelling. You're threatening. And you're too stupid to realize the sheriff already knows you're involved."
"The sheriff doesn't know anything," Joey shot back.
"Oh, he knows plenty," Randall said. "He talked to me this morning. Seems your sister's story didn't hold up too well."
I watched Joey's shoulders stiffen like a bull preparing to charge. For a second, I thought this was about to turn into a full physical confrontation. My hand hovered near my pocket, not for a weapon, but to be ready to call the sheriff again.
Then Randall stepped up next to me—not shielding me, not confronting Joey directly, just standing there firm, unmoving, a wall.
"You can do one of two things," Randall said calmly. "Walk back to that rusty truck of yours and leave. Or you can stand here and give this man every reason in the world to bury you in charges."
"I don't give a damn about charges," Joey growled.
"Then think about Karen," Randall said. "Because everything you say right now, it's going to make her case worse. Much worse."
Something flickered again in Joey's eyes: confusion mixed with reluctant self-preservation.
"She's already in deep," Randall continued. "And you blowing up at her victim isn't going to help. You want to protect your sister? Walk away."
The wind blew through the trees, carrying the scent of wet pine. Joey stood there breathing hard, chest heaving, fists clenched. He looked from Randall to me to the phone still recording. Finally, he spat into the dirt.
"Fine," he muttered. "लेकिन this isn't the end."