I handed him my phone. He studied the image, frowning as if memorizing every pixel.
"That's taken from the old game trail," he muttered. "Half-mile loop behind your property. Only folks who know the ridge use it."
"Which means Joey," I said.
"Or Karen," he added. "Don't underestimate her. She's crazy, but she's crafty."
I nodded. "What do you think they're planning?"
"Nothing good." He sank onto one of my chairs. "But I'll tell you this: people like them push as far as they think they can get away with. Once someone pushes back harder, they fold."
"And how do we push back harder?" I asked.
"By making sure the law has everything—every message, every threat, every photo—and by making it damn clear that their bullying won't work."
I sat across from him. "Detective Harris has the footage and the message. You think that'll be enough?"
"It'll be enough to start something real," Randall said. "Enough that the next time they try anything, the sheriff won't be asking questions. He'll be putting cuffs on someone."
I exhaled slowly. "Good."
We sat in silence for a minute, each of us listening to the distant patter of rain on the roof. Then Randall looked at me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Why are you fighting so hard?"