That habit had begun long before voters placed a sheriff's star beside her name. She had spent 14 years working road patrol, teaching recruits that memory was not evidence until it was preserved and tested. At home, the same habit irritated Jordan, who said her mother could turn a grocery receipt into a case file.
The thought of her daughter sharpened the ache behind Camille's eyes. Jordan had stood in their garage that morning, tightening the strap on Camille's helmet while pretending not to worry about the dark clouds gathering west of Asheford County. At 19, she had inherited Camille's stubbornness and none of her patience for institutional excuses.
"You could take the SUV like a normal sheriff," Jordan had said.
"A normal sheriff doesn't promise a motorcycle safety class and arrive in a government truck."
Camille had spent the morning showing new riders how to brake through a curve without staring at the obstacle they feared. Afterward, she had taken Harbor Ridge Boulevard toward the county emergency operations center. Severe storms were expected by evening, and municipal chiefs were waiting for her to approve the mutual aid deployment plan.
Now, her county radio rested in Pike's hand outside the cruiser.
Van finally returned. Before getting behind the wheel, he opened Camille's door and reached across her carefully enough to avoid the burned arm. He fastened the seat belt, then checked the cuffs.
"They're too tight," she said.
His thumb paused over the ratchet. "I can loosen the right one."
"Document the injury first, then request a supervisor and EMS over recorded radio."
Van looked toward Pike. "We can do that at the station."
"Heat injuries worsen under leather. You know that."
He loosened the cuff by one notch, but did not call anyone.
Pike climbed into the passenger seat, carrying Camille's radio and helmet. He had also removed the leather credential case from her jacket. He opened it, studied the gold sheriff's star and photo identification, then held it up for Van.
"Professional counterfeit," Pike said. "Add it to the property."
"The expiration and county seal are right," Van replied.
"Drive."