"She can be cleared here."
"Not by me."
Pike's jaw tightened, but he stepped aside. One paramedic checked Camille's pupils while the other placed gauze loosely around her forearm. The simple act of being addressed as a patient instead of a suspect nearly broke the control she had held since the roadside.
"Can you contact family?" the paramedic asked.
"They get one call after prints," Pike said.
Camille looked at the booking officer. "Your policy allows a medical detainee to notify an emergency contact before transport."
The officer glanced toward a laminated procedure card beside the telephone. Pike noticed too late.
Five minutes later, Camille heard Jordan answer on the second ring.
"Mom?" Her voice was already shaking. "There's a video. They have you on the ground. People are saying you stole the bike."
Camille closed her eyes. She had wanted to reach her daughter before a stranger's camera did. "I'm alive. My arm is burned, and they're taking me to Harbor Ridge Medical."
"Why didn't you call your deputies?"
"There were two nervous officers with guns out and civilians standing behind them."
"So you protected everyone except yourself."
The words landed harder because they were not entirely wrong. Camille had built her administration around restraint. The sheriff's office she inherited had treated authority like a personal possession, and she had promised Asheford County that her badge would never place her above verification. But somewhere along the way, restraint had become her answer to every injury, including the ones her daughter had to watch.
"Jordan, listen carefully. Go to the gas station on Harbor Ridge Boulevard. Ask the manager to preserve every exterior camera from today. Do not confront the officers or the tow company. Get the manager's name, write down the request, and leave."
Jordan went silent. "You're giving me an assignment."