Victoria felt the cold plastic loop around her left wrist, then her right.
Miller pulled the tab, the sharp clicking sound filling the space between the two vehicles.
He yanked the plastic band tighter than necessary, digging the sharp edges into her skin.
“That is too tight,” Victoria said, keeping her voice level.
“It is standard,” Miller said, though he kept his eyes on her shoes rather than her face.
“Check her pockets,” Vance said, stepping back to wipe his brow with the back of his hand.
“There is nothing in my pockets but my identification,” Victoria said.
Vance leaned against her car, his hand resting on his leather holster as he stared down Route Nine.
“We will be the judge of what you have on you,” Vance said.
“Under state law, you are required to state the reason for this detention,” Victoria said.
Vance looked at Miller and nodded toward the patrol car parked ten feet behind her sedan.
“Get her in the back,” Vance said.
Miller took her by the elbow, his grip tight enough to leave bruises through her shirt.
He led her across the rough gravel toward the rear door of the cruiser.
Victoria looked back at her own vehicle, noting the angle of the front tires and the blue folder on the passenger seat.
Miller opened the rear door of the patrol cruiser and guided her head down so she would not hit the frame.
The back seat was hard plastic, smelling of old vinyl and damp pine needles.
She slid across the seat, her hands pinned awkwardly behind her lower back.
The door closed with a heavy thud, leaving her in the quiet of the caged compartment.
Vance climbed into the driver seat a moment later, the springs of the Ford crown victoria groaning under his weight.
He adjusted the rearview mirror so he could lock eyes with her in the back.
