Spine leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, sunglasses pushed up on her head like she was about to grade someone’s homework.

SR sat at the head of the table, quiet as a loaded question.

Bucky sat there sweating through his badge, pencil hovering like it might save him.

Spine tapped the Lula‑Law paper with one finger.

“I got one question,” she said, voice calm as a Sunday morning.

“Is Earl your deputy… or did he get that uniform at the flea market?”

Bucky’s eyes went wide.

His soul briefly left his body and hovered over the table like steam.

Before he could answer, Spine added — deadpan, surgical:

“’Cause from where I’m standing, one might think he works for Lula.”

SR choked on his coffee.

Turned his head.

Pretended to cough.

Failed.

Bucky blinked hard, like he was rebooting.

“Ma’am… he’s technically a deputy.”

SR wiped his mouth, set his mug down, and said:

“Technically means he passed a background check and Lula hasn’t fired him yet.”

Spine didn’t smile.

She didn’t need to.

The truth was sitting in the room like a fourth chair.