Content Warning: references to domestic violence and abuse.
Martha set the broom down on the front porch and walked out to meet the sheriff. Her loose hair was sure to cause a scandal, but there were worse things people could talk about.
“Mrs. Turner.” The sheriff hitched his pants and nodded at her. “Your husband home?”
The sheriff was always polite, even when doing dirty business.
“Haven’t seen him in a while, Sheriff.” She avoided the sodden boots draped over the fence post as she walked through the gate. “What’s he done now.”
“He do that to you?” he asked.
“Don’t matter none.” All the hair in the world couldn’t hide the hurtin’ he’d laid on her this time. “It’s my duty.”
“It ain’t your duty to get beat, Mrs. Turner.” The sheriff took his hat off and wiped his forehead on his sleeve. “Ain’t nobody’s duty for that.”
Martha felt a smile curl the side of her mouth she could still feel. “Tell that to the preacher and my daddy.”
She swept her hair back from her face, damn what the sheriff saw, or the town folk said. “Little Johnny ran past earlier, said my husband went and killed a baby. That so?”
“You know where’s he’s at?”
“Johnny said the kid wasn’t much more than fourteen.”
“Eleven.” The sheriff stared at the ground, then at Martha. “He’s coming with me this time Martha.”
“No he ain’t Sheriff.” Martha turned, nodded at the bloody boots. “I’ll take a beatin’ any day, but I don’t cotton to killin’ children.”