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Sanders hung up his cellphone and tossed it onto his desk. He deserved more respect. He shouldn’t have to put up with orders barked by Frank Lang. The pissant wouldn’t have been Hayeston’s City Manager if he hadn’t slept with the governor’s sister.

Sanders was his own man now. When they told him to jump, he told them to fuck off. He worked when he wanted to work, which wasn’t often, but on his own terms.

When he was a cop and after he’d retired, he’d dealt with the town’s judgmental stares and unfounded accusations. He was getting too old to put up with that shit.

Everyone thought they knew him. They thought the way he acted as a cop was who he really was. They were wrong. All of them. The reporters. The mayor. Lang. The townsfolk. His wife. His daughters.

They were all wrong.

The only person who really understood him was his son, Tobin. He got it. He saw what most dismissed, the hard work and sacrifice that was required to be great.

Sanders had grown tired of people looking at his actions years earlier without leaving their modern sensibilities behind. Things were different back then. People were different.

Who he was then wasn’t who he was now.

But that didn’t mean he regretted anything. That wasn’t his style. Regrets were for the weak of character. People make mistakes. It happens. Some things worked out in life, some didn’t. Friendships. Marriages. Careers. Things came and went.

In his heyday, the world used to be simple. Male and female. Black and white. Cops and convicts. Now, every- thing was up for grabs. Nut jobs making up genders, everyone worried about feelings.

Why should he care? No one gave a shit about his feelings. Not now. Not back then.

But he dealt with it. It was called being a man. Sucking it up. Doing your job and going home, even when the job meant dealing with scumbags everyone wished didn’t exist.

No one complained when he did what they wanted. They should keep their traps shut when he did what was needed.

Sanders was a good detective, back in the day. No, a great one. He still is, even now, without the badge. A public servant this shitty town should treat better. Honor him with more than a jail cell named for him. Something more permanent, where people could see his success, not just the lowlifes who sat in Grace Chapel before being transferred to the county prison.

Something like a plaque. No, better yet, a statue. One of Sanders when he was young and handsome, driven to rid the streets of shit balls that clogged up the system.

He could hear the joy in Lang’s voice when he tried to pull Sanders’ strings. Punks like him liked power. Compensated for their small dicks.

No matter. He didn’t need to play their game. Not anymore. He solved his cases. He put away Hayeston’s serial killer. He had no interest in arresting another one.

Someone else could do that, if they were able.

He doubted anyone in this town was up to the task.

There was only one Sanders Grace. He’d fought the good fight and won. He’d grabbed life by the balls and squeezed.

He had nothing left to prove. Nothing.

He stared at the cellphone atop his desk and grimaced. The bastards knew when he was down. Saw his vulnerabilities and jumped at the chance to order him around one more time.

If it were just him, he’d tell them to bite his left nut. But he had Tobin to think about. His son was nearly a man. These were important times. The years that molded a son’s opinion of his father.

Sanders would swallow his pride and wouldn’t tell Tobin why. He’d smile through the shame. He’d play the part one last time.

For his son.

He picked up his cell and dialed.

“Fine, Lang, you dog humper,” Sanders said. “ What do you want me to do?”