It was hauling hay. Large, round bales sat heavy on the trailer, secured with bright yellow ratchet straps that crisscrossed the golden cargo. Miller watched it approach.
To anyone else, it was just a farmer moving feed. But Miller’s eyes didn’t look at the truck; they looked at the physics. As the truck passed his position, traveling at exactly the speed limit—55 miles per hour, not a mile over, not a mile under—Miller noticed the tires.
The rear tires of the pickup were squashed, the sidewalls bulging slightly under a heavy load. Hay was heavy, sure, but round bales were mostly air and dried grass. Four bales on a dual-axle trailer shouldn’t make a heavy-duty truck squat like that.
«Too heavy, Duke?» Miller murmured, shifting the gear lever into drive. «Way too heavy.»
He didn’t light it up immediately. That was a rookie move. You didn’t start the stop until you had read the behavior.
Miller pulled out onto the highway, keeping a distance of four car lengths. He watched the Ford. The driver was maintaining his lane with rigid discipline, almost mechanical.
Most people, when they see a cop in the rearview mirror, tap the brakes or drift slightly as they check their mirrors. This driver did neither. He was locked forward, staring at the road, pretending the sheriff’s cruiser behind him didn’t exist.
That was a tell. It was the «ostrich effect.» If I don’t look at him, he can’t see me.
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