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That lasted about five minutes. I hated talking to strangers, and that was really the best case scenario. It was the non-strangers, the familiar faces from my childhood, that I really couldn’t stand.
I ran into one of the police officers, Mandy’s father, the sheriff, in fact, almost right off the bat.
I detested him. He’d helped to plant my distrust in cops, which I felt had been to my detriment. Who could you turn to if not the police?
I smiled at him, not letting an iota of my animosity show. I really couldn’t afford to have him notice me overmuch.
As I’ve said, I have a very healthy fear of cops.
“Hello, Harold,” I said.
His beady eyes narrowed on me, the fleshy folds of his face nearly swallowing them up. He’d been overweight since I could remember, but he’d really let himself go since the last time I’d seen him.
He studied me for a few moments, trying to place me. He scratched his bushy mustache as he said, “Do I know you?”
Typical. His daughter had tormented me for years, he had covered for her, and he didn’t even remember.
“Scarlett Theroux. I went to school with your daughter Mandy.”
Ah, that got him.
He fingered his jowly beard, eyes running over me. “Well, you look like you landed on your feet. How ‘bout that?”
I didn’t know about that, but I was hardly going to argue with him. “How ‘bout it,” I drawled wryly.
“Have you, erm, caught up with my daughter? I remember you guys were friends.”
I almost laughed. “Yes, we caught up in the kitchen. She hasn’t changed a bit. It’s like she’s caught in a time machine.”
His uncomfortable smile faltered. He cleared his throat. “So, um, how’s your dad doing? He hasn’t given us any trouble for a while. That has to be a good sign.”
My own smile faltered. “There’s absolutely no proof that Jethro Davis is my father.”
“Well, the man himself claims he is. No one else is claiming it, so I’d say that’s some proof.”
“Do you usually take the claims of known criminals as proof? Is that how police work is done around here?”
Dammit, I’d riled him. In all fairness, he’d riled me first.
He pulled at his ill-fitted suit collar, eyes darting away from me, face flushed and angry. “Excuse me,” he said gruffly, “I see someone I know,” and ambled off.
Mingling: 1
Scarlett: 0
And it only went downhill from there.
My next victim was someone I thought was a stranger at first.
He was a short, portly guy, around my age. He shuffled up to me looking nervous as hell, and my first impression was that he seemed kind of sweet.
“Um, hi,” he said, looking down at his feet. “I saw you in that lotion commercial. It was—you were—you did a really good job.”
I smiled at him. “Thank you. That’s a nice thing to say.”
He finally looked up at me, flushed, and looked back down at his feet. “Do you, um, remember me?”
I studied him. Nothing about him was familiar to me, but I’d lived here from birth to adulthood, so there were plenty of vague faces I’d forgotten. “I don’t, I’m sorry. Do we know each other?”
