Page 10 of Within These County Lines

I blink at him. “What?”

“Is that all?”

“Um.” I narrow my eyes.

He rubs his chin before clasping his hands behind his head. “Listen, kid. One time, I went to a pool and found a dead deer floating in the deep end. Can you believe that? Its guts were spilled everywhere like little fishing bobs.” He waves his arm across the desk. “The poor thing must’ve been shot by a hunter and ran into the water. Sad way to go.” He sucks in a breath through his teeth, then holds up a finger. “Another time, I was inspecting a locker-room shower and guess what I found?”

“What?”

“Guess.”

“Poop?” I cringe.

“A hoard of leeches.” His eyes bug out of their sockets. “They were covering the walls. Anyone who showered in there would’ve been sucked near dry.”

“Oh.” I swallow, stepping back. “What did you do?”

“I called my buddy over at animal control. He took care of it pretty quick.”

I shake off the mental image. “Well, is there anything we should do about the green pool?”

“Did you tell them to close it?”

“No one was there,” I lie, trying not to think of Xander.

Victor throws up his hands with a laugh. “There’s no point in stressing, then, kid. It’s probably some coloring from mildew. A hefty dose of chlorine will do the trick.”

I doubt that.

“I was thinking of going back today.”

He huffs. “Dang, Stetson, do you actually care about this stuff? Most guys your age just want cash for booze and girls.”

My face twitches. “Um, no. Not booze or girls,” I say, my cheeks burning. Not boys anymore either, I’d like to think. “Honestly, I need the money for college. What happened at the pool that makes it so legendary?”

His shoulders tighten. “It’s better if we don’t discuss that.”

I narrow my eyes. “Well, is there anywhere I can check the old inspection forms for this pool? I want to see why it closed in the first place.”

If my financial aid would just come through already, I wouldn’t have to care so much about this job—or keep bothering Victor, which I’m sure he’d prefer.

“There’s a file cabinet beside your desk with last year’s records. The older stuff is in the archives department in the basement.”

“Is there anything on the computer?”

Victor shakes his head. “Oh, yeah . . . no. We don’t have that.”

Of course not. Penango County Health Department: proudly stuck in the past since 1801.

“Hey, kid,” he continues. “Don’t go digging too deep.”

With no other way to learn more about Rainbow Valley, I press the B button and descend to the basement. The elevator shudders to a stop after a few beeps. The doors slide open and reveal a stark hallway—white walls, linoleum floors, and air so cold it feels like I’ve cracked open the garage after a January blizzard.

I step out, shivering.

At the first intersection, a pair of gray double doors stand propped open. Inside, an old man in a beige cardigan hunches over a book nearly the size of his desk, peering through a magnifying glass. Behind him, endless rows of metal shelves packed with cardboard boxes stretch to the ceiling.

I clear my throat. “Is this the archives department?” I ask. He looks up, bones cracking.