Page 13 of Within These County Lines

Farther down, the old shed’s doors are back on their hinges, securely shut. The faded Pinehurst block lettering is now covered by a vibrant sign: Rainbow Valley Swim Club. The mildew-stained umbrellas and broken chairs are gone too.

A woman in her thirties or forties scrubs the pool deck with a broom, her black Pittsburgh Steelers hat pulled low over her face.

My tires crunch over the gravel as I come to a stop. She straightens, gripping the broom, and narrows her eyes on me. I tuck my clipboard under my arm, grab my inspection kit, and step out of the truck, straight into a swarm of gnats. They smack against my face, buzzing in protest.

Before I introduce myself, my gaze shifts to the lounge chairs beside the pool. Empty. No books, candy, or soda.

No sign of Xander Pomers.

“Can I help you?” the woman asks.

“Yes,” I say, clearing my throat. “Hi. My name is Stetson Delancey and I’m from the Penango County Health Department. I’ve called a few times.”

Her eyes go wide.

“It’s nothing bad,” I say, walking toward her. “I have to do a standard pool inspection before you can open . . . for safety and stuff. Although it looks like you’ve cleaned the place up a bit since the last time I was here.”

She grins and throws her arms wide like she’s expecting a hug. “You’re the pool guy!”

Before I can respond, she tilts her head back and calls to the sky, “Honey! The pool guy is here.”

I clutch my clipboard to my chest. When a Penango woman summons her honey, it’s usually for the purposes of getting the worst man you’ve never met to do their dirty work. I prepare myself for a scolding, evil eye, or lecture on county government overreach.

From the woods, another woman appears, balancing a stack of orange plastic buckets in her arms. She’s dressed in denim overalls and thick garden gloves.

“Hey there,” she says, coolly. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

A breath of relief escapes me. Oh. Honey as in . . . wife?

Finally—normal people.

“Sorry.” I smile. “We got a call only the other day that you were opening.”

“We’re excited to get the pool ready for the kids,” the woman with the overalls says, placing a hand on the other woman’s shoulder. “It’s been for sale for a while. We’re taking it over and making it a camp for queer kids from southwest Pennsylvania. The first busload of campers is set to come in early July.”

It’s ninety degrees, but a chill creeps over my skin, raising goosebumps. My mind loops through everything that happened here the night Xander went missing, back when this place was still called Pinehurst Swim Club. Or rather, everything I don’t know about that night. The shadows beneath the trees seem to stretch into something darker. I steal a glance over my shoulder just to make sure my truck is still there.

“What do you think of the name?” the woman with the broom says. “I’m Sheryl, by the way. And this is Kim.”

I shrug. “I like it. There’s not much around here that is . . .”

“So gay,” Kim finishes with a smirk.

I laugh. “Yeah, I guess. The more rainbow the better. I wish there was more when I was growing up.”

They exchange a look, their lips parting slightly, like they’re about to ask something obvious.

“I’m gay,” I say, answering for them.

Kim’s face softens. “That’s great. We’re together and grew up here too, so we know how hard it can be.” She bends slightly, meeting my eyes. “You’re very brave. Maybe you can hang out this summer when the campers arrive.”

I blush. “Yeah, that could be fun. As long as everything checks out with my inspection.”

They laugh, even though it wasn’t a joke. But I’m not here to make friends. I just want to finish my job, make as much money as I can, and get out of this town without losing my mind.

Sheryl’s expression shifts, her brow furrowing. “I don’t know how much county history you know,” she says.

I know some. I wish I didn’t.