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I loved my job, but damn…some days were better than others.
After I took a couple of pills, I went back out to my office. I stopped short when I saw Shelly sitting in my chair behind my desk. Her elbow rested on my desk, and she frantically scribbled notes on a pad in front of her. As I walked closer, she got to her feet, shook the woman’s hand, and led her with a gentle hand on the woman’s elbow toward the door. She closed it behind the woman and froze when I spoke.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I didn’t pick the lock,” she said, turning to face me. “The door was open.” She glanced down at her watch. “I came during regular business hours.”
Her blue eyes met mine and my mind went instantly blank. There was nothing in my head aside from the blue of her eyes.
“Clark?” she prompted. She tilted her head to the side. “Are you all right?”
I gave up and sat down, then lowered my head so that each temple rested on each of my palms. I said nothing and just took a few deep breaths.
“Clark?” she said again.
Finally, I let my arms drop and lifted my head. “Yes, Shelly.”
“Are you all right?” She stepped closer toward me. She was wearing those ridiculous high heels, a pencil skirt, and a button-down blouse that was almost the same color as her light-pink lips.
I heaved a sigh. “I’m fine.”
“Headache?” she asked.
Yes, one that was about five-six, blond hair, and bright blue eyes. “I’m fine.”
“Did you take something?”
“Yes.” I looked down at the notes that Shelly had scribbled.
She’s a fucking liar.
Her son is guilty.
He killed her and tossed her body into the dumpster like garbage.
He’s garbage, and someone should find him, choke him to death, and dump his body in the same fucking dumpster.
“Did she tell you all this?” I asked.
She rocked her head from side to side. “More or less.”
“What exactly did she tell you?”
“Oh,” she chirped as she crossed the room and set her purse on the floor by my desk, “she told me that he’s a good boy, that he’s never been in any trouble, except for that one time another girl he was dating disappeared. The mother told me that the son was with her the night that girl had been killed.”
Shelly lifted her slim arms, rolled her hair into a bun, leaned over my desk, opened my drawer, and retrieved a pencil. She stuck it into the bun. Then she leaned back over the desk and shut my drawer. And I could see down her shirt all the while. Jesus. I was in trouble.
“In other words,” she said, “she fucking lied through her teeth. He’s guilty. She’s guilty for wanting to protect him. And there’s more than one dead girl out there. There will be more unless someone catches him.”
“What makes you feel this way?”
“I have an excellent bullshit meter.” She shrugged. She walked into the kitchenette and busied herself doing something. A few minutes later, she came back with a cup of coffee. “Black,” she said, as she set it in
front of me.
I stared down at it. “No thank you.”
“Caffeine helps when you have a bad headache.”
