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“Wow, what an asshole.”
“You’re telling me. So I thought I’d go give his description to the sheriff. In case he tries it with anyone else, you know?”
“While you’re there, you could do the thing we’ve been talking about.”
I roll my eyes, looking up at the sky. “Come on, Maisie. We talked about this. There’s no point.”
“Don’t you want to know?”
“Of course I want to know but how is anything going to have changed since the last time I asked?”
“Lots of things have changed. Everything’s been computerized. There might be some new file out there he can find. Or someone added to the DNA database somewhere. I don’t know. It’s got to be worth a punt, surely?”
“All right, but I’m only going to be disappointed when he finds zip again.”
“We’ll see. Oh, shit, a load of people just came in. I better go. Let me know how it goes when you get in?”
“Of course.”
She hangs up. I gather up the last of my trash and get rid of it before getting back to work.
It’s a quiet afternoon. No Russian terrorists. No thieves. Just a couple insisting they can return a half-used bag of fertilizer. I do my best to smile and nod along with their complaints, all the while wishing I could dump their heads into the bag until the shit’s literally coming out of their ears.
When I’m finally done for the day, I say goodnight to Zeke before heading for the sheriff’s station. “Be careful,” he says. “Dangerous out there. Supposed to be a storm tonight.”
“Gotcha,” I call back.
He’s right. The wind has picked up and the beautiful drifting blossom has become a whirlwind. Another couple of hours of this and the trees will be bare.
I have to lean into the wind as I make my way into the town center. The sheriff’s station is set back from the sidewalk in a red brick building. I still remember the meetings in there, discussing my future like I wasn’t even there. Lots of words I didn’t understand but it worked out okay.
The sheriff wasn’t happy with letting Maisie’s family take custody of me but he got talked into it. Maisie’s dad wouldn’t take no for an answer. Said it would save everyone the paperwork of formal adoption or fostering. There are a lot of times I wish I had his backbone.
If I was in a big city like Chicago, I’d probably have ended up in some Victorian orphanage breaking rocks all day long for a gruel-based supper, forever wanting more. But then I’d have ended up working for a surprisingly racist Jewish stereotype in London with a penchant for musical numbers about picking pockets so it wouldn’t have been all bad.
And just like that, I’m thinking of that guy trying to rob me again, the burning darkness of his eyes, the way he looked at me like I belonged to him like he could do whatever he wanted to me. I hated that look. Wanted to slap it off his face.
I head up the ramp and in through the glass door. Inside there are a couple of desks, the reception counter, and out of sight, the holding cells down the corridor at the back. Cynthia is on the phone to someone and the sheriff has got his back to me, talking to a man I can’t see from here. All the deputies are staring at the man, saying nothing, looking petrified, like he’s told them he’s carrying a bomb and it’s about to go off.
I hit the bell on the counter. The sheriff turns to look at me and so does his companion. It’s the guy who tried to steal my purse. I recognize the face at once and my ovaries do a little twirl. There’s a giddy little shudder in the pit of my stomach before I remember that I’m supposed to be pissed at him. “Come to hand yourself in for lifting purses?” I call across to him.
He points at the sheriff without acknowledging me. “You’ve got until tomorrow,” he says in that rumbling growl of his.
Then he gets up and walks toward me, pausing for a moment in front of me while he opens the gate that separates the public area from the rest of the station. He’s not acting like a member of the public in the sheriff’s domain. He’s acting like he owns the entire town, sheriff and all.
He looks me up and down when he gets to me, brazenly, like he has every right to drink in my body.
God, he looks good close up.
It doesn’t help that he’s in a suit and I’ve still got my work things on, makes it easy to imagine him as my boss, examining me for any uniform infractions. I find myself heating up a little under his scrutiny.
“Your hair looks better than last night,” he says, reaching forward to tuck a stray lock behind my ear. “More natural suits you.”
He yanks his hand away from me like I just bit him. His eyes blaze with anger out of nowhere but it’s clear his rage isn’t aimed at me. It’s aimed at himself. For whatever reason, he’s furious with what he just said, like he shouldn’t be seen talking to me.
“It’s all right,” I tell him. “Don’t be mad. I love getting hair care advice from random strangers. Nothing creepy about that at all.”
He walks past but then he turns to look at me again. “You keep running that mouth,” he says, pointing a finger at me. “One of these days it’s going to get you into some real trouble.”
