Page 154 of Lost Then Found
I lean in slightly, lowering my voice just enough to make her still. “Hey. Be careful.”
She stiffens. Her grin fades, replaced by something sharp, something focused. “Why?”
I glance around, keeping my voice steady. “I think someone might be watching us.”
She straightens, scanning the street. “Who?”
I shake my head. “Not sure. But check your mirrors when you drive. Look for tails, anything that feels off.”
She nods, her face unreadable for once. “Alright.”
I watch as she slides into her car, the tension in my shoulders not easing even as she pulls away.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, I reach for the center console, flipping it open to retrieve the Glock 19 nestled inside. Compact. Reliable. The sort of gun I carried more times than I could count overseas. Always loaded, always within reach. I check the chamber, make sure the safety’s still on, and tuck it into the waistband of my jeans.
In the military, you never went anywhere unarmed. You could be grabbing supplies, headed to a meeting, hell—even sleeping, and you were never more than an arm’s reach from your weapon. Because the second you let your guard down, that was the second things went sideways. And if you weren’t prepared? You were dead.
I shake the thought loose, scanning my surroundings before putting the truck in gear. As I pull onto the main road, my fingers tap against the wheel, eyes flicking to the mirrors. I check them often, scanning for anything out of place—same car taking the same turns, something sitting too long at a stoplight.
Nothing.
The drive to the county clerk’s office isn’t far, but I stay alert, instincts kicking in whether I want them to or not. It’s ingrained, second nature, part of me in a way I don’t think I’ll ever shake.
By the time I pull into the lot, Miller’s car is just easing into a spot a few feet away.
Inside, the clerk’s office is exactly what I expect—fluorescent lights, the scent of old paper, and a middle-aged woman behind the desk, already eyeing us like we’re an inconvenience.
Miller steps up first, offering her best polite smile. “Hi there. We were wondering if we could take a look at a recent health inspection report?”
The woman barely glances up. “You’ll need to file a request.”
Miller’s smile doesn’t waver. “That’s the thing. We’re on a bit of a time crunch, and we were hoping we could just take a quick peek at the original file.”
The woman sighs, pushing her glasses up her nose. “I’m sorry, but that’s not how this works.”
Miller leans in slightly, her voice dropping to something conspiratorial. “I totally get it. I do. You’ve got rules to follow, and I respect that. But here’s the thing—this is actually really important. We have reason to believe there may have been an error in the documentation, and we wouldn’t want that to reflect poorly on your office. You know, if word got out that false reports were being filed under your name.”
I bite down a smirk as the clerk’s shoulders straighten, her expression shifting from irritation to unease.
“I—” The woman hesitates, looking between us.
Miller lays it on thicker, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Of course, if you can’t help us, we totally understand. We’ll just have to bring it to a higher authority and let them handle it. But I’d hate for anyone to get in trouble over something that could be handled quickly and quietly.”
The clerk exhales, looking like she’s regretting every life decision that led her to this moment. She eyes Miller, then me, then huffs out a breath. “Fine. But I didn’t do this. And you better bequick. Follow me.”
I glance at Miller, who lifts a brow but doesn’t say anything, and we follow.
She leads us to a locked room at the end of the corridor, swipes a key card, and the lock clicks open. The door swings inward, revealing a dimly lit room filled with rows of metal filing cabinets, shelves stacked with labeled boxes, and a couple of old computers buzzing in the background. The air is thick with the scent of paper and dust, like the room hasn’t been aired out in years.
She steps inside, flicking on a single overhead light that casts a yellow glow. “What exactly are you looking for?” she asks, already moving toward one of the boxes.
“The most recent health inspection report for The Bluebell Diner,” I say, keeping my voice even.
She nods once, kneeling and sifting through a stack of files. Her movements are quick, practiced, like she’s done this a million times. She mutters to herself as she thumbs through folder after folder, the rustling of paper filling the quiet space.
A minute later, she pulls out a manila folder and stands, flipping it open. Her lips press into a thin line. “There it is,” she mutters, tapping a page with her finger. “Time-stamped, signed, and everything.”
I step closer, scanning the page, my gut tightening at what I see.
