Page 26 of The Fall Back Plan
We ride in easy quiet the rest of the way to school. When she climbs out in the carpool line, she gives me a small wave before hitching her backpack up and walking to her morning lineup.
Even the drop-off line can’t defeat my good mood this morning. Normally, I’m white knuckling with my teeth bared. I’d already figured out the most important rule of drop-off by the second day of school last year: if your kid isn’t old enough to get themselves out of a vehicle while also hanging on to all the assorted crap you’ve sent them with, you do not belong in the drop-off line. Parents whoget outto hug their little darlings should be charged as public nuisances and prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
But like I said, today, not even the drop-off line can defeat me. Not even when the mom in front of me gets out to walk her kid over to the campus supervisor, hugs said child, and watches until the supervisor walks her precious cargo to his line before she gets back into her Porsche Cayenne.
I’m still smiling when I turn out of the parking lot. Jolie worked a miracle, and the more I think about it as I turn on to Maple, the more I feel like I should thank her for it. When I walk into the station, I stop at Becky’s desk. “Becky, can you call over to Blooms and have them deliver an arrangement of thank you flowers to Jolie McGraw? Send them to the Tequila Mockingbird. Use my personal credit card.”
“Sure, boss.” But she’s not done. I’ve barely started toward my office when she says, “But is that the right move?”
I turn back to her. “A thank you?”
“No, sending over flowers. This is for helping with Brooklyn, right?”
“It is.”
“That’s a different favor than buying tickets to the law enforcement gala. More . . . personal.” She nods, satisfied with her word choice.
“What are you suggesting?”
“Personal favor deserves a personal thank you. Not a note, and not at her business.”
I frown to hide how much I like this suggestion. This suggestion that asks me to do what I wanted to do anyway. “Yeah?”
“Definitely.”
I hesitate just to sell it, the idea that I’m not ready to drive over to Jolie McGraw’s house right this second. “All right. But send me Avila’s report on the spray paint investigation so I can update her.”
“Update her.” Becky nods. “Good idea.”
Ten minutes later, an email pops up with the subject line “Update for Jolie.”
Jolie. Not J. McGraw or even McGraw. Becky must have really taken to Jolie. I open it, skim through Avila’s notes, which don’t say anything new, and send it to print. Then I call Avila and tell him I’m going out to the lumberyard myself in the morning to talk to Hardin. He’s been “down sick” both times Avila went by his home.
It feels good to be doing something for Jolie.
I wouldn’t normally show up at a person’s place of work; that’s the kind of thing that starts rumors or worries bosses about who’s in their employ. But since I’m confident Shane is our guy, I don’t really care if it creates friction at work. He needs to be made uncomfortable to remind him that he doesn’t have free rein in the Hollow.
I don’t bother with the public entrance to Kenlan Lumber. Instead, I pull around straight to the back where the guys are manhandling the freight or cutting wood down to standard beam sizes. I love it back here. The smell of sawdust always reminds me of newness, of something about to be made. Makes me wish I’d learned to work wood. Pops knows how. I’ll make sure he teaches Brooklyn the way I wish I would have learned when I was her age.
I park and climb down from the Explorer, earning a few wary glances as my boots hit the dirt. Even people with clear consciences do this sometimes—look at me like they’re nervous that I’m there for them. I get it. I remember the days before I wore the badge.
One of the men walks over to me, his clipboard indicating he might be a supervisor.
“Help you?”
I smile. “Looking for one of your employees who’s been hard to get hold of. Shane Hardin?”
A slight change flickers in his expression, then it settles back to normal. Which is to say guarded. “He in trouble?”
“Not at the moment.”
The man considers this for a moment then nods and pulls a radio from his belt and speaks into it. “Roland, I’m sending back a visitor for Hardin. Give him ten on the clock.” He raises his eyebrows at me as if to ask whether that’s enough time. I nod. He points to the open warehouse door. “Straight back and to the right. You’ll see him.”
“Thank you,” I tell him, and head in the direction he indicated. I don’t know if this guy realizes I’m the sheriff and not a deputy. Probably not. It’s already going to be a big deal that a uniformed officer is at Hardin’s jobsite; if they knew I’m the actual sheriff, the speculation would fly even faster. It’s unusual for the sheriff to get involved at this level in a community our size. But since I was the one who was at the Mockingbird the night of his attempted intimidation, I take it kind of personally.
I don’t feel bad about strolling through Hardin’s jobsite though. Shane Hardin had his chance to have this conversation out of sight of God and everyone, and he ducked it, so he gets what he gets.
Voices sound up ahead, the gruff voices of men at work, and when I round the corner, heads turn and the talking stops. All except for a single succinct curse from none other than Shane Hardin.
