Page 61 of The Fall Back Plan
I clear my throat. “Jo?”
“Hmm?” It’s a quiet, lazy sound, the response of a woman who is content in my arms.
“The last thing I want to do is let you go and walk out the door, but I need to if we’re going to stay just friends.”
A beat passes before she stirs. Then she slowly straightens and steps away from me with a resigned “Right. Yeah.”
I reach out and graze my fingertip along the faint dusting of freckles on one of her cheekbones. I haven’t been close enough to see them before, they’re so light. “Sorry about that, but I really do hear you when you say you only have friendship to offer. Me being honest is how we stay on that footing.”
“I get it. And I appreciate it.”
I swear it almost sounds like a question at the end, like she’s not so sure she does, and I allow myself a smile, the kind that’ll keep her guessing. Keeping Jolie McGraw on her toes is about to become my new favorite pastime.
“I’ll let Brooklyn know you’re coming by. And if I catch us a doll-leaving degenerate in the meantime, I’ll be in touch. See you, Jo.”
I walk out of the kitchen, and I feel her eyes on my back all the way to the door. Matter of fact, I’d bet it was my backend, because I knew exactly what I was doing when I picked these jeans.
I drive home to change back into my uniform, whistling the whole way. It may be that when I catch this Doll Bandit, I’ll shake their hand instead of cuffing them, because they have inadvertently done me the favor of keeping Jo firmly in my sights.
She ends up being literally in my sights that afternoon. I’m walking across Maple for a coffee break when I spot her truck parked in front of the consignment shop.
Jolie walks out of the store, opens her passenger door, and pulls out a heaping armload of what looks like suits. Grays, navy, black.
I could stop in to say hey and see what she’s doing. But no, she probably needs some space after our conversation this morning. I continue to the café, and when her truck is still outside after I get my order, I duck into the general store and invent an errand for myself, killing about ten minutes while I look for stuff I can use at my office. I leave with a bag of WD-40 for my squeaky desk drawer and a package of the pens I’d noticed on Jolie’s desk.
I don’t know why I’m buying her pens.
That’s a lie. I’m buying her pens so I can go to the bar and give them to her the next time I need an excuse to see her. I’m trying to stay in the friend zone. I am. But friends buy pens for each other, right?
Her truck is gone, and I stop into the consignment shop. This is nosy and inappropriate, but knowing that can’t override my need to understand more pieces of Jolie. Besides, I’ve given myself a good excuse.
Inside, the clerk behind the counter is switching out the hangers in a big pile of suiting to the hangers the store uses. She looks up when the bell over the door announces me.
“Hi, Officer. Can I help you?” she asks.
“I’m Sheriff Cole,” I tell her. “You have a minute?”
She stops what she’s doing and looks nervous. “Sure. Is there a problem?”
“Nothing like that,” I say. “Just wondered if y’all ever sell dolls here. The fancy kind?” A glance around the store shows that it’s mostly clothing, but there do seem to be a few home goods on shelves along the wall.
Her eyes widen. “Oh, is this about the creepy Doll Bandit? I’ve been following that on Instagram.”
I suppress a grimace. Freaking Happenings, man. “I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”
“Right, right, of course.” She’s nodding her head and looking thrilled to be in a conversation with law enforcement where the phrase “ongoing investigation” has been used. “We don’t get dolls in here. We mostly handle clothing.”
She indicates the pile in front of her, and I take the opening. “Big pile. That’s all from one person?”
“Yes. Nicest lady, too. We have a program called Women to Work that helps women re-entering the workforce put together a few professional outfits for free. This stuff is all designer, if you can believe that, and she’s not even putting it on consignment.” She picks up the jacket at the top of the pile and holds it against herself. “This is Theory,” she says. “It’s a five-hundred-dollar jacket, and she’s giving it away.”
Just more proof that Jolie is amazing, even if she’s buying five-hundred-dollar jackets for some reason. Must be the kind of thing that matters in Chicago. And that must be exactly why she’s shedding them. It’s all part of burrowing into Harvest Hollow, and this makes me stupid happy.
“I’ll let you get back to work,” I tell the woman. “Thank you for your time.”
“Sure, Sheriff. If I find any clues, I’ll let you know.”
I hide a cringe. She means well. “I appreciate that, ma’am, but don’t worry. My deputies will have this sorted soon.”
