Did Bella say something? The smell of medium roast flows around me, easing a fraction of the pulsating in my head. I’ve never had much interaction with her, but I didn’t think she had a bad opinion of me.
Why would she warn Emily off me?
After doctoring my coffee, I lift the steaming mug to my lips. Why can’t I forget about her? It’s stupid.
When I’m asleep, she’s there, teasing me with her twinkling eyes and plump mouth. And that luscious body. When I’m awake, I’m thinking about her. Fantasizing that she can’t keep her hands off me.
I sip the scalding coffee, curse my stupidity while rotating the mug on my desk, and pull up the previous night’s passalong.
Grabill was right. Nothing happened after the fire, except for a couple of traffic stops. One for speeding. A seventeen-year-old girl was driving 45 mph in a 25-mph zone and tried to claim that the incoming speed limit sign didn’t match the outgoing one.
When the speeds were pointed out to her, she relented and said she was in a hurry to get home before curfew.
The other was for driving with an expired license plate and no proof of insurance. Chad Whitlock. He claimed he didn’t receive a renewal notice and left his insurance card at home. Unfortunately, ignorance is not a valid excuse in our line of work.
And I might’ve told Sanders about him pulling out in front of me. Who must’ve told Grabill. At least, there’s some justice in the world.
The motion light in front of the side window flips on. Ora isn’t due for a couple of hours. It’s probably a cat. There are always animals roaming by the station.
I click to the next screen and review the county lockup and release report. Our office has only one cell intended to hold people for a few hours before we transport them to the county jail.
While I’m scanning the site, I keep one ear on the front door in case it’s a two-legged animal approaching the station.
Moments later, a faint sound comes from the front door. “Come in?” I stand ready to greet the visitor, but the door doesn’t open.
When I take a step toward the door, the phone rings. “Officer Thompson,” I say into the receiver.
“This is Karen Claypool.” The woman’s voice is nervous and rushed. “I’m calling to report a suspicious vehicle driving past my house. Well, it’s not that suspicious. I think I know who’s driving it. But he’s gone by three times now, going very slow…. Hey, did you say, Officer Thompson?”
“Yes, this is Officer Thompson.”
“Oh, my word. Is this Simone’s boy? I heard you were back in town, but I was so worked up that it didn’t kick in right away.”
“That’s fine, Ma’am. Yes, I’m Simone’s son.”
“Ma’am? Are you trying to make me sound old?”
“No. Of course not.” I’m not about to walk into that mess. Mrs. Claypool was old when I was in high school. She ran our town’s post office for as long as I can remember, maybe as long as my mom can remember, until she retired last year.
“Thank you, dear. I always thought you were a good boy. Whenever your mom went to the market to get groceries, you always carried the bags for her, and held the doors open for other patrons. Granted, you stopped several years ago.”
“I moved away for school.” Somehow, Mrs. Claypool makes me feel like I forgot to go to the doctor to get my shots. Or that I haven’t flossed in six months. “I’ll send Ramirez to check it out. Where do you live now?”
“Don’t worry about it. They’re gone. I’m just being dramatic. Thank you for helping me calm down.”
“You let me know if anything else comes up, Mrs. Claypool, and I’ll send someone straight over.” I chuckle as I hang up the phone. I love this place. I take a sip of the much cooler coffee. The heady scent fills my nose. That’s better. Maybe I can function now.
A low cry comes from outside the door. Damned cat. Don’t tell me it’s curled up on the front mat waiting for someone to feed it.
The soles of my boots click on the floor as I shove my cell phone back into my pocket. The last thing I need is red welts on my hand from an allergic reaction to a cat.
I yank the door open and look to my right and then to my left. Nothing. I know I heard something. I squint into the darkness. Nothing moves in the lot. Maybe I’m hearing things from lack of sleep.
As I’m shutting the door, I glance down, and my heart leaps into my throat. On the black mat that everyone scrapes their shoes on is a shipping box with a newborn baby wrapped inside a bloody pink bath towel.
What in the fuck?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
