Good Girl, Dead Girl (Valencia Lamb Book 1), page 4
Portia and Des have been flipping fantastic, hanging with me in my room when it was too painful to subject myself to the well-meaning platitudes of people who hoped my dad would turn up quickly.
Then the furtive glances once the town gossip turned, and people started hurling filthy questions at my mom, aimed to hurt. Once people began wondering why my dad up and vanished. When his name was inexorably linked to Gracia’s. Destin is hurting too, but it helps that we three are in it together. My friends and I have ducked out of more than one spot in town when the pity smiles Destin gets morphed into dirty looks that flowed my way.
I wish I’d brought my friends today, for moral support or something, but even as the wish ripples in my chest, I rub at my collarbone, dismissing it. Destin is slowly coming out of the grief maze he’s been in since we lost Gracia. And Portia is about as good at subterfuge as she is at going an entire day without using some antiquated word I’ve never heard before. So, not at all.
Shoring up my battered emotional walls, I focus on the shield painted on the side of the building, stark through the glinting windshield. Hacienda Sheriff’s Department. All right, Valencia. Enough stalling. Let’s do this.
I slide out of the car and march to the station door. Fake it ‘till you make it, and all that.
My mouth widens into a smile when I spot Gus behind the counter separating the entryway from the pool of desks. Gus retired, and then got so bored being home all day, he volunteered to work admin on the weekends. Gus is perfect for what I have in mind, and I also like the old man. He’s Portia’s grandpa, and he’s like an honorary granddad for all the department kids. What’s left of his white hair is combed over his scalp in wisps that don’t hide the liver spots from being out in the sun every day. Long eyebrow hairs grow in every direction over warm, squinty eyes. The old man looks like a cute, wizened mole. But in an endearing way.
“Valencia, girlie is that you? I haven’t seen you in a week. How’ve you been?” Rounding the desk and flipping up the pass-through, he pulls me in for a hug. His grip is light, and I can feel the bones of his spine. His collar bones jut out. My smile freezes in place when he lets go and steps back. Old man is getting thin.
“I’m great. How’s everything here? You keeping all these younger officers in check? Showing them how it’s done?”
Gus chuckles as his gnarled hands press down on the countertop. One finger is missing its tip. “Somebody’s got to do it. You hear that Deputy Sykes tried to arrest a raccoon the other day?”
I cover my mouth with one hand to stifle a laugh. “Sounds about right.”
“It sounded like a prowler!” comes Sykes’s defense from his desk. “How was I supposed to know that those kids Barb has working down at Twinkle’s had been feeding them leftovers every night?”
Gus waves him off with both hands. “Aw, get back to work, Deputy. Let me talk to Valencia in peace.”
Sykes murmurs something about super-intelligent trash pandas that makes me chuckle. Straightening, I turn to Gus. Put on the most guileless expression I can.
Gus eyes me, tapping his palms on the countertop. “Hoo boy. Don’t give me those doe eyes. What do you want?”
I shrug, shaking it out. “Had to try. Look, Gus, about the interim sheriff’s announcement last week…”
He rocks clumsily back on his heels. “Now, now. Sheriff is doing everything he can. You gotta keep that in mind. It’s a tough job, and not every case ends the way we want. This one was tangled from the start.”
I huff, anchoring my hands against the counter’s edge. “Gus, look who you’re talking to. I know it’s tough, but I can’t help but feel like we’re missing something. My dad, he would never… do anything like what they’re saying. And Gracia was my friend. I have to wonder. If I could just get a look at the case file, maybe I could figure out what’s been bothering me about this whole thing.”
Gus puffs out a breath. Shakes his head, looking genuinely sorry. “No can do, kiddo.”
I pull out the big guns. Poor Gus’s kryptonite--crying women. The old man’s cheeks flush as my eyes well up and threaten to spill over. Low down where he can’t see, I pinch my thigh hard, harder, until I really am fighting back tears. Hello, that burns. “Please. The truth is, I’m really struggling. I think, I think if I could read the file. The photos, I could say goodbye. Please, Gus.”
The old man whistles long and low, before turning to survey the bull pen. Sykes has gone into the back, and there’s no one else around. The unretired law man gives me a thorough, scrutinizing once over. Testing the weight of the baton I’m handing to him.
Shoot, I’ve gone too far. I forget sometimes that although Gus is about a hundred years old, he was the sheriff of this town for decades. Underneath the white hair and wrinkles, he’s still sharp and observant. I hold my breath, sure he’s going to shake his head any second. My face drops even as my heart picks up the pace. This was my only chance to get a look at that file, and I’ve blown it to pieces. Without it, there’s no way to polish off my dad’s tarnished image like he deserves.
Whenever he rides back into town, he deserves a hero’s welcome.
I grind my teeth again. My dentist is going to be pissed at my next appointment.
Gus pushes back from the counter, patting the front of his shirt with arthritic hands. “I’m going to the bathroom. I’ll only be gone for a few minutes, and I have no idea when Sykes will get back. I won’t tell you that the file key is hidden underneath the potted Calathea on Hodgson’s desk. And I won’t tell you that the copier code is 2319. I’m hankering for a cup of coffee, and the swill Jonesie makes is undrinkable, so I might have to brew another batch. It was nice seeing you, Valencia. Say hi to your mom for me.” He shambles around the desks toward the door to the break room, holding cells, and evidence locker.
I wait until the door closes with a click before I round the counter toward Hodgson’s desk. The key is hot in my palm as I jog to the file bank along the back of the room. Each of the metal cabinets is locked. Not a problem, thanks to Gus. I’ve got the cabinet marked A-C open in a second and thumb through the manila folders until my eyes snag on the one I’m looking for. Gracia Cuoco. Whipping it out, I pad my pocket. Crap. I left my phone in the car.
I run for the copier. My feet catch on the slick floor and almost slide out from under me. A squeal parts my lips, making my chest seize. If Sykes heard that…
The back door remains closed.
Pushing out a breath, I copy the case file as quickly as my hands and the machine will go. The clacking and whirring are loud as it does its job. I’m feeding the sheets through it with so much haste I don’t have time to read any of it. My pulse throbs in my throat.
If McCandles or any of the other deputies catches me with this file, it’ll all be over. The interim sheriff would ban me from the building in no time flat. Even when McCandles worked under my dad, he was never a fan of the way I had carte blanche to roam the building. He wasn’t a fan of how my dad would bring me into the office to work on homework while he pushed papers. The man doesn’t understand that other than at home, I never feel safer than in this building, surrounded by walls and doors I’ve run along and pushed open all my life. Surrounded by deputies I’ve known forever, and who have all been to dinner at my house a handful of times with their own families. Each of Dad’s deputies is overly protective of me. It’s comforting. And terrifying, if one of them catches me at my task.
Which is why I hurry through the copy job at a break-neck pace, sliding each completed piece into a crossbody bag as fast as my hands will go. I’ve got three pages left when the back door swings open. Probably Gus. I don’t turn around. I’m almost finished.
Slow, steady footsteps approach. No shuffling step.
Not Gus.
Refusing to look, I hold my breath. Maybe Sykes will think Gus asked me to make some copies for him. If I act like I belong here, I can sell that story. But holding still doesn’t make the copier less noisy.
Footsteps quicken, closing the gap between us.
The copier sputters and jams, pushing the last piece of paper out in an accordion of unreadable, smeared ink. Hopefully there isn’t anything important on this page, because I’m out of time.
A tap on the shoulder makes my body brace. “I’m just making copies for Gus.”
Holy corn dogs, that is not Deputy Sykes.
My mouth drops open as Leander McCandles, the interim sheriff’s teen heartthrob of a son, chuckles. This boy is even more beautiful than I remembered, and I remembered a lot. Puppy dog brown eyes under thick eyebrows, a strong jaw, and a mouth tinted pink by lip balm. I might have spent my entire childhood sort of in love with Leander McCandles, not that he ever noticed. He’s my age, but ran with a pack of older boys whenever there were department-wide family gatherings. Now, Leander is a hotshot football player at the public high school, and we haven’t spoken in a couple years. I don’t know how to act, now that a guy I’ve crushed on for basically forever is looking at me. Coaxing up on a smile, I hope for the best.
“Valencia. Long time, no see.” He comes in for a quick hug that I do not fangirl over. Football has left him trim and muscled under the short-sleeved, sage green Henley. When we were little, I learned how to steal donuts and sugar cubes from the break room and hide under an unoccupied desk to munch on the booty by watching him and his friends do it. Doesn’t look like he partakes in donuts much these days, from the sculpted shape of him. I’m tempted to poke his bicep to see if it moves, but I was taught to keep my hands to myself, so I don’t.
Leander McCandles’s gaze moves over me, assessing.
My brain stutters to a stop before rebooting. “Hey Leander,” I say slowly. “Your dad has you working today?” I push my bag behind my back, hoping he doesn’t see it bulging with papers.
He rubs at the shell of his ear with a latex-gloved hand. “Yeah. A couple of the shelves in the evidence locker broke, and crap went everywhere. Dad’s got me back there, putting together new shelves and boxing everything back up. Some of that stuff is pretty cool.”
That does sound pretty interesting. “I would not mind pawing through the evidence locker if I had the chance. Get my hands on a flame thrower or something.”
“I might know where there is one.”
“Are you offering me a tour?”
Leander chuckles, crossing and uncrossing his arms. “I’d offer you a donut, but Sykes ate them all.”
I wipe my free hand on my pants, feeling incredibly awkward. “Must have fed them to the raccoons.”
Gus shuffles out of the back, his white eyebrows rising when he sees Leander and me at the copier. Shaking his head, amused, he returns to the front counter and slides onto his high stool. It’s got a cushion seat and a back so he’s comfortable while fielding walk-ins.
Leander snaps the latex gloves on his hands, bringing my attention back to him, and my mind back to the pickle I’m in. Maybe if I angle my body away from the copier, he won’t notice the file sitting open on top of it.
I shift. Leander mirrors me.
Eureka!
His smile falters as the folder catches his eye.
Dang it.
Leander’s attention sweeps over the decrepit copier, and then to the overstuffed bag resting against my hip.
Questions sharpen in his brown eyes even as my mind twirls, grasping for and failing to find a solution. Unless things have changed, the boy is tight with his father. I can’t picture a scenario where Leander doesn’t tell his dear old dad that he caught me with a file I don’t have the right to access. Much less duplicate. Oh, this is bad.
I force warmth into my smile. “How’s football practice going? I heard the team is supposed to be even better than last year.” Yes, I might have watched them running drills on the field a time or two over the last couple of weeks before the school year started. Have to find a use for the extra pair of binoculars Dad stashed in the ‘vette. High school guys running football plays and showboating when they nail it? Yes, please.
Leander pulls his attention from the copier to me, grinning. “Yeah, practice is going great. Everyone is pretty pumped. I think we’ll be ready for our first game on Friday.”
“Great. Good. I should probably--”
“You wouldn’t be interested in coming, would you?” His straight honey-blond hair styled in a quiff so high it rivals Justin Bieber’s. Sweet Punxsutawney Phil I’d love to touch that hair. Wait. Did he just ask me to come to his football game?
“Me? Come to your game? Uh, yeah. Sure. That’d be great. I love football.”
“You do, huh?” His eyes sparkle.
“Oh, totally. Great game.” Somebody shoot me now.
“It’s a date, then. I’ll have them save you a ticket at the box office. You can pick it up when you get there.”
“Date?” I try to play it cool even though I’m pretty sure my lungs have forgotten how to take in air. What is happening? I don’t see Leander for a couple of years, and all of a sudden he’s back. He’s hotter than a wildfire, and he’s asking me to come watch him play football? And reserving me a ticket?
Leander dips closer. “If that’s cool with you?”
My mouth has completely forgotten its function and is stuck, gaping. I stare at him for way, way too long. “Uh, yeah. That’s fine with me.”
He taps long fingers on the surface of the nearest desk. “Gus got you making copies or something? Let me help you with that.”
Reality slaps me in the face, and my mouth snaps shut. “No,” I blurt. “I’m almost done with--”
Leander reaches past me, picking up the file and flipping it to the front. The easy confidence on his face melts away as he realizes what he’s holding. When his gaze rises to mine, the warmth is gone. Instead, there’s confusion. Disappointment.
Son of a murderous feral cat.
Looking over his shoulder at Gus, who is pretending to mind his own business, then back at me, Leander closes the file and tucks it against his side.
“Hey, I need that.” My hands jut out toward it but Leander angles his body to move the file away from my grasping fingers. All that agility practice is paying off for him. His focus zeroes in on mine so tightly I want to look away, but I won’t. “Did Gus really put you up to this?”
“No.” I stick out my chin. Honesty probably the best option. A carefully truncated version, anyway. “Look, Leander, I know this seems bad, but I just wanted to read it, okay? I have to know if there’s any evidence in there that…” Swallowing past the stone in my throat, I finish. “Implicates my dad.”
Leander’s frown deepens as he runs the hand not clutching the file across the back of his neck. “I’m sorry about that, Val. I should have texted you or something. I wish I had.”
I don’t know what else to say, except a toneless, “Thanks.”
“I should’ve, but that doesn’t change anything. I can’t let you walk out with this. It belongs to the department. Give me the papers in your bag, and then you can go.”
“You going to detain me if I don’t?” My attempt at teasing falters in the delivery, but Leander’s mouth ticks up the slightest bit.
“I might. Hand it over, Val.” His outstretched hand is a temptation and a curse.
I take his measure, wondering if I could somehow maneuver it so I could relinquish most of the papers, but not all of them. He’s not going to stand here and count each one. At least, I don’t think he will. But even if I did that, I don’t have any way of rifling through them to choose the juiciest looking ones without being totally obvious. With Leander standing this close, watching my every muscle twitch, I can’t pull it off.
Body vibrating with a turbulent slush of embarrassment and defeat, I yank my bag around to my stomach and pull out handfuls of copies until every last sheet is stacked on the nearest desk. I can’t even blame him, because he’s right. These case files are not public, and for good reason.
I watch, disappointment pulsing through me as Leander feeds the pages into the shredder. Over his shoulder, Gus gives me a sympathetic tilt of his shiny, mostly-bald head.
The screech of my investigative goals dying ends once the last paper is shredded. Leander turns a sad smile on me. “Sorry, again,” he says.
Mustering the world’s smallest shrug, I head for the front door. My expression is one-note and placid, but inside I’m barely holding it together. I didn’t realize how desperately I wanted a peek at that file until it was snatched from my hands. I’ve been wriggling like an amoeba under a microscope in the months since public opinion swayed away from my dad, and I truly thought having that file would give me a first clue. And some ammo to turn away the naysayers. One look at Gus as I pass makes it clear he won’t turn a blind eye if I make a second attempt to obtain that file. I had one shot.
“We still on for Friday night?”
I stop short at the front door, surprised at the glint of hope in Leander’s question. Not gonna lie, I’m confused by his interest, since he just caught me trying to steal from the department. If I could get past the disappointment of being caught with my hands in the cookie jar, it would be fun to go. Leander is more than a little bit cute.
“I’ll text you.” Right now my shame is churning way too high.
Not in the Mood for Pancakes
I keep replaying my not so meet-cute with Leander at the station. Was there a way for me to play it so I walked out with that file, and none of the shame that forced me to turn him down? If there was, it doesn’t matter.
I haven’t texted Leander.
My phone pings. Portia.
How fares my Valencia?
Did you figure out the last question?
Is the answer 2.5?
I snicker as I text back. Portia never should have taken pre-calc, but she thought it’d be fun taking math with me. I walk her through it as I descend to the first floor. It’s ice cream time, and there is hot fudge sauce in the fridge.
