I stop in my slippers at the foot of the stairs. The door to Dad’s office is closed. Since he disappeared, Mom has kept it that way, as if barricading the space could protect us from the weight of his absence displayed like a shrine in the center of our home. No wonder I didn’t notice his go bag being missing. I haven’t set foot in that room.

  The office is deadly silent as I tiptoe inside. Light from the hallway spills across the carpet, a path between the empty coat rack and the huge, antique library desk he bought to celebrate being elected. A flick brings the desk lamp to life, illuminating the bare wood where files used to live in stacks. McCandles took most of them when he searched this room after my dad disappeared. On the wall is a mounted singing fish Dad got as a gag gift at the department Christmas party one year, but kept because it was voiced by a Harrison Ford impersonator.

  I slip into his desk chair. It’s cold and stiff. The bridge of my nose tingles, but I bite down on my tongue, exchanging sadness for pain. Pulling with both hands, I roll closer to the desk and dig through it. Mom won’t be back until early morning, but that’s no reason to dawdle.

  The papers in the desk pertain to small cases. I flip through them, not sure what I’m looking for. Setting them aside, I open the top drawer. Office supplies. Spare handcuffs.

  The second drawer yields bills and insurance docs and important receipts.

  Frowning, I rub at my eyes. Combing through Dad’s accumulated papers is going to be a task. There must be hundreds of cases represented in this room, and I have no idea what I’m looking for. Dad was working on so many when he vanished that even if I could find something significant, I’d never be able to parse it out. And the chance of me finding something to indicate where he went is just as unlikely.

  Scratching at my scalp, I push the second drawer closed. One more to go. Might as well take a peek before I drag myself up to bed.

  Surprise, more files. I paw through them, not even bothering to lift many out of their alphabetized order. At the back sits a little black address book. Old, judging by the worn cover and bent pages.

  Dropping it on the desktop I incline my head until my brow rests on a closed fist. It’s an endless pit of papers in here. How on this green earth did he ever find anything?

  I go to scoop up the address book, but stop. Its pages flipped naturally to the I section, like the little black book was open to this exact spread often. I skim over the names, not seeing any that stick out to me. Didn’t Great Uncle Ira pass away last year?

  Then I stop dead, my finger hovering over a word that sends chills down my spine.

  Special Friends.

  Special friends? If that’s a joke, it isn’t funny. My stomach churns. Under that gut-roiling moniker there’s a list of initials I don’t recognize.

  Special friends. What could my dad have meant? Because to me it comes across as a sly way to write dates, or worse. But there is no way “special friends” means what it sounds like. Despite the damning photo of my dad with Gracia, there is a zero percent chance he’s cheating on my mom. They were--are--in love. Their marriage is a happy one. My dad would never in a million years do that to her, despite the statistics that point to the contrary.

  I stare at the list of phone numbers, chewing on the inside of my cheek. One of the digit strings looks familiar. It’s marked by the initials C.G., which draw a blank. Trepidation washes over me as I take out my phone and dial the number. It auto-populates, and I gasp.

  Gracia Cuoco.

  Gracia Cuoco was one of Dad’s special friends.

  A damning photo. Now a note in an old address book.

  The disparate slivers string together, links in a hideous chain, because no matter how hard I try, I’m having trouble picturing “special friends” as being anything other than romantic. I reject outright the possibility that Dad was dating Gracia, or any of the other people on this list. It’s inconceivable. Deplorable. Nothing like the man I call Dad.

  There has to be another explanation. I’m going to find it. In a huff, I dial one of the other numbers on the list, phone in a punishing hold. It connects after a handful of rings.

  “Al’s Pancake world.”

  I stare at my phone in disbelief, as if looking at the call screen will provide desperately sought answers. It doesn’t. With nothing but confused questions in my head, I hang up. I seriously doubt my dad had a relationship with someone at Al’s Pancake World, since hates that place. He refuses to go there whenever I get a hankering for strawberry and hazelnut pancakes, insisting we can make them at home.

  I suck in a breath. Maybe he didn’t want to go there because he had a tie to one of Al’s employees.

  No. No. I’m not going down that rabbit hole. My dad did NOT cheat on my mom, and especially not with multiple people. He isn’t a reprobate. He’s a righteous, hard-working sheriff who loves his family.

  He must have meant something else by special friends. There has to be a connection I’m missing. I call every single number on the list. Two are disconnected, and one hangs up without saying a word.

  There must be a reason Gracia Cuoco’s phone number is on a list with the pancake house, but I have no idea what it could be, and the only person I could ask hasn’t darkened my doorway in six months.

  Sweet Potato of Fortune

  Every night after my mom leaves for work I spend hours in my dad’s home office. Comb through his files, looking for anything relating to Gracia or the initials CG. Hope to find anything that explains his inscrutable list.

  So far, nothing. Pretty sneaky, Dad.

  And not in a good way.

  What could he possibly have meant by special friends?

  Portia, Destin, Gracia, and I used to hang out at my house in the afternoons after school because we had the biggest TV, and my mom kept our pantry stocked with all of their favorite snacks. My dad wasn’t home a ton, but when he was, my friends got along with him pretty well, considering he was a gruff, sharply observant parent. Whenever he got home, my dad would toe off his boots and head into the kitchen. Wash hands, drink a cup of water. Every single day.

  I rub roughly at my forehead. Gracia refilled our snacks once or twice. Is it possible she was going into the kitchen to talk to my dad?

  Raking a hand through my hair, I flop down onto my bed. Squelching disbelief turns my stomach as I bury my face in a pillow. There has to be an explanation that doesn’t make me want to curl into a ball.

  It’s driving me up the wall knowing there might be answers buried in this room, and all I have to do is read the right sentence on the right page in the right file to find them. Last night I fell asleep on the floor, waking up a handful of minutes before my mom got home from work. Talk about a mad dash to tidy up and get out of here.

  My eyes pop open when I read a new text message from Leander. Run a hand through my hair with hurried fingers.

  I heard about the sweet potato

  Made me feel bad about the other day

  You okay?

  Yeah, thanks

  Sykes helped me get it out

  No big deal

  I’m not exactly the town’s

  golden girl these days

  *frowny face*

  I can handle it

  He types, and stops. Types. Stops.

  I drop the phone into my lap, rubbing at my eyes. Lordy, I’m so tired. And I’m pretty sure I scared Leander off with my brusque texts. It’s fine, I don’t need pity from the interim sheriff’s son. I wasn’t lying before. I can handle this, if I can get my hands on some information that doesn’t make my missing father look like a lech.

  Got you something

  A photo comes through of a manila folder sitting on the seat of a car. Gracia Cuoco, the tab reads. Scooting to the edge of my bed, I throw my legs over the side. I need that file, and I need it right now.

  Where are you?

  I’ll come get it

  At the quick rap on the front door, I toss my phone onto the bed and sprint downstairs. My toes dig into the carpet as I pull to a harsh stop, almost careening forward onto my face. Play it cool, Val. Cool. I’m breathless, my hands itching in anticipation.

  “Val? You in there?” Leander’s voice comes through the wood.

  Wiping my hands on my jean shorts, I open it.

  Leander leans against the stucco wall, ankles crossed, hands slung in the pockets of his pants. A blue button-up and a suit coat complete his look. My eyes widen. Tonight is the game, and he probably has to dress up for school per tradition. I forgot the athletes at the public high school do that, since our athletes don’t. Uniforms are dressy enough, I guess.

  The game is in a couple hours, so I’m surprised he’s standing on my porch. The one he invited me to, even after catching me in the act of stealing department files.

  I never texted him about it, and now he’s here even though he probably has pre-game rituals to complete. He’s on my porch looking like a god of summer in a charcoal suit that makes his tanned skin glow. My eyes drink him in before snagging on the cream-colored folder tucked under one arm.

  “Hi.” I can’t stop the grin that splits my face. All the tension in my body eases. The answers I need are in that file.

  “I brought you this.” Leander straightens, holding out the stack. No catch. No strings. No guile. A gift given freely, even if he was inspired to offer it after hearing about the trouble I was having around town. I’d never look a gift horse in the mouth.

  I clutch the file to my chest. I needed this, and he brought it for me. Anticipation at what I might find in these pages makes a fluttery, cavernous space open in my stomach. I press the file closer to contain it. “What made you change your mind?”

  A grimace bleeds into Leander’s easy smile. “The sweet potato got me thinking. About how it’s been for you the past few months, losing Gracia and your dad in the same night. I’ve heard people talking.”

  “People are idiots,” I blurt, feeling fizzy and flustered. The last thing I want is Leander’s pity. I’ve had enough of that, had enough of disingenuous smiles that so easily turn to sneers.

  Leander holds his hands up, nodding. “Don’t have to tell me. When Sykes mentioned that someone messed with your car, I felt… I was angry, for you. You shouldn’t have to put up with that crap. And it got me thinking, that maybe if you had the file, like you wanted, it would help, somehow. I don’t know. It made more sense when I was at the department last night copying it, but saying it out loud, it sounds dumb.”

  Loosening an arm from where it’s clasped over the file, I rub at my collarbone. Hold Leander’s gaze with my own. “Not dumb. Thank you. Seriously. This will help a ton.”

  He relaxes against the wall, heedless of his coat. “Good. Cool.”

  An awkward silence falls between us. My eyes fall to the tops of the papers held tight to my chest.

  Sliding his hands into his pockets, Leander clears his throat. “I was wondering. I never heard from you about tonight. Can I change your mind about coming to the game? I still have a ticket for you, if you want it.”

  My chest puffs up with warmth, and energy spins through me. If I wanted, I could run a personal best mile right now. I smile at Leander. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  Leander’s expression softens, a smile growing.

  “Go number 11.” I jump up and down in the stands, waiving the foam finger I found on the ground on my way to the bleachers.

  Destin appears through the writhing crowd, carrying hot pretzels and cheese dip for three. Portia and I scream our thanks over the cheering and bull horns, and chow down. We grabbed burgers at the diner before the game, but that was a couple hours ago and I am ready for more cheesy carbs.

  Portia’s whistle splits the air when our team gains yards. Destin honks a party horn. We’re having a blast rooting for Leander and Valley High as they push toward the end zone. They’re already killing it, 21 to 6, but watching them hustle closer and closer to another touchdown has my entire body humming with adrenaline. “Why didn’t we do this sooner?”

  Destin laughs. He’s rocking a Valley High spirit shirt. St. Vivian’s doesn’t have a football team, and he’s been a VH fan since we were kids and his older brother played. He’s still got a bite of pretzel in his cheek when he says, “I’ve been trying to get you guys to come to a game forever. If I had known flirting would get you two here I would have tried it a long time ago.”

  I bust up laughing at the idea of Destin flirting with either Portia or me. It’s never been like that between any of us. “Please, don’t. You’re like my brother. But you were right, this is awesome.” Slinging an arm around his neck, I pull him in for a side hug. He fluffs my hair with a big hand, mussing it up. Screeching, I shove him away.

  He tosses another pretzel chunk into his wide grin.

  Not only is watching Leander and his teammates dominate on the field an adrenaline rush, it gets my one-track mind off Gracia’s file that I stuffed under my mattress before I left the house. Every few minutes, my focus returns to those papers. What will I find in those pages? The weight of anticipation low in my belly loosens. Nothing in that file will incriminate him. McCandles said my dad is not and has never been a person of interest. It makes me wonder, though, who they are looking at for the murder? There must be someone.

  The crowd cheers.

  Destin yells, gleeful. At my blank expression, he whirls to Portia. “Did you see that? That was awesome.”

  At half-time, everyone either plunks down in their seats or floods down the steps to the snack shack. It was smart of Destin to grab our goodies during the second quarter, because from the bleachers, the snack shack looks like it’s being overrun by a horde of hangry zombies.

  “So, the city theater is doing The Tempest this year,” Portia says, drawing my attention back from the Trudging Unalive episode the crowd is re-enacting down on the ground.

  “We should go, when it opens. Since it’s your favorite,” Destin says.

  “Totally,” I agree.

  “The thing is, I’m thinking of trying out.” Portia bites her lip, watching me.

  “What? You’re kidding. I had no idea you were interested in acting. Portia, babe, if you’re interested, you should go for it. You’d be amazing.”

  Destin is practically wagging his tail, he’s so enthused. “And you have it all memorized already. You recite Prospero’s epilogue so often even I know most of it. Now my charms are all o’erthrown, and what strength I have ‘s my--” Portia tosses a handful of popcorn at Destin, laughing.

  Then she goes quiet. “You guys… What if I suck?”

  “Not gonna happen,” I say, shaking my head slowly.

  “Not even a little.” Destin’s exaggerated wink brightens her face a little.

  “So, I should do it?”

  “Definitely.”

  Portia tosses her gaze out over the field. “Hey,” she elbows me. “Look.”

  Leander has climbed on the railing separating the bleachers from the field and is grinning at me. Loosening one hand, he beckons me to come down to him. My cheeks flush.

  Don’t have to ask me twice. I hop off the bench, combing my hair with my fingers and baring my teeth at Portia. “Am I good? Cool. Be right back.”

  Leander’s grin widens as I trot down the stairs and meet him at the railing. His blue eyes sparkle under the Friday night lights. “You came.”

  “I said I would.”

  “Yeah, but that was four hours ago. Someone else could have put an eggplant in your tailpipe, or something.”

  I cover my mouth, laughing. “Nope. No more exhaust-vegetables.

  Leander pushes sweaty strands of his golden hair back with his free hand. “If I bring you another file, can I get a date?”

  Pushing playfully at his shoulder above where it’s locked around the penultimate rail doesn’t faze him. “Pssh. I think a date is worth two or three files, at least.”

  Leander puffs out a laugh. Deftly, he ascends another rail and ropes his arms over the top one so we’re nearly face to face. “Are you enjoying the game?”

  My cheeks go warm at the earnest way his blue eyes lock on mine. “It’s a blast. You guys are really good out there.”

  He grins wider. “Los Banos sucks this year, but thanks.”

  The steady eye contact is liquefying my insides, so I drop my focus to the fifty yard line over his shoulder. Tapping a finger against my mouth, I pretend to mull something over. “How about, if you get another touchdown, then I’ll owe you a date.”

  Leander shuffles his weight, steadying it with one arm around the top rail. “I think I can do that. Shake on it?” He takes my hand, pumping it once. Then he pulls me closer, giving me a quick kiss on my flushed cheek. My skin is fizzing as he jumps down, grinning up at me from the field. “I gotta go, but don’t forget our deal. My team gets another touchdown, and you go out with me.”

  I beam all the way up the stairs to where Portia and Destin are doing a silly victory dance. “Somebody’s got a crush,” Portia sing-songs.

  I settle down between her and Destin, forcing them to scooch so I can fit, and make a show of fanning my face. The crowd of bodies emit a lot of heat packed together in the stands. That’s totally the cause of this sudden hot flash. Yup.

  “Deny it all you want, Val, but speaking as the resident dude, and therefore the only dude expert, a guy doesn’t kiss someone he’s not into. Unless it’s his grandma.” The sincerity in Destin’s eyes makes me want to squeal. All of the vibes Leander is putting out there tell me he’s interested. Cue fangirling all over the place.

  The whistle brings in the third quarter, and in no time Valley High scores a touchdown when Leander throws a stunning pass to his receiver. Throwing his arms up in the air, he spins and searches the stands until his eyes meet mine. The confident lift of his chin makes me giddy.

  I wave, my heart growing a size in my chest. It’s a date.

  And in the meantime, I have a murder file to devour.

  After the High

  Bleary shadows thrown by the desk lamp aren’t enough to light my dad’s office, casting Portia and Destin into gloom on the couch against the wall. Outside, the cheers and foghorns of celebration at Valley High’s victory have long since faded. Night creeps onward as I sit hunched over the ancient desk, reading each line of Gracia’s murder file with wide eyes.

 

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