Page 46 of Water's Edge

It is, after all, his child.

He didn’t strike me as a man who gives up anything that he owns. He found a place for his pregnant daughter to live and then paid her rent. He kept her at arm’s distance but still controlled her. He bought his wife a beach house in St. Lucia but still keeps track of her.

He is someone I’ll have to keep my eye on.

I get coffee from the breakroom and consider a donut from the box on the counter. Pass. I hear Nan regaling the records clerk with a story about her daughter’s latest achievement. I tune it out and return to my desk.

I start with the state adoption agency. After thirty minutes or so I realize I’m not going to get into the system without leaving evidence behind. The Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office doesn’t have clearance to do a search for mothers, much less placement information.

Sheriff Gray comes through the office with a paper cup of something and a greasy bag of fast food. It’s a big bag for breakfast, but he is a big man. Or at least his belly is getting that way. He sees me looking at the bag and comes over to my desk.

“I brought breakfast.”

Sure you did.

“What’s in the bag?” I ask.

He opens the top and the smell of fried onions comes at me. He takes out something wrapped in greasy paper. “I got you a double sausage with onion and pickle from the street vendor. Sorry I didn’t get you a malted milk shake, but I couldn’t carry it all.”

“And I turned down a donut in the breakroom.”

Sheriff is married to a nurse he met at the hospital after he had a mild heart attack. He’s overweight and, despite his constant complaining about dieting, I’ve never seen him eat anything resembling healthy food.

He lays the greasy-paper-wrapped sandwich on my desk and says, “Let’s keep this to ourselves.”

I haven’t eaten since yesterday, but I pass. I know about keeping secrets. He has kept enough of mine.

Ronnie comes in the office and looks as if she were fresh from a spa. I feel like I’ve gone a few rounds with an MMA fighter, but she is alert, smiling, and chattering. When I put her to bed last night she was zonked. If I’d had as much to drink as she had, I would hurl at the smell of grease.

Sheriff Gray looks at the bag, at me, at her, and takes another sandwich out. “I got enough for you too. But don’t tell Nan.”

Or his wife.

I gesture for Ronnie to pull up a chair. She does, sits, and unwraps the still-steaming hot double sausage, onion, and pickle piece of heaven. Today she’s wearing a modest outfit, blue blouse, light jacket, gray slacks, and low-heeled shoes. Her nails are trimmed but now painted a bright fire engine red.

“I’ll be in my office,” the sheriff says. “Before you go anywhere, I want an update. I am the sheriff. I’m supposed to know what you’re doing.”

I detect a hint of accusation in his tone and suddenly I feel defensive.

“I updated you yesterday when we knocked off,” I say.

“You didn’t tell me you talked to Jim Truitt.”

“I did too,” I tell him. “It’s in your box.”

I put it there a half hour ago. I just don’t tell him that.

“Let me rephrase that. You didn’t tell me it wasthatJim Truitt.”

“So what about him?” I am surprised that he is making a big deal of this. So what if Truitt is rich. Sheriff Gray has never pulled his punches—or mine—before.

“Let’s just say you should go easy on him, Megan.”

I don’t like where this is going.

“Is he important?” I ask, already aware of the answer.

“He’s a big contributor. He supports a lot of police events. Buys equipment when the county can’t.”

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