Page 13 of Four Steps to the Perfect Fake Date

Daphne knew that it was probably plain old incompetence and mismanagement that had caused the department’s coffers to run low. The former sheriff and his cronies had been taking bribes from peopleleft and right, but the federal investigators hadn’t found any evidence of embezzlement of public funds. They’d been focused on the drugs and the money laundering, though, so it was possible they’d missed something.

She’d have to untangle years of finances and figure out a path forward. Just her, her computer, and honest, logical numbers. No people who might punch her in the face for doing a good deed. No scowling ghosts from her high school days come back to haunt her. Just old financial records that needed to be made right.

Easy.

Or so she hoped.

She stripped her jacket off and set her computer up, then wandered to the far side of the room, where boxes had been stacked. She opened them one after another to find faded invoices and crumpled receipts. At least she had somewhere to start.

Needing coffee, Daphne wandered out and across the room to the area where Shirley had pointed. A small kitchen was tucked around the corner. She poured herself a mug of coffee and ambled back toward her office, letting her feet take her toward the unfinished extension at the back of the building. She took a sip of her coffee, pleasantly surprised as the taste hit her tongue. It was better than the coffee truck brew, that was for sure.

Before she pushed through the plastic-covered door, she saw another small hallway running the length of the rear of the building. She could see a few holding cells lined up along the back wall. Curiosity got the best of her, and she walked down to see if anyone was inside.

In the farthest cell was the farmers’ market thief. He sat on a metal bench bolted to the wall, eating a sandwich. He looked up when Daphne appeared, and his eyes narrowed.

“Hi,” she said.

He bit into the sandwich and chewed. Once he’d swallowed, he said, “Hi.”

They stared at each other. Daphne took a sip of coffee. She wasn’t sure why she was here. “You been here all night?”

The would-be thief nodded. “Sorry about your face.”

She huffed out a laugh. “Thanks. Never been punched before. Wasn’t expecting the black eyes.”

“Your purse got me good,” he replied, pointing to his own bruised temple. “You carry rocks around for fun, or something?”

“Jam jars,” she explained.

He snorted and took another bite. Daphne sipped her coffee. She’d never spoken to someone through bars before. She was experiencing all kinds of firsts.

“What’s your name?”

His eyes narrowed. “Ryan Lane. You?”

“Daphne Davis. Why’d you do it?”

“Do what?”

Daphne rolled her eyes. “You know what. Why’d you steal the cashbox?”

“Felt like it.”

She tilted her head and studied the man in the holding cell. He was hunched over his sandwich eyeing her suspiciously, the bruise on his temple already turning green. He looked younger than she’d initially thought. Maybe still in his teens. A pang of sympathy went through her. “Why’d you feel like it?”

“Maybe I needed the money. Bills overdue. Mom’s rent’s behind, and she sure as hell isn’t going to get any extra money by the end of the week.”

Daphne held her warm mug and nodded. “You got a job?”

“I did, until I was fired last Monday.”

“What for?”

He scowled and took another bite of his sandwich, tearing at the bread with his teeth. He chewed angrily and met her gaze. “Missed one too many shifts. But I can’t help it that there’s no gas in the car and noone to bring me to town.” He seemed resentful that he’d opened up that much, and he spun around on the bench so his side was to Daphne.

The conversation was clearly over. Daphne turned and then started when she saw Calvin Flint leaning against the wall just out of sight of the holding cells. He watched her steadily, then tilted his head to indicate that she should follow. When they’d left the holding cell area and turned the corner, Daphne glanced up at him.

“How were the alpacas?”

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