Page 18 of Stay in Your Lane!

I shrugged. “Then we pass it on to the cops and let them deal with it.” I paused. “My dad doesn’t think there’s anything here—I tried to talk him into investigating, but…” I shook my head again. “If I come to him with an actual lead, though, he’ll look into it.”

“Okay. That’s?—”

“I amsosorry.” Our waitress appeared beside us, coffeepot in hand. She wore an expression that said she was ready to burn this whole place down and piss on the ashes. Still she managed to smile and sound… not cheerful, but not unfriendly. “I didn’t mean to leave you boys hanging. Can I refill that?”

“Please.” I smiled up at her. “Thanks. And don’t worry about it—sounded like you were, uh…” He tilted his head toward Mr. Tinfoil Hat, who was currently raving at the elderly lady next to him.

That earned me an eyeroll and a long-suffering sigh. “God Almighty, you have no idea.” She started pouring that beautiful, steaming black liquid into my empty mug. Lowering her voice, she added, “And he doesn’t tip for shit.”

I stiffened. “What? Seriously?”

She nodded as she finished topping off the cup. “Eats an entrée and an armload of appetizers, and he tips less than…” She tilted her head toward the Goth kids.

“Wait, they don’t tip either?”

“Oh, no, they do. They tip quite generously, considering they just drink coffee.” She shook her head. “But him? Ugh, I should charge him extra just for carrying on the way he does.”

Everett nudged his own cup closer to her. “Could I get another Pepsi?”

“Sure, sweetie.” She flashed him a quick smile, then picked up his cup and took it back behind the counter.

Everett faced me, and I was a little startled when he started talking, mostly because he was talking a lot louder than before. “Can you believe the CIA is profiling people based on how they tip?” He scoffed theatrically and sat back, shaking his head. “We can’t have any privacy at all these days, I swear to God.”

I studied him, but when his eyes flicked toward the counter, I understood where he was going. Louder than necessary—just loud enough to carry toward the conspiracy guy—I said, “They donot.”

“They do, too!” Everett exclaimed, and he thumped his knuckle on the table beside his plate. “I forgot to leave a tip the other day, and then my phone did an auto update that night. Now it’s full of government spyware!”

It was so damned hard not to crack up laughing, especially when he was putting on such a convincing show of righteous fury. “That’s bullshit.”

“It isn’t!” He took out his phone, tapped the screen, and thrust it in my face. “I looked online—that right there? The one that says it’sPuppy Solitaire? I’ve never downloaded that in my life, and when I looked it up—it’s a fucking government-issued virus! All because I forgot to leave a goddamned tip at the Olive Garden.” He gave an exasperated sigh, rolled his eyes, and slammed his phone down on the table. “Fucking authoritarian 1984 bullshit right there.”

I had to literally bite my tongue to keep from laughing.

Our waitress appeared beside the table again, Everett’s refreshed glass in hand. She, too, was struggling not to laugh. “Thank you, honey. And I know what you mean about thePuppy Solitairething. My dad got away with it for a while, but they got him last night.” She tsked and shook her head. “And once it’s there, good luck getting rid of it.” Then she winked at Everett. “Can I get you boys anything else?”

“No, I’m good.” He offered up a grin that made my innards go all gooey. “And I was going to tip even without the spyware, I promise!”

“Oh, honey.” She gave his shoulder a playful smack. “I know you do. You always do! That’s why I don’t tell the cooks to fuck with your food.”

And with that, she walked away.

How Everett was containing his laughter was beyond me, but he kept a perfectly innocent look on his face.

“Oh, come on,” he demanded in a whisper. “Tell me! Is he listening?”

“I don’t know. Maybe?”

“Well, he stopped ranting, didn’t he?”

I listened, and sure enough, the air was no longer being peppered with a soliloquy about the Vatican being behind that one carcinogenic food dye. In fact, the place was almost quiet apart from someone in the kitchen shouting at someone else inveryprofane Spanish.

“Holy shit.” I stared at him. “I think it worked.”

“Of course it worked.” He picked up his soda and took a deep swallow. “The easiest way to manipulate a conspiracy theorist is with another conspiracy they’ve never heard of but can’t disprove.”

I blinked. More and more, I was coming to realize he was a lot smarter than he seemed. He could be a little oblivious to some things, but then he’d turn around and have startlingly solid insight. I wondered how many people in his life underestimated him, getting careless because they thought he was stupid.

Dumb like a fox, my grandfather would say.

---