Page 25 of They Call Her Dirty Sally

Billi comes up on an elbow. “What do you mean, not for you?”

She’s so close, right there. The perfect way to help me forget what is turning out to be the biggest shit-show I’ve ever lived through. I sit up. Remind myself once again not to be an ass. Tell myself again to make sure it really sticks.

Nothing like a baby’s birth certificate to kill the mood. I hand her the one I found in my mother’s memory box and watch as she scans the contents.

“Baby Boy Hardwick, dated before you were born unless you lied to me about your age.” She blinks up at me, and I shake my head. “Died of Edward’s Syndrome. That’s a pretty serious disease, but I don’t understand. Who does this belong to?”

“Apparently, my parents had a kid before me. Or, more accurately, instead of me.” A bitter laugh escapes. “But this is all I have to go on.”

Billi scans the paper again before tossing it to the side and scooting off the bed. She holds her hands out to me. “Alright, get up.”

I don’t move. Defeat makes me want to take a nap. “I don’t feel like it.”

I’ve already surmised she isn’t one to take no for an answer. She picks up my hand and pulls. It’s cute, watching her struggle to force me up, and before long, I find myself smiling at her pitiful attempt.

“What are you doing?”

She pushes against my shoulder, throwing all her own weight into pushing me off the bed. “I’m making you get up, Mr. Lazy Reporter. Now stop wallowing, and let’s go. You want to know what’s going on with your life? Then come with me.”

I slide off the bed because, okay, I’ll admit it, her ridiculous brand of self-assuredness is kind of hot. “And you have a plan to figure me out?”

“Of course.” She says it with so much confidence I almost believe her.

“How?” I ask, standing up to join her. This Billi chick is popular with the locals; I’ll give that to her. But she’s hardly an investigative reporter, and there’s no way she can discover the secrets of thirty years ago any easier than me. She’s only twenty-eight herself. No offense, but she doesn’t have the skills. Still, her confidence has me intrigued.

“Want to fill me in?”

She pulls her keys out of her pocket and walks out the door without a word. If I want to hear her answer, I have no choice but to follow.

“First, we’re going to the hospital. Seems like the best place to start looking for answers. About your birth and about the fire, which is the reason you’re here in the first place. Don’t forget that.”

I haven’t forgotten it, obviously. I have a boss who keeps calling and a deadline practically screaming in my face.

“I remember. And second? What comes after the hospital?”

She gives me a knowing look, one that says she is firmly on the side of discovering the truth.

“Second, we’re going to talk to Paul.”

My heart does a sputter-crash underneath my ribs. “Wait, you know where he lives?” We spent all yesterday looking for his whereabouts, to no avail. What witchcraftery did she engage in to find the guy today?

“Yes. Mr. Bailey told me how to locate him this morning. So, I called him up, and we have a meeting at his house in two hours.”

I toss a look at her over the hood of my car. “You could have led with that when you came into my room.”

“There are a lot of things I could have done when I came into your room, but the timing didn’t seem right.”

I freeze for a second at her words, desperately looking for the double entendre in her meaning, surprised at how much I want one to exist. But Billi simply climbs inside the car and shuts the door, easy as you please, leaving me unable to decipher a dang thing. I lower myself to the passenger seat, my mouth completely dry.

What the hell did that mean?

And why do I want it to mean anything at all?

“Thinkyou could finagle those records my way for just a tiny little second?” Billi asks. “You do know about the freedom of information act, don’t you?” She practically purrs to the teenage boy named Joe behind the desk, leaning over the counter to flirt, going full-on Jane Russell on the kid while he blinks at her, unaware. Billi has no cleavage to speak of—sue me, I checked. Not that I’m complaining; what she lacks up top, she more than makes up for everywhere else. Toned arms, slender waist, long shapely legs that could easily wrap around my waist so tight that—

Anyway, the boy has no hope of standing his ground, not with that body leaning toward him and those eyes batting innocently up at his and that smile aimed straight for his mouth. I can practically see the kid turning to putty right before my eyes. Hell, he looks eighteen, nineteen tops, and here I am feeling a little jealous. And come on, what kind of backward town leaves a hormonal teenage boy in charge at the hospital records counter?

One that just might work in my favor, that’s what.

---