Page 91 of The Pocket Pair

Part of it is because we both grew up here. Part of it is probably the betting, which has been going on for longer than I want to know.

“Aw, I think your humming sounds nice,” Charlotte calls from the receptionist’s desk. She’s watching a soap opera on silent, reading the closed captioning because her hearing isn’t the best. Though she doesn’t answer phones anymore for that same reason, we all love Charlotte and will keep her so long as she’ll show up to smile at people coming in the door.

“Thank you, Charlotte.”

“And I’m happy for you and Val,” she adds. “Took you long enough.”

Yeah, it did. And other than some lingering doubts that flare up from time to time, I can’t remember the last time I was happy like this.

I’m humming again without realizing it until Grant huffs.

“Fine! You want to make any requests, newbie?” I ask him. “And don’t say Freebird.”

“How about some Zac Brown band?”

“Now that I can do. If you can get back to work and leave me be.”

He does. And I start to hum through “Toes,” more than a little surprised when Grant starts humming the harmony along with me. We’re halfway done with the song when the phone rings. As the newest hire, Grant gets the honor of answering the call.

I ignore his chorus of yes ma’ams and mm-hms. From his tone, this is a complaint, not a real call. My hands go back to the papers; my mind stays on Val.

When I’ll see her next. What she’ll be wearing. If she’s making dinner. When I can pull her close and kiss the daylights out of her.

Grant hangs up, shaking his head. “That was Mrs. Fleming. She said you were going to come clean out her cannons?”

It’s clear from the question in his voice, Grant has never met Mrs. Fleming. Or her cannons.

“Is that, like, a secret code?” he asks.

“Nope. She has actual cannons. Some kids have been stuffing trash in them. It’s a whole thing. I meant to take care of it, but I forgot.”

“Can I come?” Grant’s floppy golden hair and wide, hopeful eyes give him a golden retriever vibe.

“Sure. Just don’t mention her cat.” I close a folder and move onto the next.

“Why?”

“Because it’s actually an opossum.”

Before Grant can ask follow up questions about that, someone pushes through the double doors and into the station. He’s a dark-haired guy I’ve never seen before. Looks to be about Grant’s age, fresh out of college.

“May I help you?” Charlotte asks.

“Yeah, um.” The guy shoves his hands in his worn jeans and glances past Charlotte. His gaze hops right over Grant and lands on me, holding. I can’t read the expression in his eyes, but it’s intense. I glance back down at the folder in front of me, feeling unease spreading in my gut. Something about him seems familiar.

“Chevrolet Boyd?”

“You know Chevy?” Charlotte asks, glancing my way.

“No. Well, sorta. I was hoping we could talk.”

Though I can’t shake the disquiet, anything’s better than paperwork. I push back my chair and stand, gesturing to the chair near my desk. “Come on back.”

He glances between Charlotte and Grant. “Do you have anywhere, um, private?”

More dread. More worry about what this guy wants with me that he doesn’t want anyone else hearing.

“Sure.” I lead him into the conference slash interrogation slash break room and close the door behind us. It always smells like burned coffee in here, which, considering all the options, isn’t all that terrible. I start to pour myself a cup.

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