Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Jefferson
I pop some gum into my mouth and play dumb when the deputy pulls me over near the front gates of the C.O.C.K. compound.
Chewing gum makes a guy like me look extra dumb.
I slide on my aviators when I roll down the window, smiling at the deputy like a real dope.
When he asks me what I’m doing here, I speak slowly. “I’m here to serve some papers to Orlyn Moffat?”
I should have called it quits after yet another fruitless search this morning. Especially after Joaquin ripped me a new one.
But I can’t quit looking for Georgie.
“This is about the tenth time I’ve told you to stop harassing these poor church folks about that drifter,” the deputy says. I examine his badge and memorize his name and number like I’ve done a dozen times before.
The same one who gave me the phony address that led me to Bozeman and the run-in with that rescue group. I guess I should thank him. After all, he’s responsible for indirectly causing me to meet Georgie.
I continue to play dumb, smiling like an idiot. “I’m sorry. Is it really that many times? I lost count.”
The deputy sighs.
“Most folks acting on the court’s behalf do not announce their presence like this,” he says, waving his hand in the air, to indicate my car.
“I’m sorry,” I say, leaning out my window to speak to him conspiratorially. “It’s just that all my research tells me—and everyone in Darling Creek seems to think—this place right here is his primary address, so I have to keep trying.”
“Sir. We’ve been over this.”
“Let me ask you. Am I breaking any laws by being on a public right of way? Just curious.”
His jaw muscle ripples. “No.”
“Am I under arrest?”
Over the years, I’ve cultivated a way to ask these questions so I don’t get tazed. A super-dumb, aw-shucks, genuinely curious kind of way.
“Again. No. But I could get a warrant to search your car.”
I nod. “Huh. I wonder what Judge Mayfield would think of a deputy—and one who’s currently running for public office—impeding a murder investigation.”
“I’m not…”
I wave my hand around. “Oh no, I don’t mean you, Mark. Just hypothetically. You get me?”
He grunts.
“See, when you throw around fake addresses to people looking for skips, it looks real bad. Imagine if someone did that for an individual wanted in questioning for a murder.”
Mark puffs out his chest. “I don’t know anything about anyone doing that. And I told you last time, he’s not here. If we knew where Moffatt was, we’d bring him straight to the department, Mr. Hope.”
I smile and chew my gum casually. “Man, you sure are polite. Your moms raised you right. But you can just call me Jeff, m’kay?”
The shade of purple he turns at hearing me say “moms” is interesting.
I dig in. “Which mom was it? Was it the legal one or the one your daddy got engaged to when she was 16?”
Yeah. I did some digging around. That was fun. If your definition of fun is learning horrible things about your not-so-friendly neighborhood cult.
“The fuck are you talking about?”
“Not sure, Deputy. I’m just sitting here trying to imagine having a stepmom younger than myself. I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Welp. If that’s all, then I guess I’m free to go.”
I just can’t help my mouth sometimes.
I don’t get the pleasure of watching Mark’s ears turn a deeper shade of eggplant, because an electronic notification sounds at that exact moment.
The air is sucked from my lungs when I read the cryptic text. I don’t know whose phone it’s from, but I know it’s Georgie, sending up a signal flare.
I have Georgeanne. She’s fine. We’re stopping at the superstore in ten minutes to pick up a birthday cake. Let everyone at Mom’s house know I’ll have her home soon.
I feel like I’ve been lost at sea and I’ve finally spotted a lighthouse.
Swallowing down the elation that threatens to make me freak the fuck out, I turn to Mark. “The bail bondsman has another skip for me, and it’s urgent. You understand. Nice talking to you again, Mark.”
The deputy’s disgruntled face in my rearview mirror doesn’t concern me.
I could go wait at Georgie’s Mom’s house again. But from the wording in that text, I think I need to get to her before that.
My only focus is getting my ass to that big box store on the outskirts of town.
And it’s a nine-minute drive away.
As soon as the deputy disappears over the horizon in my rearview mirror, I’m banging gears. Sonja never lets me down, and I get there in seven minutes flat. I park my baby in the pick- up area because this is Darling Creek, and no one ever gets towed. And also, I do not give a fuck.
My internal homing beacon has been activated. As I stalk around the bakery department, I remind myself that I’m looking for someone who might appear differently after 31 days. She could be wearing her hair up. She could have cut it. In my mind’s eye, I’ve always been picturing her in an oversized baby blue sweater and baggy jeans, when she could be wearing a dress for all I know.
I don’t see Georgie in the cake department.
Where would she go? She mentioned a birthday present. What would that be?
Goldie mentioned something about plants. She likes plants. My instincts tell me I’m going the wrong way, but I check the garden department anyway. No sign of her there.
Goldie said Georgie’s really organized. She likes to keep journals of everything in the greenhouse. She has stacks and stacks of them.
My skin tingles and I quickly pivot and head to the books department.
On my way there, someone in a dirty blue hoodie brushes past me in the home and office section. “Pardon me,” says the even, feminine voice.
Ever have that lighter-than-air feeling when you find something valuable after looking all day and turning over everything in your house? This is how I feel right now, except I’m not lighter than air. I’m halfway to the moon.
It’s her.
My body follows like it’s tethered to her as she heads around the corner. Her hair is down, and it falls in waves to her waistline like a coppery waterfall. I’ve never seen so much hair.
I’m about to call after her when a man steps in front of me, nearly body-checking me as he follows her around to the next aisle. He has the look that’s all too common these days in our friendly cow town. Bitch-baby face. Pressed khaki pants. Hiking shoes. Untucked black polo shirt with the tell-tale bump on his hip from his concealed-carry holster. He smells like fragile masculinity—cologne and an unwashed tiny ballsack.
The dude in the polo shirt follows Georgie at close range, so I follow them at about 15 paces.
She pauses in front of a row of notebooks in the office section. My heart may beat out of my chest at seeing her delicate fingers grazing over the cardboard and leather covers. Her teeth bite down on her bottom lip. She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear.
I watch as her hand skims over the books, stopping at one light blue one with flowers and whatnot on the cover. Then another one with rainbows. She is indecisive, and the man with her, who looks like he might be related to her, grows impatient.
Finally, she picks the one with flowers and whatnot, and they leave. I quickly grab the other book she was looking at, the one with the rainbows. I zip through the self-checkout.
Just as they approach the automatic doors, I pounce. “Ma’am? I’m going to have to check your bag.”
The man steps in between myself and her. I briefly flash him my ID for half a second, which is only my driver’s license, but I have the confidence to carry it off.
“No, sir,” he says.
“Store security,” I say. “Ma’am, I’m sorry to bother you, but I saw you take something without paying for it.”
“This is horse crap,” says the dad. Damn, the dude even swears like a dork ass loser.
“Dad, it’s okay,” Georgie says calmly though her hands are shaking.
I come in close, placing myself between her and her father. The exit doors open and close chaotically as we stand in the vestibule. She opens her bag and I drop the journal I bought inside.
“Ma’am, you’ll have to come with me to the security office for questioning,” I say.
“Okay,” she says, her big eyes wide with fear. God, she’s so pale. Her cheeks are sunken. I have to fight the urge to pick her up and carry her. Am I doing the right thing?
The dad puts his hand on Georgie’s arm. “Absolutely not,” he says.
“I think I’d better go with him, Dad. I made a huge mistake.”
“I’m calling our lawyer.”
Great. They have lawyers now.
I turn and face the man. “Sir, if you’ll be so kind as to wait here while I interview the young lady. This should only take a few minutes.”
I gesture to a bench inside the loud vestibule, near the store greeter. To my surprise and relief, he grudgingly takes a seat.
I walk with Georgie to the meat department and stroll through the employees-only doors, through the stock room, and out to the store pick-up area.
Miraculously, no one follows us or asks a single question. It’s amazing what you can do when you act like you own a place.
I escort Georgie to where Sonja waits for us and smoothly hold the door open for her as she gets in. Her face is that of someone about to go into shock.
As I slide behind the wheel, I watch her fumble with her seat belt. Carefully, I reach over and take control of the situation.
For the first time in 31 days, she looks me dead in the eyes.
My world has changed forever now that I have her. I let go of the seat belt. I just need a moment.
She begins to shake all over.
I hold her hand, and it feels cold and clammy. “You’re safe now, Georgie.”
Her breathing is too shallow, too fast.
I am nearly wild with rage on her behalf, but I turn that rage into something useful. I say to her, “You come here right now, Georgie.”
Georgie gives a small gasp as I ease my seat back and pull her to me over the gear shift, fitting her between me and the wheel. I wrap my arms around her, and I don’t let go until her breath evens out and she stops shaking.
Moments pass. A few employees stare as they walk by with their wagons full of groceries, but they’re more interested in the car than whatever the heck is happening inside it.
Eventually, Georgie leans back to look at me, and the car horn honks, startling her.
I can’t help but laugh, and I hope she doesn’t think I’m mocking her. To my relief, she laughs, too.
“Jefferson. You cut your hair.”
I squeeze her tight and breathe in the scent at the base of her throat, inhaling the apple smell of her soft auburn hair.
We have to get out of here, though I want nothing more than to lose myself in her long, thick locks. In the sensation of her soft hands on my shorn head. “We gotta go,” I say.
She nods quickly. “Before anyone sees us.”
Once she’s buckled in, she holds onto my hand as I grasp the gear shift.
Once I’m safely away from store traffic, we charge down the highway toward town. I like having Georgie in my car.
Every bump and swerve makes her inch closer to me. She doesn’t let go until we’re in the car port behind The Dump.
The last month has felt like an eternity, and we’ve finally arrived at the beginning of something big.
“You really need to move to a place with a garage if you’re going to make it a habit of kidnapping people,” Joaquin says, handing Georgie a glass of water.
He eyes her curiously as she sits on my lap and clutches me like a koala climbing a tree.
“He didn’t kidnap me,” she says in my defense.
“Potato, potahto.”
Georgie stares at me, wide-eyed.
“I’m an adult,” she says. “Is it kidnapping if I’m an adult?”
“Relax, sweetheart. “No one is going to come looking for you here.”
Joaquin glares at me.
“Did you hide the Charger at the place?”
“No.”
“That’s what I rented the unit for. I don’t want anyone who has a beef with you to show up here.”
“Nobody has a beef with me.”
He stares back at me severely. “Everyone has a beef with you. You’re a walking liability to my profession.”
“What is your profession, again?” I ask, tilting my head.
He points at me. “I’m an Instacart shopper. And you, no driving the Charger until further notice.”
“You’re overreacting, Joaquin. I’ve got this handled. No one followed us. No one is gonna bother us.”
My bossy housemate turns to leave.
“If you’re stealing Sonja, make sure you give her a bath at least. And get my go-bag out of the trunk.”
I don’t know if he heard me, but he’s out the door, muttering as he leaves.
“What did he say?” Georgie asks, watching him go.
“Probably the same thing he complains about every other day. Stuff about me being a reckless, stubborn asshole.”
“You don’t have to put up with that abuse.”
I look at Georgie and chuckle. “Sure I do. He’s my best friend.”