Chapter 9
Let’s Talk About Sex and Candy
FIONA
“Mrs. Ibarguen is in exam room one,” Natalie tells me.
“What’s she complaining about today?” Since I’ve been here, Mrs. Ibarguen has come in at least once a month.
She’s sixty-eight and in surprisingly good health.
Despite that, she’s here more often than anyone else in town.
According to Carol, her husband died three years ago, and she’s been like this ever since.
It’s not even hypochondria—not really—or I’d have referred her to a psychiatrist. She’s simply lonely.
“She says she’s allergic to vitamin C.”
“That’s not physiologically possible.” I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “Tell her I’ll be a few minutes, please,” I say to Natalie before going to the reception area to speak to Carol. She’s on the phone, though, so I stand near the desk, waiting.
Finally, she says, “Alright, Tre. I’m going to put you on hold for Dr. Carson.”
I stop myself from reaching over and disconnecting the call. But only because it would be incredibly unprofessional.
“Dr. Carson,” Carol begins, despite having been told she can call me Fiona at least a dozen times during the first month I was back. “Tre is on line one for you.”
“Why?” I ask, trying not to sound too irritated.
“He has some concerns about his shoulder.”
‘His uninjured shoulder,’ I want to say, but I limit myself to a simple, “Okay,” once again closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. The irritations will never cease, apparently. “Is there a senior citizens’ center in town or anything?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Can you check?”
“Absolutely, Dr. Carson.”
“Okay. Thank you. Do you know what Mrs. Ibarguen used to do?”
“I believe she was a homemaker.”
“She has kids?” I ask, surprised. “She hasn’t mentioned them.”
“Yes. Two boys. They moved away after high school. I think they live on the East Coast now.”
“She never worked outside the home?”
“I don’t think so,” Carol says.
“Okay. Thanks. Let me know what you find out about the senior citizens’ center.”
“Will do. Don’t forget about line one.”
“Wouldn’t want that,” I snipe as I turn and move toward the small office. There are still boxes of patient records shoved against every wall. Dr. Restin had a horrible file-keeping system. I’ve been trying to get them cleaned up and digitized, but there’s not enough time in the day.
I pick up the phone and press the button for line one. “Tre.”
“Hi Fiona, thanks for returning my thermos this morning.”
“Mhmm,” I murmur noncommittally. “What do you want?”
“Do you have plans tomorrow night?”
“Why?”
“I know how we can get a copy of the blueprints.”
“We? I thought you were going to take care of that.”
“It’s a two-person job,” Tre says. “Plus, it’ll give us a chance to see how we work together.”
The universe hates me. I’m sure of it. He’s not wrong, though. It won’t hurt to make sure we can actually work together before going all in on destroying Henley and Montank’s Hay Creek development.
“Fine,” I agree begrudgingly. “I don’t have time to talk to you about it now. Call back at six.”
“Okay,” he replies, and I hang up.
“Carol, any info about the senior citizens’ center?” I ask when I walk by the reception area.
“No. Sorry. Like I thought, the closest one is half an hour away in Nakton.”
“Great,” I groan, heading for exam room one. I tap on the door and then open it and walk in. “Hi Mrs. Ibarguen. What brings you in today?”
Her lined face breaks into a smile, and her blue eyes brighten behind her glasses when she sees me.
She launches into a story about almost choking on an orange last week—which, somehow, made her decide she was allergic to vitamin C.
I ask her if she’s ever heard of scurvy—she has!
—and spend five minutes explaining that she couldn’t possibly be allergic to vitamin C.
“Have you ever thought about getting a part-time job, Mrs. Ibarguen?” I eventually ask.
“I’ve never had a job,” she says softly.
“Never?”
She shakes her head, and her chin-length white hair sways around her face.
I sigh. “Do you want one?”
“No one would hire me. I don’t know how to do anything, Dr. Carson.”
“Assuming someone will hire you, would you like a part-time job?” I ask again.
“Yes. I think so.”
“Wait here.” I go to the small office and grab a random file from one of Dr. Restin’s many boxes, then return to Mrs. Ibarguen. I open the file and scan the top page. It’s only vital statistics for an Emily Johnson. Nothing sensitive. “Can you read this?” I question, passing her the page.
She looks from me to the paper, then back to me. “Yes?” she replies, confused.
“Well.” I gesture impatiently. “Go ahead.”
She reads out the entire first page, pausing now and again to scrunch her face over sections that are particularly hard to make out, but as near as I can tell, she deciphers it accurately.
“Can you start Monday?”
“Start what?” Mrs. Ibarguen asks, as if she’s trying to make me regret the offer.
“Working here. I need someone to help me digitize the records. The job is yours if you want it.”
“Oh. I couldn’t do that. I don’t know anything about digitizing records.”
“I’ll show you. It’s easy. The hardest part is figuring out what’s written in the files, and you’ve just demonstrated you can do that. So. Can you start on Monday? I’ll pay you twenty dollars an hour.”
She nods.
“Can you be here at seven?” It’s an hour earlier than I would normally show up, but it’ll give me time to teach her to use the computer.
She nods again.
“Congratulations, Mrs. Ibarguen. You’ve got your first job.”
The phone rings at exactly six. At least he’s capable of following instructions, I tell myself as I pick it up. “Hello?”
“Hi Fiona,” Tre says.
“I heard the police came to talk to you yesterday.” He’s not locked up—and neither am I—so he obviously didn’t tell them anything about Bridal Mountain, but I still want to know what he said.
“How are you, Tre? Oh, I’m good, thanks for asking, Fiona,” he says, having a conversation with himself and chiding me.
I huff loudly and wait.
“Yes, Kevin and another deputy came to the diner to tell me the sheriff wanted to talk to me. They brought one of the Henley and Montank suits with them when they did. I threw him out.”
“And then?” I know he went to the sheriff’s department after that. I heard some people gossiping about it when I was at Malcolm’s with Ewan and Tess last night.
“I went down to talk to them after my shift ended. I was planning on having some fun screwing with them, but apparently my dad heard what was happening and sent some expensive attorney down to handle things. Can’t have me sullying the White legacy by being charged with vandalism, or whatever,” Tre says, sounding bitter.
I know he doesn’t get along with his family.
I just don’t know why. I’ve never cared enough to bother finding out, and that hasn’t changed.
“The attorney was a nice guy, though. Arthur Kostas. He managed to piss the sheriff off at least as much as I could’ve. ”
“And…? What happened, Tre?” How does it take him so long to get to the point? I wonder. I’ve seen mazes that were more direct.
“Oh. Nothing. They asked where I was on the twenty-third. The lawyer shut them down. I left.” He pauses, seeming to wait to see if I’m going to say anything, but I don’t, so he continues, “So, tomorrow night…” and I close my eyes.
“You’re sure about the security guard timing?” I ask, swatting away a mosquito buzzing near my head.
“Again, Fiona? Seriously? For the third time, I’m sure.
A guard comes by every hour—on the hour.
They spend about five minutes driving around and making sure everything looks fine.
Then they leave,” Tre says, standing next to me just inside the tree line as we look out at the site.
“We’ve got fifty minutes if you’ll stop wasting time. ”
“Fine,” I agree, readjusting the ski mask I’m wearing before stepping out of the tree line and jogging toward the job site office trailer, where Tre said they have a copy of the condo blueprints.
We hiked the five miles up here through the old trails that crisscross the area in silence.
Maybe we can work together. I don’t know.
But we definitely have no idea how to carry on a conversation with one another.
When I reach the trailer, I cautiously circle around to the front, listening as I go, but everything is dark and silent.
The moon overhead is the only source of light, and the crickets and frogs chorusing in the distance are the only sound.
I turn toward the stairs that lead to the door and stop in my tracks when I find the door barred with a metal shaft, which is locked in place to prevent it from opening.
“I thought you said they had a standard door lock that we’d be able to get past with a credit card,” I snap when Tre stops next to me, wearing a ski mask of his own. I insisted on them, despite his assurances that there are no cameras. I’m glad I did.
“Damn. This is new. They didn’t have these last week.”
I let out a long exhale but say nothing.
“Go ahead. Say it,” he states dejectedly. “I know you want to.”
I do. I really, really do. Instead, I look at the windows. They’re about eight feet off the ground, but big enough that I could fit through. I bet they didn’t put extra locks on them. “Can you boost me up there?”
Tre looks from me to the window, then returns his gaze to me. “Yeah. But they’re probably locked.”
“Just lift me up.”
He puts his back to the trailer, bends his legs, and clasps his hands together in front of his chest. I grab his shoulder for balance, step one foot onto his thigh, and then step my other into his clasped hands.
He starts to straighten his legs, and I wobble before quickly placing my other hand onto his head and wrapping my fingers into his hair to keep from falling—all while trying not to notice how soft it is.
“Ow,” he hisses, and I let go.