20. Sophie
SOPHIE
Iwas in jail.
Yes. Me. Sophie Hartwell the event planner (newish event planner) was sitting in a ten-by-fifteen cell block.
Not exactly the career milestone I’d been hoping to add to my résumé.
Skills include organizing festivals, emergency band replacement, goat wrangling, and felony-level decision-making.
Somehow, I didn’t think LinkedIn had a category for that.
It smelled of old urine, beer, cigarettes and god knew what else.
It was a concrete box without a window, just metal bars separating us from the rest of the world.
Us, the law-breakers. A metal toilet was tucked into one corner, which I was making a very conscious effort not to acknowledge.
If I didn’t look directly at it, perhaps it would remain more of an abstract concept than an actual piece of jail plumbing.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed constantly, like even they were annoyed to be here.
Honestly, the place had all the warmth and charm of an abandoned meat locker designed by people who hated happiness.
Speaking of the law, just as Captain Competent cuffed me and, yes, put me in the back of his SUV with Dottie, he didn’t say a word after he said some law verbiage that I’d already forgotten. Something about my rights. I remembered approximately the first six words before my brain just shut off.
The ride to the station had been painfully quiet. Every few minutes I’d opened my mouth, intending to explain everything all over again, only to realize there wasn’t much left to add beyond, Yes, I knowingly stole a truck full of livestock, but I had excellent emotional reasons.
He wouldn’t even look at me when he had us processed and charged.
The deputy—Jenna, from her badge—was a large blonde, who looked like she could take me and Dottie down with her pinky finger.
She processed us, removed our handcuffs, and put us in the cell.
She had one of those calm, efficient voices that somehow made being arrested sound like checking into a moderately disappointing hotel.
“Stand here.” Click. “Turn around.” Click. “Sign here.” Wonderful. Somewhere in a drawer at the Maplewood Falls Sheriff’s Office now existed a file containing my fingerprints. If my mother ever found out, she’d somehow blame my choice of moisturizer.
When I’d turned around, the sheriff had disappeared.
Which, annoyingly, hurt more than the actual handcuffs had.
I wasn’t sure what I’d expected. A dramatic declaration?
A secret wink? Him whispering, “Don’t worry.
I’ll fix this?” I’d been watching entirely too many romantic movies.
Reality, as usual, had arrived wielding paperwork and wearing sensible shoes.
“Sarah won’t be pleased I’m not there for brunch,” Dottie was saying as she sat next to me on the only bench in this place.
Somehow, she’d managed to fold her hands neatly in her lap like we were waiting for a church service instead of arraignment.
A streak of dirt was smeared across one bare foot, and a blade of hay stuck to the hem of her skirt.
She looked exactly like a woman who’d accidentally wandered into jail while picking herbs from her garden, which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely inaccurate.
“I’m sure she’ll understand when you tell her you were rescuing animals,” I told her. “Sarah is a good person. She’ll get it.”
Dottie looked down at her hands. “She’ll be all alone serving customers. I should be there.” She sighed deeply. “The pancakes will miss me.” Another sigh. “The bacon too.”
Did I feel guilty that I’d dragged Dottie with me into my new law-breaker career?
Little bit. But if you’d asked me if I regretted what I did?
Nope. I’d do it again in a second. Maybe with slightly better planning.
And perhaps without stealing the actual truck.
But the animals? I’d still choose them. Every single time.
“Do you think the sheriff talked to Dr. Keller about the animals?” I asked Dottie after a moment. The question had been bouncing around inside my head ever since we’d been arrested, ricocheting off every other anxious thought.
Had Eric taken them back to the handler?
Had Dr. Keller come outside? Had anyone listened?
Had Bandit been confused when I’d disappeared?
The image of his little face pressed against the trailer gate wouldn’t leave me alone.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those floppy ears, that hopeful little face, completely convinced I’d somehow fix everything.
It was deeply unfair that a goat had more faith in me than I currently had in myself.
“I don’t know. I was too busy trying to remove my handcuffs,” she said. “I could have. And I almost did.” She sounded faintly disappointed with herself, like escaping custody had simply been another item on her morning to-do list that she’d regrettably left unfinished.
I stared at her. “How?” I could only reasonably absorb so many surprises before lunch, and “Dottie might secretly be an escape artist” had not appeared on today’s bingo card.
She showed me her wrists. “I’m double jointed. See?” She started to bend her fingers in ways that had bile rising up in the back of my throat. One knuckle appeared to fold in a direction evolution had almost certainly not intended, and then her thumb somehow disappeared behind her palm.
I nodded. “Good to know.” Also deeply disturbing. Images now lived in my brain that would require years of therapy.
Silence settled over the cell again. Even Dottie stopped fidgeting. Somewhere down the hallway a phone rang. A copier hummed. A door opened and closed. Life carried on outside these bars with infuriating normalcy while mine had taken a sharp detour.
I stared at the concrete floor. Where were they?
Where was Bandit now? And Theo? And Daisy.
And the little donkey who deserved a name too, but I was too wired to think of one right now.
Poor thing. I’d spent days assigning personalities to livestock yet somehow failed to give the donkey an actual name.
That felt like a personal failure. If we all survived this, I was absolutely naming him, assuming he didn’t already have one. Which he almost certainly did. Details.
Had the handler simply driven away after we were hauled off?
Or had Dr. Keller somehow stepped in? Maybe he’d convinced the owner to wait.
Maybe he’d called someone. Maybe I was doing what I always did, inventing happy endings before reality had a chance to disappoint me.
My imagination was annoyingly optimistic in moments like this, like having an internal Disney screenwriter constantly pitching alternative endings while reality replied, “That’s adorable. Anyway…”
I rubbed both hands over my face. The worst part wasn’t even being arrested. Okay… it was definitely in the top three. But the worst-worst part was Captain Competent. My mugshot would eventually become a funny family story. Possibly. Assuming Sarah didn’t frame it in the lobby.
Yesterday the sheriff held me while we danced.
He’d smiled and even kissed me back. He’d admitted he’d wanted to kiss me.
Today, well, he’d handcuffed me without so much as looking me in the eye.
Not once. Not during the drive. Not during processing.
Not even when Deputy Jenna locked us in here.
Somewhere between the dance floor and the squad car, he’d built a wall so high I couldn’t even see over it.
Which was fair. Professional. Entirely appropriate.
Unfortunately, my feelings had neglected to become equally professional.
He’d been all sheriff. All badge. All duty.
Captain Competent had disappeared somewhere between the vet clinic parking lot and the holding cell.
The man who’d laughed at my terrible jokes, told me I was stronger than I thought, and kissed me like he’d meant it had been replaced by someone who spoke in short legal sentences and avoided eye contact like it carried a prison sentence of its own.
I understood it. That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.
The kiss suddenly felt like it had happened six months ago instead of last night.
Amazing how quickly one pair of handcuffs could reclassify an almost-romance into what felt suspiciously like a cautionary tale.
If anyone ever wrote a self-help book based on my life, chapter one would simply read: “Maybe Don’t Kiss the Person Who Might Eventually Arrest You. ”
“Well…” A familiar voice drifted through the bars. “Now this is a surprisingly attractive setting.” Even before I looked up, I knew exactly who it was. Nobody else I knew could make county jail sound like the opening line to a cocktail party.
I looked up.
Lola.
She stood on the other side of the bars wearing oversized sunglasses, white linen pants, and a coral silk blouse tied dramatically at the waist like she’d wandered onto a yacht instead of the county jail.
One hand rested on her designer handbag while the other slowly wrapped around one of the metal bars.
She looked less like someone visiting inmates and more like she’d accidentally taken a wrong turn on the way to a wine tasting, decided the décor was charming, and planned to leave a five-star review.
She gave it an experimental little shake.
“Hmm.” She tilted her head thoughtfully.
“I’ve always wondered whether bars like these were as sexy in real life as they are in certain fantasies.
” She peered through them at me as though evaluating the ambiance.
“The lighting could use work. Very institutional. But with the right outfit…” She nodded to herself. “There’s potential.”
I groaned. “Please don’t.” I was already having the worst morning of my adult life. I didn’t need Lola mentally redecorating the county jail into a themed honeymoon suite.