I fought a groan. I’d forgotten about the big breakfast order. “Uh, no. Not yet. I’m . . . trying out a new recipe.” I grimaced at the lie. I didn’t like lying. It made me feel hot and sweaty, like I was walking on rocks and eating a chili pepper.
“Oh, that’s good. You can tell me all about it later. I’m calling about that video, the one with the sheriff?”
“Yes, I—”
“Well, you’re going to have to do it next week. It seems there’s been a big to-do at the station.”
I flipped off the faucet. Whenever my momma said the phrase big to-do, it meant she was about to gossip.
“Uh, what do you mean?”
“I guess some important evidence has gone missing, and Sheriff James, the poor man, is furious. Dolly Payton told me that the judge said he’d signed a warrant and everything for that wretched biker, Laser or something.”
“Razor. Razor St. Claire.” My heart jumped to my throat.
“That’s the one, terrible man. Anyway, Dolly called the station to congratulate the sheriff and see if his boys were interested in a trifle to celebrate and, what do you think happened?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
“That Flo McClure sassed her on the phone. Dolly finally got ahold of one of the back office secretaries and she told her that the evidence had gone missing and that the place was in an uproar. And well, you know . . .”
My momma was still talking, but I was only half listening because the hairs on the back of my neck were standing straight up. I dried my hands and tapped the touch screen of my phone, navigating away from the call interface as my mother continued her story while on speaker. I clicked on the video I’d recorded earlier that day and scrolled through the frames without pressing play.
My mouth fell open and my heart stopped and my palms started to sweat.
I knew what happened to the evidence—or rather, who happened to the evidence. I’d recorded the whole thing.
CHAPTER 2
“Consider the subtleness of the sea; how its most dreaded creatures glide under water, unapparent for the most part, and treacherously hidden beneath the loveliest tints of azure.”
― Herman Melville, Moby Dick
Cletus
“How can a transmission be so expensive? I don’t got that much money to spend on a new transmission!”
Despite my best intentions, I was going to have to tell Deveron Stokes a falsehood.
“The transmission is only part of the bill. We’ll give you a deal on the transmission, Mr. Stokes. See here? Your muffler needs new bearings. And your tread fluid is running dangerously low, not to mention the undercarriage spark plugs and crank chortle.”
Crank chortle was a new one. I’d just made it up on the spot. Beau was better at this than me, but he wasn’t here. The cretin.
Deveron sighed, blinking rapidly at the bill on the counter between us. His frown intensified. He shook his head. “Well, all right. I mean, I guess the car does need a lot of work. I appreciate the deal on the transmission.”
I nodded somberly. I was good at somber nodding. It was probably my best, most well-received nod. People always felt comforted when I did it, so I employed it liberally.
Mr. Stokes lifted his eyes. “You’re a good friend, Cletus.”
I nodded somberly again, but said nothing. Mr. Stokes wasn’t my friend. Mr. Stokes wasn’t a nice person. He hadn’t paid his child support in six years, but always managed to stay well stocked in whiskey, women, and cigarettes. However, even before I’d discovered this unsavory fact about Mr. Stokes, I hadn’t liked the man.
I don’t like to judge people.
I love it.
Writing people completely off was liberating.
First impressions were typically correct. My first impressions were always correct. This was because I employed a very scientific approach to forming impressions and was born with infallible logic.
I allot ten minutes. If I didn’t have ten minutes, I’d put off forming an impression until such a window of time was available. I never deviated from the ten-minute rule. I once put off forming an opinion about our new pastor for six months because I hadn’t found the ten minutes required.
My momma hadn’t liked that I’d refused to look at the new pastor over those months, but you couldn’t bend or distort the scientific method. It’s sacred. And ten minutes was all I’ve ever needed to sum up the character of any given person.
For the first five minutes, I didn’t look at him or her. I closed my eyes, or studied my feet, or glanced to one side. In this way I delayed forming an opinion based on outward appearance.
I extended my hand—every single time—saw what kind of grip he or she gave me. Was it limp? Too tight? Tentative?
I listened to her voice and his vocabulary, the lexicon of their thoughts. Was she confident? Learned? Pompous? What subjects did he bring up? Was she interested in talking only about herself? Or did he shy from the spotlight?