CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“So does that mean we’re off the case?”
Mac kicked the fridge door shut and headed into the living room, beer bottles in hand.
It was an hour later, and Veronica, Mac, and Wallace sat in Mac’s apartment. For the first night in what felt like forever, none of Veronica’s clients were in actual physical peril. That seemed reason enough to take the night off.
They’d decided to spend the evening in—most of their haunts weren’t exactly spring break central, but even so no one felt like facing the crowds. Veronica had done a beer run, Wallace brought tacos, and Mac manifested a batch of organic salsa and tortilla chips. The Alabama Shakes wailed on the stereo. Veronica curled her legs up under her on the couch and took a sip of beer.
“I don’t know. I’m guessing as far as Petra Landros is concerned, the job is done. Hayley Dewalt’s murder is resolved, and it’s hard to imagine she’s going to pay me to try to track down a juvenile delinquent who’s run off with a boy her dad won’t like.”
“That’s pretty messed up.” Wallace shook his head. “I mean, she had to know there’d be some kind of search, right? She just let everyone worry about her.”
“I get the feeling ‘impulse control’ isn’t high on the list of Aurora Scott’s better qualities.” Veronica shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know if she even thought that far ahead.”
“I did a little accounting on your behalf today,” Mac said. “With the reward money and your hourly we might even be able to convince the power company to stop sending threatening notes.”
“You calculated your paycheck in there too, right?”
“Veronica.” Mac gave her an oh-please kind of look. “Of course.”
They clinked their beer bottles together.
“So this is the last week of spring break?” Veronica asked, looking at Wallace.
“Yeah, this is it.” He sighed. “And then it’s back to work for Mr. Fennel. Back to an office that smells like dirty socks. Even better, next week my health class is starting on sex ed.”
“Come on, Fennel. If there’s anything you know about, it’s sex ed.” Veronica nudged him.
He grimaced. “You have no idea. Trying to get a bunch of sophomores to let me get away with saying ‘shaft’ without giggling …”
“I hear he’s a bad mother,” Mac said.
Veronica didn’t miss a beat. “Shut yo’ mouth!”
“I’m just talking about—”
“You two are a laugh a minute, you know that?”
Suddenly Veronica heard her phone, trilling at the bottom of her bag from where it hung on a hook by the door. She got up, Mac and Wallace still mock bickering behind her. The caller ID read UNKNOWN.
“Hello?” As she answered, she cracked open the door to the apartment and stepped out into the hallway, which smelled like cabbage and industrial-strength cleaner.
“Hi, is this Veronica Mars?”
The voice was female, throaty, and a little hoarse, not someone she recognized.
“Yes, it is. Who’s this, please?”
“This is Lee Jackson from the Meridian Group. I’m returning your call.”
The phone almost fell right out of Veronica’s hand.
“Ms. Mars? Still there? Hello?”