Split(71)

His words sock me in the gut and I step back to gain distance from his venomous mouth.

“That’s what I thought.” Dustin stands and braces his knuckles on his desk. His teasing smile falls and his jaw ticks. “Now, unless you got some evidence to prove it was me or have a cop with you to arrest me, get the f*ck out of my store.”

“I can’t believe I ever cared about you.” I turn on a heel, racing down the steps and into my truck. My skin is tacky with the sweat of adrenaline and my heart races.

Everyone in town calls him that.

Dustin’s words run through my head on repeat. Is it possible I’m not the only one in town that knows about Lucas . . . knows about Gage? More questions run through my head than I have answers.

But I know someone who might.

I push through the front door of the diner and the little bell rings over my head. I seek out Dorothy. She’s standing behind the counter wiping her hands on her apron and smiling at me.

“Hey, Shy. You here for a late lunch?”

I take the stool at the far end of the counter and she follows me down, placing a menu in front of me.

“No, I—”

“You okay, darlin’?” She presses the back of her hand to my forehead. “You don’t look so good.”

I force a grin and nod. “I’m okay, just . . .” Sick and pissed at this stupid f*cking town and the stupid small-minded *s who live in it. “I actually am a little hungry, thanks.”

I order a club sandwich and wait for Dorothy to put the order in before I wave her back to me.

“Yeah, honey?” She smiles.

“Hey, Dorothy, can I ask you a question?”

“’Course.”

“You know, Lucas, right? Newer guy in town, my age. He came in one morning to fill his coffee? Dark hair, always wears a hat—”

“Yeah, I know him.”

“What do you know about him?”

She props her full hip on the counter and sighs. “Sweet kid. Special, ya know?”

The urge to roar is almost unbearable. I know exactly what “special” means, and it’s not the same kind of “special” that Lucas is. Rather than spit fire, I simply nod.

“He showed up in town not too long ago. He was dirty, too thin, unkempt. Believe he was living in his truck, or that’s what they say.”

They. The townspeople. Suddenly I hated Payson for Lucas.

“People tried to help him, offer him food, take him to church and whatnot, but he refused.” She shrugs. “Wasn’t until he started working for your dad that people noticed he was being taken care of and left him alone.”

“Do you, or does anyone know what’s wrong with him?”

“He’s a couple pancakes short a stack, but other than that I think he’s harmless.”

I take a long, relieved breath. They don’t know.

“Can you, I don’t know, think of anyone who might not like him? Have a reason to want to hurt him?”

Her face twists in disgust. “Lord, no. He’s a good kid.”

“Thing is, one of the houses Dad’s working on got vandalized and whoever did it spray-painted some nasty stuff on the walls.”

“Heard ’bout that.”

Of course she did.

She scratches her head with her pencil, then sticks it back into its resting place behind her ear. “You know how people are, Shy. They hate different. That boy is different. There’s something . . .” She motions to her eyes. “In here, makes me think he’s got a story to tell. Not that he ever would. Boy don’t say a thing but please and thank you, sir and ma’am.”

He does to me.

“Right.” Funny, sitting here thinking about it, I realize how very little I know about Lucas. As much time as we’ve spent together, I don’t even know how old he is.

Maybe Dustin was right; anyone in town could’ve vandalized the McKinstry place. I still can’t shake the feeling that my ex-boyfriend is far from innocent.

Dorothy slides a plate piled high with a triple-decker club sandwich and potato salad in front of me.

I peer up at her. “Can I get this to go? I just remembered I have somewhere I need to be.”

“Sure thing, Shy.” She smiles sweetly and slides the entire thing into a box.

I throw down a ten-dollar bill and run out the door. “Thanks, Dorothy!”

She waves and I jog to my truck.

I need more information, and to think it’s been right under my nose this whole time.

“You’re back.”

“Yeah, I thought you could use some lunch.” I thrust the to-go bag at my dad.

“You’re an angel.” He rips into the food. “I’m starving.”

I point over my shoulder toward my desk. “There’s some paperwork I need to sort, so I’ll go ahead and do that.” Not a lie.

“It’s Sunday. You can do it tomorrow,” he says through a cheekful of potato salad.

“Ha! Because my insane social life is calling.”

He grunts and shoves a quarter of the sandwich in his mouth, his eyes on insurance claim paperwork. Between his food and his work, I hope he doesn’t notice me pulling employee files.

My organizing over the last few weeks makes it easy to locate the folder I need. I cross to my desk with a stack of applications pressed to my chest. I flip through pages as quietly as possible, feeling half PI and half stalker slimeball.