I'll Stop the World (49)

Pat frowned. “You know I don’t like to embarrass the kids when stuff like this happens. I’ve never seen that help. But I can’t see any way to look into this without word getting around about what’s going on.”

Bill took another sip of his drink. It burned its way pleasantly down his throat, easing the tension in his belly. “Well, let’s start with Andy. Maybe we can get to the bottom of it before the rumor mill starts churning. At least get a better idea what we’re dealing with.”

“Tomorrow? I’ll bring him in here?”

“Yeah, that works.” Although the school had an official zero-tolerance policy when it came to cheating, the reality was that teachers each dealt with cheating in their own way. Lots of them liked to loop in the guidance counselor when having these conversations, so that Bill could play the good cop. Especially for teachers like Pat, who tended to intimidate the students simply by existing, it was helpful to have someone else there.

Pat drained his cup and tossed it into the plastic trash can by Bill’s desk. “Thanks, buddy,” he said, bracing his hands on his knees and rising. “I appreciate it.”

“Any time,” Bill said automatically.

Pat barked out one of his wolf laughs. “I hope not.”

Bill grinned. “Fair.”

“Veronica doing good? And the baby?”

“Yep. Millie’s walking now, saying a bunch of words. And Veronica is gearing up for Diane’s big debate this weekend.”

Pat’s mustache twitched, indicating a slight smile underneath the pile of coarse hair. “I hope she mops the floor with that soggy skid mark.”

“Oh, she will. Veronica’s actually been working with Diane on toning down her vocabulary just a little bit, so she doesn’t come across as too much smarter than him.”

Pat snorted. “Anyone who watches them for more than two seconds will tell she’s smarter than him. I mean, she’s a librarian and he’s a used-car salesman.”

“Yeah, but if the gap seems too wide, she comes across as snobby. It’s a delicate balancing act.”

“Politics, man. What a shit show.”

“You’re telling me.”





Chapter Twenty-Eight


JUSTIN

Since I’m already staying at Mrs. Hanley’s house, I’m the one tasked with investigating her fire while Rose works on McMillain over at the high school. I spend most of Monday combing through the police report on the fire, along with every inch of the garage, while she’s in school.

I don’t know what I’m hoping to find, but the answer so far is . . . nothing. I’m no detective, but from where I sit, odds are not looking great for me getting back home.

If there even is a way back home.

I’m sitting on the couch in Mrs. Hanley’s living room, hunched over the coffee table as I pore over the file yet again next to a growing pile of Twinkie wrappers, when she sits next to me and plops down a plate holding a sandwich. Thick-cut roast chicken is piled high between slices of wheat bread. My mouth instantly starts watering.

“Twinkies aren’t food,” she proclaims. “I keep those in the pantry for my grandkids, but a growing boy like you needs more than just sugar.”

“I don’t think I’m growing much more,” I say, and receive a knuckle in my ribs in response. “Ow!”

“There’s more than one direction to grow in,” she says. “You need some meat on your bones.”

Obediently, I take a bite of the sandwich, closing my eyes in momentary bliss as Mrs. Hanley leans forward to examine the contents of the coffee table. She taps the thin stack of papers with a pointed red nail. “I can find you something better to read if you want. I think my grandson left some books here with some space monsters on the covers. Probably find more truth in those than in here.”

I look up in surprise at the old woman. “So what’s in here isn’t accurate?”

She shrugs, leaning back and folding her hands in her lap over her flowered dress. “I’m sure they think it’s accurate. As much as they think about it at all.”

I look back at the file in confusion, flipping through the pages. I’m not an expert on police files by any stretch, but nothing jumps out at me as obviously wrong.

Mrs. Hanley chuckles, patting my hand. “It’s not anything that’s there, sugar.”

“Are you saying there’s something missing?” I ask, trying to understand. “Like evidence of an intruder?”

“Oh, honey, I don’t know what’s missing, and they don’t care,” she says, shaking her head. “Door was unlocked, lighter belonged to me. My grandson was home. Case closed. They acted like they were doing us a favor by not charging him with arson.”

“But even if it was your grandson—which I’m not saying it was,” I amend hurriedly at the look on Mrs. Hanley’s face, “shouldn’t the insurance company still pay, since he doesn’t live here?”

She gives a humorless chuckle. “They figure that I asked him to start the fire while I was out. Or that’s their excuse anyway.”

“You think there’s another reason they’re not paying?”

“Yup. They’re a buncha thieves,” Mrs. Hanley says matter-of-factly. “Well, that’s what they are,” she insists when she notices my eyebrows go up. “First, they don’t want us to own our own homes at all, but then when we go and do it anyway, they say, ‘Well, you have to buy this insurance, too,’ so then we do that, but then when it’s time for that insurance to pay, they won’t. It’s a racket.”