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  Maybe after he’s arrested.

  And on that note, where were the police? I lifted the phone back to my ear to ask the dispatcher. A horn honked. I peered around the Silverado. A man in a Lexus rolled down his window. A man looking irritated and harried. Before I could explain, I heard the double buzz of another call. Checked my ID and saw it was my probation officer.

  Hells to the shizzle.

  “Move your damn truck,” hollered Mr. Lexus.

  “Just a minute and I’ll explain,” I called and heard the approaching sirens. I did need to move the damn truck. But not for this guy. “Sir, you need to back up.”

  “Get off your damn phone and move your damn truck.”

  In my ear, the buzzing of my probation officer continued. On the other line, the 9-1-1 responder asked me a question about what I could see. Although I didn’t think she meant an irate man in a Lexus.

  “Hold on,” I said to 9-1-1 and pointed a finger at Lexus. “You hold on, too.”

  “Move your fat ass. Or I’ll do it for you.” Mr. Lexus opened his car door.

  “That is so totally uncalled for, sir. I’m still in an adjustment phase to living in Georgia. I didn’t get to eat like this back in California. And I no longer have a trainer. Thank God for small favors. But still, it’s hard to control my eating and exercise unless I have someone berating me.” I ran a hand over my ponytail. Off track again. And my spine still seemed to be playing hide-and-seek. “If you could please get back in your car, the police—”

  The dispatcher spoke again. The buzzing from my probation officer cut off. My phone chirped six times. Texts from Vicki. The sirens grew louder. I shoved the phone in my pocket and turned toward the truck. Saw Mr. Lexus stalking toward me.

  “I’m going to move, but you can’t go into the bank right now. You need to back up and drive away. Please believe me, sir.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  Beneath my feet, the ground rumbled a millisecond before I heard the explosion. The door of the bank blew open. Tore off its hinges. Sailed through the air. And slammed into Roger Price’s Sentra.

  Two

  #NoExcuses #YetAgain

  The next morning, while my head felt like it would explode — shooting off my neck and slamming into the ceiling, much like that bank door did to Roger Price’s car — across from me, my probation officer, Gladys Hoepker calmly read the official report detailing the horrible blunders of my past. Probably current blunders, too. Although Gladys had the air of a much older woman, I guessed she was in her mid-thirties. Glossy blonde hair cut into a neat bob. An unbecoming, yet efficient suit. Nails trimmed and not painted. A smartwatch that caught her eye every three minutes. On the floor behind her desk, she had a bag of knitting supplies.

  I focused on these details, trying to find the calm that Gladys so wonderfully maintained. I squirmed on the molded plastic chair. Pulled air through my nose and let it whoosh from my mouth. The ujjayi breath was supposed to be calming, but it made me lightheaded.

  Okay, Maizie, that’s because you’re hyperventilating. Slow down your breath. Repeat your mantra. Nash is not dead. He’s injured, but not dead. Everything’s going to be okay.

  “Everything is not okay, Miss Albright.”

  I stuttered out the last breath and blinked at my probation officer. “I’m sorry?”

  Gladys glanced from me to her computer. “You keep saying that, but you’re in serious jeopardy of breaking the terms of your probation.”

  “I didn’t mean for you to hear that.”

  “Then quit talking while you’re breathing.” Gladys frowned. “The breathing itself is seriously annoying. But the chanting? That’s got to stop. I’m about to ask for a psych counsel. You’re lucky your drug tests are clean because my first inclination is you’re on something.”

  “I’m trying to calm myself. My therapist Renata taught me—”

  “What’s your new therapist taught you? Oh right, nothing. Because you don’t have one. Which is one of the conditions of your probation.” Gladys pulled a sheaf of papers from her printer, then dropped them into the folder on her desk.

  “I’m sort of working on that? Therapy is sort of expensive?”

  “Listen, Maizie. This is not California. We don’t bend rules for hotshot stars in Georgia. It’s hard to believe a judge would let you leave the state when you’re on probation. These guidelines he delivered should be a cake walk. And still, you screwed it up. Live with your father. Get a job. Stay clean. Seek therapy. No jobs associated with the TV or film industry. Community service. Check in weekly with your probation officer. How hard can that be?”

  “I’m not a hotshot star. At least not anymore. And I don’t think anyone ever called me hotshot?” I wasn’t sure if anyone said “hotshot” in this century, but that wasn’t pertinent. “Some events have been just out of my control—”

  “Like a bank robbery.”

  I drooped in my chair. “Exactly.”

  “Let’s see…” Gladys peered at the paper on her desk. “Or missing your last appointment because you were serving ‘a subpoena to a woman whose pit bull treed you in her front yard’ and you ‘had to wait for a fireman to get you down.’”

  “Yes. When you’re chased by a dog ordered to ‘kill,’ there’s a lot of motivation to get up a tree. Getting down is much harder.”

  “Appointment before that, you were up all night on a surveillance op at the Tiger Lounge and overslept.”

  “The husband was cheating with a stripper. The pictures inside the Tiger Lounge came out dark and grainy which isn’t good for court, so we were waiting for him to exit the back for a rendezvous in the alley. Which, I mean, ew. At least wait until she gets off work, right? This guy was a real—”

  “I don’t care that this guy is a real anything, Maizie. I care about you meeting the terms of your probation. And one of those terms is making it on time to your weekly meetings. Another is to meet with a therapist. And do community service. None of which you’ve complied.”

  “I had my community service set up, Miss Gladys. But the play rehearsals didn’t start until this week and—”

  “And you still missed the first appointment.” Gladys folded her arms and leaned back in her chair.

  “Because there was a bank robbery and my partner was—”

  “You know what this job gets me, Maizie?”

  I shook my head.

  “Excuses. I’ve heard so many excuses over my time, I could load a U-Haul and dump them on my employer, friends, and family anytime I don’t feel like doing something.” Gladys placed her hands on her desk and leaned forward. “You know what I don’t do, Maizie?”

  I had a feeling I knew, but I shook my head anyway.

  “Give excuses for things I should be doing. I just do whatever I need to do. Because I’m supposed to do it. Like an adult does. That’s why you’re on probation, Maizie. You want the easy way out. If you don’t feel like doing something, whether it’s making it to your community service or—” Gladys tapped the paper “—saying no to a boyfriend when he wants to sell narcotics, you wimp out.”

  “I didn’t know Oliver was selling Oxy. And I really wanted to make it to my community service, but by the time Roger Price blew up the bank—”

  Gladys held her hand up. “Excuses.”

  I slid back in my chair and twisted a lock of my hair.

  “Maizie, do you want to return to Judge Ellis in California and give these excuses to him? I don’t know Judge Ellis, seems like a real nice guy to make these probation requirements so easy for you, but I don’t think he wants to hear these excuses. You know what I think?”

  I sighed.

  “I think he’d rather revoke your probation than hear excuses. The only thing a judge wants to hear is ‘yes, your Honor. I can testify that my client fulfilled the terms of her probation.’”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Gladys pushed a piece of paper toward me. “Since you’re unable to deal with the responsibility of find
ing therapy and community service work, I have done it for you. You will report to your community service work in one hour. And to make it even easier on you, your appointed psychologist, Dr. Trident, will assign the community service work.”

  “Trident like the gum?”

  “No, Trident like the doctor of psychology who will be treating you.” Gladys narrowed her eyes.

  “I meant just in terms of spelling.” I refrained from another deep breath. “Is Dr. Trident expensive?”

  “He’s doing it pro bono. Which means you need to make a doubly extra effort to work with him and make it to your sessions, Maizie. He’s moving to the Wellspring Center. You will help him with the move today.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “I’m moving furniture?”

  “And boxes. Cleaning. Painting. Whatever he needs to get his new office situated. Then for your community service, you’ll be assisting at Wellspring wherever they need help.”

  “Where?”

  “Black Pine Wellspring Center on Black Pine Mountain. It’s been remodeled by the new owners. At the turn of the last century, the original buildings were used by summer visitors for a European spa or something. It’s changed hands a few times. I think it was a chicken farm for a while. Anyway, now it’s back to the original idea. A health and wellness retreat. Which is why Dr. Trident moved his office there.”

  “Okay. The community theater was more in my wheelhouse than moving boxes, but I’m happy to volunteer.” I studied the paper she handed me and folded it into a square. “Just an FYI, before I get to this I need to see my boss. He’s in the hospital and if I don’t mind the office, we could lose business. His ex-wife has a competing private investigation’s office and—”

  “No excuses, Maizie.” Gladys stood, folded her arms, and leaned over me. “Here’s an FYI for you. You’re in violation of your probation right now. And FYI, I haven’t reported you. Yet.”

  Yet. The most ominous word in the English language. Maybe followed by FYI.

  Three

  #PresumedNotMissing #BigFootBelievers

  Despite Gladys’s dire warnings, I stopped at our office before going to the Wellspring Center. I needed to gather a few things — mostly my wits — and to check in with Lamar. Lamar owned our building and the Dixie Kreme Donuts shop under which Nash housed his private investigations office permanently and himself temporarily.

  Nothing is better or worse than working in an office that smelled like donuts. Nothing is better or worse than finding your boss’s Hugo Boss briefs in a file cabinet.

  At least for myself, in both cases.

  Lamar was also an ex-cop and silent partner of Nash Security Solutions. Or would be as soon as Nash’s evil (generally) ex-wife, Jolene Sweeney, would sell her half of the business to him. Currently, Jolene had two security businesses. Half of Nash’s and her own, Sweeney Security Solutions. Meaning she competed with herself. Spite does not provide good business acumen. It does, however, do an awesome job of ruining an ex-husband’s business.

  Which I guess, was the point.

  I stopped in the Dixie Kreme shop — a habit I pretended was more about neighborliness and less about donuts — to give my hellos to the staff. I’d missed Lamar. He’d already gone to the hospital.

  Wishing I had that option, I trudged up the stairs to Nash Security Solutions. As I climbed, I skipped the squeaky step that sounded like a gunshot and realized, in only a few months, how well I knew this building. I’d memorized the pattern of bricks peeking through the cracks in the plaster walls. Learned how to jiggle the key in the old brass lock because the humidity (and dirt) made the gears stick. Then to pull the door shut before pushing it open. I knew the water stains in the ceiling and the low spot on the wooden floor that made you trip and stub your toe on the metal leg of the desk. How to lift the drawers on the file cabinets so they wouldn’t catch on their dented sides. The time of day the sun slanted through the blinds and heated the couch’s wooden arm. It would singe your arm hair if you weren’t careful.

  Familiarity breeds endearment towards the contemptible, IMHO.

  I loved the office. Despite its propensity toward grime. But today its familiarity gave me a sense of homesickness. Maybe similar to the first visit home from college. (In all honesty, I’d attended U Cal, Long Beach, as a commuter. But I assumed it would have that same bittersweet feeling.) Nash Security Solutions had become a home of sorts. And like a family, Nash Security Solutions had given me hope for stability and security, something an actor rarely feels.

  Even at the pinnacle of my career in the starring role of Julia Pinkerton Teen Detective — when we were pulling in awards and the best prime-time spots — there was always the niggling feeling it could all disappear in an instant and without warning.

  Because it could. And it did.

  Acting was a career of risk, chance, and optimistic determination. You bet on the short odds. And when you get to a point where you could place your marker on a long shot for the big career boost, you’d best have a safety net. My manager, Vicki, was wise enough to understand this. Knowing the vagaries of child stars and their potential to screw the pooch, she invested in a platinum parachute.

  For herself, apparently.

  Leaving me with nothing but legal fees, student loans, and no understanding of real-world finance. But whatevs. I was still young. Vicki, not so much. I’d voluntarily (and by judge’s orders) given up acting. I had chosen a new career. And still had a kick-ass wardrobe of designer outfits. For now.

  This job was really hard on my clothes.

  And the job had only Roger Price’s mother as a client. That realization made my stomach clench and my lungs seize. I grabbed the edge of Lamar’s La-Z-Boy, gripping the wooden frame that had wormed its way past the padding to the worn corduroy fabric. A paroxysm of weeping threatened to overtake me. But I couldn’t cry and hyperventilate at the same time. I doubled over and let the blood rush into my head and clear up the mess.

  A knock on the door threatened to tip me forward. But knocks (generally) meant business. I pinched the skin between my thumb and pointer finger hard enough to shut off the waterworks and force a gasp of pain.

  “Come in,” I wheezed.

  The door swung open and three pairs of sneakers entered. Our clients didn’t generally wear sneakers. I tipped my head up, following the denim-clad legs to T-shirts and three teenaged heads. Two girls and a boy. Adorbs, all three. Fresh and still young enough to not have become embittered with dashed dreams and threadbare hope. They were iGeneration.

  I think embittered with dashed dreams was more of a Millennial thing.

  “Are you okay?” said a girl with long brown hair. Cute freckling across her pert nose. Brown eyes. Total girl-next-door look. Except for the black tee featuring a cat with an evil grin, stating, “We’re all mad here.”

  The teen who babysat my six-year-old half-sister wore mostly pink tees that spoke of pride in her Southern roots. And her love for hair bows, dogs, and lake hair.

  To each his own.

  I rose. Whooshed out a long breath. Slowly inhaled. And hiccuped. “I’m fine, thanks. What can I do for you?”

  “We saw your online ad.”

  “We have an online ad?” Hope swelled and washed away the doubt and fear. “I didn’t know Nash had made an online ad. That’s great.”

  “This wasn’t the place with the online ad,” said the boy. He had rumply brown curls. Shorter than the girls, he jutted his chin in the air. Maybe to make himself feel taller. Or less short. His T-shirt featured a zombie eating a brain burger. Gross. But boys were gross. So, they say.

  “Oh, right,” said the girl. “The other place had the ad.”

  Doubt and fear returned. Particularly at the implication of “the other place.”

  “Who had the ad?” I said.

  “Sweeney something-something,” said the third teen. “We saw your sign when we were walking to the other place.”

  Sweeney Security Solutions. Jolene. Right around the corner.
Of course, she had online advertising. And of course, we didn’t.

  “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

  This girl had a halo of tight, brown curls and beautiful olive skin. She probably didn’t even need a six-step cleansing and moisturizing routine. The girl unfolded her arms and placed her hands on her hips. Her tee read, “Dead Inside.”

  I really hoped these kids were into irony. They certainly weren’t into pink hair bows. I took a tiny step back and bumped into the La-Z-Boy.

  “It’s Saturday,” said Dead Inside.

  “Oh, right.” I rubbed my head. “My days are a bit mixed up. I was at the hospital and the police station all night. I feel kind of jet-lagged.”

  “Police station?” said Cheshire Cat.

  “Hospital?” said the zombie boy. “For a case?”

  “Sort of. It’s been a long twenty-four hours.” I glanced at my watch. “And I need to get going. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m Mara,” said Dead Inside. She hooked a thumb at the other two. “He’s Fred and she’s Laci. We need a detective.”

  “For a school project? I’m short on time today, but you can come back later.”

  They shook their heads.

  “No, it’s for real,” said Mara.

  “How much do you cost?” said Laci. “As a detective?”

  “If you’re wondering how much a case runs, it depends on the type. For example, if you need a security evaluation on your home or business—”

  “Not security. A missing person,” said Laci.

  “That’s not as cut and dry as a security evaluation. That sort of work’s hourly, but there may be incidental costs. Court documentation. Expenses. I’d have to look it up since we don’t get a whole lot of missing person cases.”

  “You don’t have any experience on missing person cases,” said Fred, disappointment dusting his voice.

  “I have some experience if you need an interview or something. Is it an article for your school newspaper? I’m really good at giving interviews. I’ve had a lot of experience in my past career as—”