cars? It couldn’t be much past ten o’clock. And nobody left Bootlegger’s before eleven on a Saturday. Not even Moses Tate, who was close to a hundred. Which meant something wasn’t right.
As he turned into the lot, Faith pointed a finger. “My car was parked right there by that wall.”
“Don’t panic,” he said, although he felt a little panicky himself. “There has to be a good explanation.” He reached over and jerked the glove box open and pulled out his phone: 10:24. Something was definitely wrong. He found Kenny Gene’s number, and after only two rings, Kenny started in.
“Hey, Slate. What’s goin’ on? What happened to Hope? Did you drop her off at her house? You know Jenna don’t ever lock the door, so she can get right in. You want me to come over and watch some game film with—”
“Where is everybody, and where is Faith’s car?”
“Whose car?”
Shit.
“Hope’s car. Where’s Hope’s car?”
“Sheriff Winslow impounded it.”
“What?!”
“Yeah. It’s all part of the town’s grand plan to get you and Hope together again.” He laughed. “Ain’t it a doozy?”
Slate groaned and dropped his head in his hand.
“What happened?” Faith leaned closer. “It’s my car, isn’t it? My car got stolen. I knew I should’ve checked the locks again.” Her eyes widened. “Or did someone hit it? That’s it, isn’t it? Someone ran into it in the parking lot and totaled it.”
“Hey.” Kenny’s voice came back over the line. “Is that Hope? Put her on; I’ve got this great story to tell her.”
Slate closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to pull up an image of a white sandy beach with a hammock stretched beneath two palm trees. “Look, Kenny. Hope doesn’t want to hear a story. She just wants her car back. So do you think you could tell me where it is?”
“Gee, Slate, I don’t know. But Sheriff Winslow probably does. So can you put Hope on—”
Slate hung up and dialed Winslow’s number.
In the parking lot lights, Faith’s worried blue eyes stared back at him. “So where’s my car?”
He held up a finger as he waited for Winslow to pick up. “You need to give me a minute, darlin’. I’m working on it.”
“Sheriff Winslow.”
Slate rolled his eyes. The man was too full of himself. “Hey, Sam, it’s Slate.”
“Hey, Slate. Hope with ya?”
“Yes.” He continued to take deep, even breaths. “And we were wondering if we could come get her car.”
“Her car? I don’t have her car.”
Slate gritted his teeth and at the same time tried to shoot Faith a reassuring smile. “You don’t?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Do you know who does?”
“Yes, I do.”
He gripped the phone tighter. “You think you could tell me, Sam?”
“I could, but then you’d tell Hope. You never could keep a secret from her. Remember on her fifteenth birthday when we wanted to surprise her with a party and you went and ruined the surprise by—”
Slate put his hand over the receiver. “Listen, Faith, I realize you don’t want a lot of people knowing who you are until you’ve had a chance to talk with Hope. But if you want your car back, I think we’re going to have to tell Sheriff Winslow.”
Those full glittery lips pressed together for a few seconds, before she nodded. “Fine. But only the sheriff.”
Slate didn’t have the heart to tell her that if Winslow knew, by morning the entire town would. He put the phone back to his ear and listened to the conversation that had gone on without him.
“… ’Course we were stuck with all those ceramic pigs that Sue Ellen made in ceramics class for centerpieces. Although they looked real nice at the Christmas Ball with red ribbon and holly around their little fat—”
“Sam.” Slate butted in. “I need you to listen for a minute. That car isn’t Hope’s. It’s Faith’s.”
“Faith? Who’s Faith? Is that that little waitress from that truck stop near Odessa? The big ole gal with all that red
As he turned into the lot, Faith pointed a finger. “My car was parked right there by that wall.”
“Don’t panic,” he said, although he felt a little panicky himself. “There has to be a good explanation.” He reached over and jerked the glove box open and pulled out his phone: 10:24. Something was definitely wrong. He found Kenny Gene’s number, and after only two rings, Kenny started in.
“Hey, Slate. What’s goin’ on? What happened to Hope? Did you drop her off at her house? You know Jenna don’t ever lock the door, so she can get right in. You want me to come over and watch some game film with—”
“Where is everybody, and where is Faith’s car?”
“Whose car?”
Shit.
“Hope’s car. Where’s Hope’s car?”
“Sheriff Winslow impounded it.”
“What?!”
“Yeah. It’s all part of the town’s grand plan to get you and Hope together again.” He laughed. “Ain’t it a doozy?”
Slate groaned and dropped his head in his hand.
“What happened?” Faith leaned closer. “It’s my car, isn’t it? My car got stolen. I knew I should’ve checked the locks again.” Her eyes widened. “Or did someone hit it? That’s it, isn’t it? Someone ran into it in the parking lot and totaled it.”
“Hey.” Kenny’s voice came back over the line. “Is that Hope? Put her on; I’ve got this great story to tell her.”
Slate closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to pull up an image of a white sandy beach with a hammock stretched beneath two palm trees. “Look, Kenny. Hope doesn’t want to hear a story. She just wants her car back. So do you think you could tell me where it is?”
“Gee, Slate, I don’t know. But Sheriff Winslow probably does. So can you put Hope on—”
Slate hung up and dialed Winslow’s number.
In the parking lot lights, Faith’s worried blue eyes stared back at him. “So where’s my car?”
He held up a finger as he waited for Winslow to pick up. “You need to give me a minute, darlin’. I’m working on it.”
“Sheriff Winslow.”
Slate rolled his eyes. The man was too full of himself. “Hey, Sam, it’s Slate.”
“Hey, Slate. Hope with ya?”
“Yes.” He continued to take deep, even breaths. “And we were wondering if we could come get her car.”
“Her car? I don’t have her car.”
Slate gritted his teeth and at the same time tried to shoot Faith a reassuring smile. “You don’t?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Do you know who does?”
“Yes, I do.”
He gripped the phone tighter. “You think you could tell me, Sam?”
“I could, but then you’d tell Hope. You never could keep a secret from her. Remember on her fifteenth birthday when we wanted to surprise her with a party and you went and ruined the surprise by—”
Slate put his hand over the receiver. “Listen, Faith, I realize you don’t want a lot of people knowing who you are until you’ve had a chance to talk with Hope. But if you want your car back, I think we’re going to have to tell Sheriff Winslow.”
Those full glittery lips pressed together for a few seconds, before she nodded. “Fine. But only the sheriff.”
Slate didn’t have the heart to tell her that if Winslow knew, by morning the entire town would. He put the phone back to his ear and listened to the conversation that had gone on without him.
“… ’Course we were stuck with all those ceramic pigs that Sue Ellen made in ceramics class for centerpieces. Although they looked real nice at the Christmas Ball with red ribbon and holly around their little fat—”
“Sam.” Slate butted in. “I need you to listen for a minute. That car isn’t Hope’s. It’s Faith’s.”
“Faith? Who’s Faith? Is that that little waitress from that truck stop near Odessa? The big ole gal with all that red
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