9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Kayla

"I heard there was trouble at your place last night," Michelle says as soon as I drop my tired ass into my chair.

I stifle a groan and a yawn at once, wanting nothing more than to sleep. "News travels fast around here, huh?" Great. Just great.

"It always does in small towns." Michelle leans against my desk with a worried look. "What happened? Are you alright?"

"Someone broke into my house and left a bouquet of bluebells on the table."

Michelle draws her brows even closer together. "That's…disturbing."

"Thank you!" Finally, someone who sees it the same way. "The police said it was probably just a prank, but I'm not so sure."

"Did someone threaten you?" She knows, just as well as I do, that while our job is rewarding, it can also be dangerous. Not all people are as sweet as Georgia Simpson.

I shake my head. "No. I've had difficult cases back in Kansas City, but they never got personal. Well, not this kind of personal. Plus, it's over three hundred miles away, and it's not like I broadcasted my new address on national TV. Only my best friend and my parents know my new address. That's why this makes no sense."

"Hmm." Michelle scratches her chin, deep in thought. "The bluebells must mean it's connected to this town, but you've only been here for how long, three days? Did you make mortal enemies already?" She attempts to tease me but her joke falls flat.

Did I make mortal enemies? "I only clashed with Laurel yesterday because of the Adams case. And I don't see her sneaking into my house and picking my locks. Oh, dammit. I need to find someone reliable to change my locks. I can't take another sleepless night."

"Oh, poor thing. I'll call my son. His ‘friend' is a locksmith," she offers with a chuckle. "He's a really nice guy. I'm not sure who they are fooling with this ‘friend' act, though. Everyone already knows. Anyway, he'll set you up with proper locks. And you can come stay with me for a while if you don't feel safe. We have a spare bedroom."

My eyes water, and I pull her into a hug. "Thank you so much," I whisper, grateful beyond belief that I found someone so kind. "I'll take that contact on your son's ‘friend', but I want to stay in my house. I'm not letting this person drive me out. Whatever they want, they're not getting it."

"Alright. The offer stands if you ever change your mind. I'll text you Oliver's number so you can call him right away."

Oliver is indeed a nice guy. The moment I mention Michelle's name, he drops what he's doing and comes to the town hall to pick up my house keys. He promises to install top-of-the-line locks on my doors and windows by this evening. Then I make a quick call to the police dispatch to make sure they don't arrest Oliver when he gets there.

Feeling much better, I make myself another coffee and return to the office right when my phone rings, an unfamiliar number calling me. My heart skips a beat, but I quickly pull myself together. A home invader wouldn't call me. Fuck, why am I so rattled about this? I get a ton of phone calls from unknown numbers every day.

I press the accept button firmly, almost daring the asshole to be on the other end. I'd give him a piece of my mind. "Kayla Reynolds."

"Oh, good," a male voice croaks. "I'm…" There's a pained groan. "I'm Clifton Collins."

I frown, the name sounding vaguely familiar. Then it dawns on me. "You're the IT guy!" The one with the stomach bug, I remember now.

"Yep. I, um…I added your credentials into the system. Are you around your laptop?"

"Yes, I am." Holding the phone between my shoulder and my ear, I sit down and start the machine. "Aren't you supposed to be sick?"

He lets out a half-laugh, half-gag. "If Director Smith wants something done, it has to be done. I set you up remotely. I just need you to make the first login so I can give you all the necessary permissions."

"Okay…?" I ask with trepidation. I know the basic computer stuff, but I'm absolutely not tech-savvy.

"It's simple, Ms. Reynolds. Just follow my instructions, and in five minutes, you can get to work, and I can go back to hugging the toilet."

I cringe at the excessive amount of information, but decide not to comment on it. The poor guy is probably feeling terrible and yet, my scary boss forced him to work. I remind myself to never get on Smith's bad side. "Alright, Mr. Collins. I'm ready. Tell me what to do."

Due to my clumsy fingers, it takes longer than the promised five minutes, but eventually, I'm in the system, and Clifton is off to…well, whatever. Fortunately, the software is the same as we used in my previous job, so I don't need any extra training. I pull up Georgia's file and begin updating it with my notes. Once I'm done, I fill out the benefit application form on her behalf. All she'll have to do is to sign it.

The day runs by fast when I have things to do. I have a quick lunch with Michelle, Beth, and a few others at a nearby restaurant. Thankfully, Laurel doesn't join us. From the gossip mill the other ladies unleash on me the second we leave the building, I learn that Laurel's not very popular in the department.

Gee, I wonder why.

I spend the afternoon familiarizing myself with the cases transferred to me from the other social workers. Most of them are simple monitoring and providing assistance, like with Georgia, but there are others that look like they'll pose a challenge. The Grahams, for example.

I frown on the screen as I read Beth's notes. Three children, aged from six to nine, constantly getting in trouble at school. Lots of missed days, picking up fights, or stealing from other students. Their father works at an oil rig and is away for weeks at a time. When he comes home, the children mysteriously start "falling" and showing up at school with bruises. Or not at all. Their mother is an alcoholic with clinical depression.

Every time the family is examined for child removal, the parents get their shit together for a few weeks. The kids show up at school every day, clothed and fed, no bruises, no trouble. Then, slowly, everything slips back to "normal."

I print out some of the files to bring them home with me. It's Friday, and I don't have any plans for the weekend except locking my door and not letting anyone in, so I might as well get some work done. Yes, I might be a workaholic. Sue me.

Since Oliver has already stopped by with the new set of keys, there's nothing stopping me from going home. Well, nothing except my irrational fears, but I'm stronger than that. I hope so, at least.

As I pack my things and the printed case files, Michelle glances at me from her screen. "You're still joining us at the Rusty Mug tonight, right?"

It takes me a few seconds to decipher her question and realize I've completely forgotten about the weekly department outing they've invited me to. I weigh my options. I'm exhausted and not really in the mood to go to a bar. Then again, sitting alone in an empty house and listening to every rustle and creak isn't appealing either. "Sure. When is it?"

"Seven, seven-thirty. It doesn't really have a set time," Michelle replies, waving her hand dismissively. "We just have a few beers and chat. Wear something nice, though," she adds, winking at me. "There will be a ton of single, hot guys. Tonight is the final round of the Bluebell Bullseye Legends."

"The what?"

"The local dart league. Everyone takes it super seriously around here. You'll see."

She notices the folders I'm holding and scowls. At first, I worry that I've broken some rules by printing the files out. I didn't think to ask, since at my previous job, nobody cared if we printed stuff, as long as we didn't share it with anyone. Then Michelle tsks. "I hope you're not planning to work all weekend."

"Well, I don't really know anyone here, so—"

"Nonsense. We're having a barbecue on Saturday. You're coming. Be at my house at one p.m., sharp. I'll text you the address."

I blink, not sure what to do about this invitation-turned-order. "I don't want to impose. It's your family event."

"Nonsense. You're coming," she repeats, flashing me a grin. "I command it as your superior."

"You're not actually my superior." A smile tugs on the corner of my mouth. "We have the same job positions."

Michelle mock-glares at me. "Well, as your senior, then. Now go put on something that will bedazzle the local lunkheads. Shoo."

Chuckling, I head for the door, turning when I hear her say, "And remember, Kayla. If you need a place to stay, just call me."

"Thank you, Michelle," I reply sincerely. "I'm glad I met you."

As I leave the office, I try not to think about how those words felt like a final goodbye.