Page 104 of The Worst Possible Plan

“He just said everything had been sorted out.” Mrs. Peterson shrugged. “Sounded like he’d worked something out with the owner.”

“Sorted out?” I repeated. “What does that even mean?” People kept saying those words as though they represented useful information. They did not. They represented the exact opposite of useful information.

“He seemed to know what he was doing,” replied Mr. Peterson.

Of course he did. Captain Competent always knew what he was doing. That now included making livestock disappear.

“Thank you.” The words came automatically. Manners survived even when common sense packed up and left.

I barely remembered getting back into Sarah’s car. One second I was standing beside the tomato plants. The next I was slamming the driver’s door hard enough that somewhere, Sarah probably experienced a mysterious disturbance in the force.

The second the door shut, I dug through my tote bag until I found the sheriff’s business card. Receipts. Lip balm. Two pens that probably didn’t work. Insurance muffin crumbs. Ah. There it was.

I’d been carrying it around like some lovesick idiot.

I stabbed the number on my phone with considerably more force than necessary. The poor screen had done nothing wrong, but unfortunately it was the closest available object.

The station answered on the second ring.

“Sheriff’s Office.”

“Jenna? It’s Sophie.” I skipped every socially acceptable greeting in favor of immediate panic.

“Sophie?” She sounded surprised. Which, considering my recent track record, seemed optimistic on her part.

“Can I speak to Sheriff Walker?”

A tiny pause. I could practically hear her raising one eyebrow.

“He’s not here. He took the rest of the afternoon off.”

“What?” I nearly dropped the phone. “He what?” Sheriffs weren’t supposed to disappear in the middle of my emotional crisis. There had to be rules.

“He left a while ago.” I heard papers rustling in the background. “Said he’d finished everything that needed finishing.”

“I need to talk to him.” Understatement. I needed answers. Preferably in complete sentences.

“Is it an emergency?”

I didn’t hesitate. “Yes.” Four innocent animals absolutely qualified as an emergency. So did emotionally constipated sheriffs making mysterious livestock decisions.

Another pause. “Okay. I can give you his cell.”

She read it out. I typed as fast as my thumbs could manage, nearly entering one digit twice because adrenaline reduced typing accuracy by at least forty percent.

I thanked her and disconnected before she could ask questions. If Jenna started sounding curious, she’d keep me on the phone another ten minutes. I didn’t have ten minutes.

One ring. Two. Three. Voicemail.

I hung up. Enough with phones. Clearly verbal communication had become unfashionable.

I tapped my Google app on my phone and wrote Eric Walker Maplewood Falls. Please let the internet continue doing what emotionally unavailable men refuse to.

The internet was far more helpful than law enforcement. An address popped up, complete with a little map pin cheerfully announcing exactly where Captain Competent had chosen to hide himself from difficult conversations.

I shoved the car into gear. “You are going to tell me where those animals are.” And if he attempted one more mysterious sheriff answer, I was fully prepared to commit the minor offense of being spectacularly annoying until he gave me what I wanted.

Forty-five minutes later I bounced down another gravel driveway, my tires throwing dust behind me. The Jetta protested every pothole with tiny squeaks.