Page 86 of The Worst Possible Plan

“I don’t care about all that.” Lola smiled brightly. “Good news, ladies.” The smile alone should’ve made me suspicious. Lola rarely delivered good news without wrapping it in at least three layers of inappropriate commentary first.

I looked up. My optimism cautiously peeked around the corner, prepared to retreat if necessary.

She planted a hand on her hip, pushed out her chest and said, “I’ve come to rescue you.” She somehow managed to sound like both a superhero and a perfume advertisement at the same time.

I stared at her. “You have?”

“I’ve come to bail you out.” She lifted her chin proudly, as though she’d negotiated a peace treaty instead of driving to the sheriff’s office with a handbag big enough to smuggle a small pony.

My eyebrows lifted. “Really?” I had no idea how jail worked. My legal education came almost entirely from television, which probably wasn’t ideal. For all I knew there’d be paperwork. Or stamps. Government offices loved stamps.

“I have money.” She shrugged like that explained absolutely everything. Knowing Lola… it usually did.

“Ah.” Fair point. Money solved considerably more problems than emotional overthinking ever had. I’d been trying the second strategy for years with very limited success.

Before I could ask more questions, keys jingled nearby. The sound echoed down the hallway, oddly official. Funny how quickly a ring of keys could become intimidating once you were on the wrong side of the bars.

Deputy Jenna walked over. She still wore the same calm expression she’d had during processing, like locking us up ranked somewhere between answering emails and refilling the coffee pot on her morning schedule.

She slid a key into the old brass lock. It resisted for half a second before turning with a deep metallic clunk that echoed through the empty holding area. Then she wrapped her fingers around one of the cold steel bars and gave the door a firm pull. The hinges groaned in protest before the cell door swung open.

“You’re free to go.” She stepped aside, gesturing toward the hallway with quiet professionalism.

I blinked. “We are?” Huh. I had not expected that.

Jenna nodded. “The handler isn’t pressing charges.” She said it matter-of-factly, but one corner of her mouth twitched ever so slightly, like even she realized how unusual this whole situation had become.

I stared at her, trying very hard to process that sentence without my imagination inventing twelve impossible explanations. “But…” My mouth kept starting sentences my brain wasn’t equipped to finish.

“You got lucky.” Jenna held my gaze for a second longer than before. That kind of look suggested she’d seen plenty of people who weren’t nearly as fortunate. There wasn’t any judgment in her voice anymore. Just simple honesty. Like she wanted to make absolutely certain I appreciated just how close I’d come to a considerably worse day. Her expression softened just a fraction. “This could’ve gone very differently.” She glanced briefly toward the booking desk. “People have ended up with criminal records for a whole lot less.”

Relief flooded through me so suddenly my knees almost gave out. It arrived in one enormous wave, washing away hours of panic, embarrassment, and catastrophic mental planning. For one glorious second I considered hugging Deputy Jenna. Then I remembered she’d fingerprinted me three hours earlier and decided perhaps we’d skip directly to gratitude from a respectful distance.

Then another thought crashed into it.

“The animals.” Of course. Freedom was wonderful, but it wasn’t the thing that had brought me here in the first place.

Jenna frowned. “What about them?” She genuinely looked puzzled, as though she’d expected me to ask about paperwork or my belongings instead of four extremely fluffy emotional support felons.

“Where are they?” My heart climbed back into my throat. Please don’t let the answer be gone. Anything but that.

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“But…” The word escaped before I could think of a better one. It seemed to be doing a lot of heavy lifting today.

“If you want that answer.” She glanced toward the front office. “You’ll have to ask the sheriff.”

My heart sped up again. Because emotional stability had become optional. I stepped out of the cell with Dottie beside me. Lola followed at her own unhurried pace, taking in the sheriff’s office as though she were touring a boutique hotel instead of part of a jail.

We walked toward the front office. Every footstep echoed through the station, keeping time with the frantic pounding of my heart.

And there he was.

The sheriff stood with his back partly turned, one hand resting on the counter while he signed paperwork. His uniform was still perfectly pressed despite what had already been a very long morning, and the sleeves stretched across his forearms as he wrote. I hated that I noticed things like that. I especially hated that my brain still had room for appreciating his forearms while simultaneously worrying about my furry friends. Human beings were deeply confusing creatures.

He looked up as we approached. The movement was small, calm and controlled. He’d worn the same measured composure ever since we’d left the vet clinic parking lot. Not once had I seen even a crack in it.

Our eyes met. For one hopeful second, I thought maybe he’d say something. Maybe he’d explain. Maybe he’d tell me I’d been reckless, but he understood why I’d done it. Maybe he’d even call me Sophie instead of Hartwell again. My imagination, ever the optimist, managed to construct an entire conversation in approximately half a second. It had always been alarmingly efficient.