Freaking Off the Grid Read online

  She knew he hadn’t called her in to give her the twenty and apologize on Jessica’s behalf. That was as likely as Jeremy Newland sweeping her off her feet.

  She folded her arms and waited as patiently as she could.

  Her boss frowned. “I can’t have you and my daughter fighting like this anymore. She thinks you’re cheating her, and I’m tired of hearing about it. I’m not calling you a liar, but I’m not about to call Jessica one, either.” He looked away from her. “The only solution is to let you go.”

  She hadn’t heard right. “What?”

  “I’m letting you go.”

  Her entire body turned to stone and she couldn’t move. “Me?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I’ve figured your hours. Here’s your check.”

  She pushed through her paralyzing shock and forced her arm to reach for it, but like always, it was hard for Fernando to let go of a dime, and it took him a second to let go. She had to think. She had to pay attention, fall apart later. Right then, she needed to make sure he didn’t screw her over.

  Money! Tips! “What about my share of the tips?”

  He reached behind his dirty apron front and into his shirt pocket. “Here’s a twenty.”

  “That’s not fair!” She pulled her hand back, refusing to take it. “Just get the jar and divide it now. My share is more than twenty.”

  “You have ten in your pocket.” His face was getting red—it always got red when he was doing something dishonest. He wasn’t as good a liar as his daughter.

  “I’ve been here all day! I usually make a hundred per shift and I’ve worked one and a half already!”

  “I’m not going to give you a hundred dollars!”

  “A hundred and fifty. And that’s bullshit. You don’t have to give it to me. My customers already gave it to me, and that’s after you share it out.”

  “Take the twenty, girl, and go. I’m through discussing it.” He tossed it at her feet, then turned toward his desk and started digging through crap, like he’d know what to do once he found the surface.

  “Wait.” Her head was spinning. She’d never been fired. Ever. There was no way this was happening. She looked at the twenty, trying to find a way to make him see reason, to make him take it all back. To un-fire her.

  She had to have a job!

  She glanced at the twenty at her feet, tempted, but determined not to pick it up. But then she noticed the little pink line on it. She had to make sure, so she snatched it up.

  It did.

  “You’ll be fine,” he grumbled. “I’m sure you can find another job in a couple of days. Just tell them to give me a call and I’ll give you a reference.” He kept shuffling papers without looking at them.

  Something changed inside her. Something turned hot and burning cold at the same time, like dry ice. She didn’t like the sensation, but she couldn’t make it stop. It was consuming her. She decided not to fight it, to let herself get nasty for once in her life and see what happened.

  “Yeah? And what if Jessica answers the phone, Mr. Garza? What kind of reference will she give? Do you think she’ll tell them that I was fired because she was stealing from me?!”

  He glanced sideways at the floor by her feet, still not looking her in the eye. “Don’t go there.”

  She laughed. “Oh, let’s do. Let’s call the police and let them decide.” She held up the bill to show the little pink mark and had to wave it to get him to look up.

  Fernando’s eyes narrowed and his nose flared. “Yeah, let’s call the police. Do you think they’ll believe the runaway girl who sleeps in her car, or the business owner?”

  She shook her head and lifted her shoulders. “I don’t care. By the time it’s over, everyone will know your daughter is a thief.”

  Two minutes later, she knew exactly where being nasty got her—kicked out on the sidewalk without a chance to say good-bye to anyone. Fernando had called her bluff and won. She wouldn’t risk calling the police.

  The bastard insisted she take the twenty with her, but she thought he probably didn’t want to look at that little pink line again and be reminded that he and his daughter were thieves.

  She stood there staring at the glass door like a hungry homeless person trying to build up the nerve to go inside, but she couldn’t seem to move. She was in shock. And she felt bad about more than just losing her tips. She hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye to Richard or the other victims she had worked with for years. She only hoped they all got tired of being ripped off and found a happier place to work. Which was what she was going to have to do.

  She also wished she could have spoken with Jeremy. But there was always school. She could talk to him in class. She couldn’t go back inside the café, even for the most charming kid in school who just happened to be single.

  Finally, she was able to move her feet and headed for the corner.

  As a runaway, she’d been pretty lucky so far. The school didn’t know she was living in her car. The Blairs didn’t know she was still going to school. Because of the state checks they got for keeping her, there was no way her foster parents would report her missing until someone came beating on their door, and if she kept going to school, that door wouldn’t be touched. Or so she hoped. Because the last thing she needed was for someone to screw up her graduation by relocating her.

  She’d lived on pins and needles for the first few weeks, then she’d had to change the way she looked at things. Every day was a new adventure, not knowing which crap would hit which fan first.

  Today, it had been Jessica’s crap and Fernando’s fan.

  She crossed the street to the bank. Fernando banked there too, since walking would save him gas money. She would cash her check first to make sure it didn’t get canceled while she waited for it to clear. That was wisdom, not paranoia.

  Again, she felt eyes on her. But since she’d already demonstrated her aversion to the police, there wasn’t anything she could do about it until someone approached her. She’d just have to keep her Taser close.

  Good old-fashioned paranoia was her motto now. If she had a personal family crest, like the ones you could get at the Scottish Festivals, the banner would read, “I know I’m being watched.” In Latin.

  The occasional appearance of Old Mr. Jamison might have seemed the reason for those tingles up her spine, but it was more than that. He’d popped in and out of her life since she was small, but her heart only jumped from the surprise. And when he was gone, he stayed gone for a good long while.

  Something else messed with her mind now. Hell, it might even be her mind. Even when she was young, she imagined a constant audience on the other side of her bedroom window. She’d put on plays for them, whoever they were.

  But because of them, she always got dressed in her closet—a handy habit for a foster child sharing rooms with other children. They’d called her modest and shy. Hah!

  She tried to tell herself it was only her imagination, that it had always been her imagination. But as she headed up the bank steps, she was absolutely sure it wasn’t in her mind. Someone was watching every step she took.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The bank was a lot cooler than the café, a combination of AC and cold stone surfaces. Nothing sticky and in need of a hot, soapy towel. The windows were tinted but still allowed in plenty of light. It was the visual opposite of Fernando’s.

  Skye cashed the check and only noticed the amount when the teller counted it out for her. Three hundred and fifty? No way that was right. It should have been closer to five. But she also knew she’d never argue another penny out of Fernando. She was screwed, and she was staying screwed.

  She just had to put it behind her and say good riddance. By the same time tomorrow, she planned to have forgotten she’d ever worked for the Garzas. She’d find a new job where time cards were electronic and payroll was done out of house—where she could check and recheck her numbers and make Human Resources correct their mistakes. Maybe in a nice clean bank somewhere.

  That w
ould be heaven.

  “I need to deposit three hundred into my account.” She counted the money and slid it back to the teller. “220 40 852.”

  The teller punched in the numbers, then frowned. “I’m sorry. Can you give me that number again?”

  “220 40 852.”

  The chick was still frowning. Skye’s lungs faltered. There couldn’t possibly be anything wrong with her account. If they’d lost her money, they’d just have to find it.

  “I’m sorry. It looks like that account has been closed. Did you want to open a new one?”

  The teller must have finally noticed Skye’s eyes popping out of her head, since she picked up her phone and asked someone to come help.

  Someone turned out to be the mean woman they kept shut up in a glass office every time Skye had been there. If they let her out just to be cruel to customers, they’d picked the wrong day to do it. Skye could take on a Rottweiler at the moment if she had to. She just wanted her money. She’d even risk a mugging, but there was no way she was going to leave a penny in that place another day. Her life sucked enough without having to worry about her bank screwing up.

  Skye faced the Rottweiler. “She says my account is closed, but I didn’t close it.” Her voice shook. She didn’t care. “I have four thousand, three hundred and twelve dollars in that account, and I’m not leaving here without it.”

  The mean woman looked at the screen and started poking around on the keyboard. Skye didn’t care that her lipstick was drawn way out of the lines of her lips, or that the woman’s earring was crooked, but she watched closely for those lips to tell her what she wanted to hear. Her stomach started juggling blackberry pie and chunks of turkey when the woman shook her head.

  “Looks like the account was closed by the other party on the account. Four-thousand, three hundred twelve dollars and seventy-two cents was withdrawn today.”

  “But that’s impossible. He didn’t even know about it!”

  The Rottweiler’s head tilted and her eyes narrowed. “Then you must have forged his name, and if that’s the case—”

  “No! I mean, I had to have an adult co-sign, but the money was mine!”

  “I’m sorry. There’s nothing we can do. He had the legal right—”

  Imagined storm clouds circling over her head made Skye look up. Nothing there but dusty light fixtures, hanging like globs of dirty ice, waiting for a cleaning staff to notice. No ghost either, but his warning to stay put strayed through her mind again. Climb in a box if she had to, but stay put? Help was on the way?

  Who in the hell could help her get forty-three hundred dollars back from the Blairs?

  Help was never on the way. Help would never be on the way. Her rescue had been, and always would be, up to her.

  Skye wasn’t fond of the f-word. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever used it before in her life, but she carpet-bombed the bank with it, shook dust off the lights with it, and made the security guards very nervous as she made her way out of the building, screaming at the statement in her hands.

  Suddenly, she realized why people used the f-word; sometimes, it was a temporary, but powerful Band-Aid.

  She glared across at Fernando’s. It wasn’t hard to believe Jessica was standing just inside the smeared windows, terribly pleased with herself. At least her smile would only last until she realized she’d be waiting on all the tables by herself until the dinner crew arrived.

  The cars with the single occupants were gone from the café’s parking lot, but that feeling remained. Just to make sure she spread her joy to her entire audience, including Jessica, she held out both arms, flipped both birds, and spun in a circle. Twice.

  The euphoria wore off as soon as her middle fingers came down. Then she was just numb. Not only had her life jumped in the toilet...

  ...someone had reached out and flushed.

  She felt so empty—worthless without those numbers attached to her name. So much time under the Garza’s thumb had ended up being free?!

  It was too much. She hyperventilated. She needed to sit down before she started convulsing on the sidewalk. Climbing into a box sounded downright comforting, but the McDonalds next door would have to do. At least in Henderson, no one ever got kicked out of McDonalds.

  Maybe she could live there while she plotted the murder of Mr. Blair.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Jamison held tight to the cheap iron railing, ready for anything. Unfortunately, there were no bushes nearby to puke in. He’d just have to keep it together. It had taken no time at all to find the house. It was in the same general area as Skye Ozunian’s house. Both Skyes probably knew each other, went to the same school.

  When no one answered the door, Jamison thought he might actually cry, but then a guy came around the side of the house with a shovel on his shoulder. From the look of the yard, he doubted the man had been gardening.

  “Is this the Blairs’? I’m looking for Skye Geddes.”

  “She’s not here.” The guy turned away, like he’d suddenly changed his mind about where he was going.

  “Wait! Please. Can you tell me where to find her? It’s important.”

  “What’s it about?” The guy stopped and took the shovel in both hands, like a weapon. He looked over at Jamison’s car and relaxed a little.

  “It’s...kind of personal.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Yeah? You don’t look like you’re from the bank, or CWS.”

  Jamison held out his hands. “No. I just need to talk to her, tell her a couple of things.”

  “I’m Blair. I can give her the message.” The man rested the shovel back on his shoulder.

  “Well, um, it’s really complicated. I wouldn’t want to waste your time writing it all down, and then she still wouldn’t understand.”

  Blair shook his head. “I don’t understand already.”

  “So can you tell me where she is? I promise I’m not a stalker or anything. I’m a really old friend of hers.”

  “You’re wasting your time, and mine.” He used the shovel handle to gesture toward the Honda.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to upset anyone. I just have to talk to her. I have to. It’s really important.” Jamison came down the steps, but didn’t head toward his car.

  “I don’t know where she is. She ran away from here over two months ago. She’ll be eighteen soon, so the state won’t take the time to look for her.”

  “I don’t believe it.” Jamison shook his head and couldn’t seem to stop. “She can’t be gone. I don’t believe it!”

  Something large and flat slapped across Jamison’s middle and knocked him off his feet. He landed on his butt on a thin layer of gravel that served for grass. His gut was oddly numb, but a million pinpoints of pain screamed under his skin when feeling returned.

  Blair stood over him holding the shovel like a baseball bat. “You calling me a liar?”

  Jamison shook his head, too busy sucking air to answer.

  “Good. Now get out of here before I use the sharp side.” The man raised the shovel a couple inches.

  Jamison flinched and crawled backward to put some distance between himself and the shovel before he tried to stand. Then once he had his Honda between them, he hollered, “Do you know if anyone has seen her? Or if she might be still in town?”

  Blair just turned and walked back around his house.

  Jamison dropped his head against the roof of his car.

  This can’t be happening.

  “Young man.” A quiet voice came from behind him.

  He turned, but saw no one in the immaculate yard across the narrow street from Blair’s.

  “Down here, boy.”

  Sitting among the pink and white flowers of an elaborate rock garden was an old woman hidden in the camouflage of a floral housecoat. The small rose blossoms she wore blended right in with the flowers she babied. So did her hat.

  Aware that Blair might return any minute, Jamison decided not to get too far away from the car.

  “Nice garden.”
He kept his voice low.

  “Thank you. I’m sorry about my neighbor. He’s a jackass.”

  “Yes, ma’am. You haven’t seen Skye lately, have you?”

  The hat nodded and his heart stopped throwing a tantrum in his chest.

  “She’s working at Fernando’s Café, on the other side of town. But none of us are going to tell Mr. Blair, are we?”

  “No ma’am.” He grabbed the car door and wrenched it open. Then he remembered his manners. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You be careful,” he warned out the open window.

  She nodded, knowing exactly what he was talking about. She raised her pruning shears, the kind that look like big scissors, and snapped them twice.

  The old lady would be just fine.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Skye sat sideways in her usual booth at McDonalds, grateful for the Starbucks-ish remodeling job that put a cushion under her butt so she could stand to stay for a while. She only wished the view out the window wasn’t the side facing Fernando’s.

  She’d changed out of the waitress uniform and ugly shoes. If it would have been possible to flush them down Ronald McDonald’s toilet, she would have. Since that wasn’t possible without upsetting her current sanctuary, the clothes sat in the duffle bag next to her, taunting her, keeping her blood boiling.

  With her left hand, she gripped the outside edge of her seat, and with the other, she held tight to the table. Her life had been ripped out of her grasp and she could barely convince herself to release the fake marble long enough to take a drink of the Coke she’d been nursing. Then she’d grab the table again.

  At least no one could take that table without a fight.

  She didn’t bother wiping the trails of tears from her cheeks except when the salt started burning. No one bothered her. The tears earned her some concerned looks, but her set-in-stone glare made those bound for the restroom hustle along. The rest turned around and found other sections to sit in.