Gotcha! (excerpt)

Chapter 2

The blinking on her answering machine caught her eye. She gave Elvis a scratch, glanced at her watch, then hit the play button.

“Hey, this is Ellie Chandler,” a voice screeched from the machine.

Elvis hissed and darted out of the room. Macy flinched, but it was for a different reason than the squeaky, high-pitched tone. She hadn’t decided if she would or wouldn’t contact this woman. All that talk about danger had to be Billy’s overactive imagination, didn’t it? Then again, maybe she’d give the prison warden a call tomorrow. Just to give him a heads-up.

Ellie’s voice continued. “Billy said to call. I think David is up to something. I went to talk to that cop, Jake Baldwin . . . He’s the cop who put David away. I thought maybe he might help, but he seemed more interested in my boobs than what I had to say. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s working for David. What a jerk. Not like your brother.” She paused. “I know you don’t know me from Adam, and it probably sounds crazy me falling for him while he’s in prison, but I just want you to know I love Billy. Really love him.”

What kind of woman fell in love with inmates? Macy wondered. She herself had made some mistakes in her life, but none like that.

Grabbing her moneybag, she darted out the door for work. She’d worry later. There was no time for it now.

It wasn’t until much later that night that Macy had time to breathe, but she’d worried the whole time. She parked her Saturn back at Papa’s Pizza and sat listening to the final minute of the tape she’d recorded, her notes about constitutional law. Listening to tapes while she delivered pizza had saved her butt on finals before. Tonight, however, her heart wasn’t into it. She’d been preoccupied with Billy, with the fear she’d seen in his eyes. Her mind kept replaying images of pulling her four-year-old brother into her lap and saying, There aren’t any trolls, Billy. Really, they don’t exist. You don’t have to be scared. But had she been wrong?

A knock at her window had Macy jumping off her seat. Sandy, the other female driver, smiled through the window. Macy got out.

“Was I right?”

Sandy, a single mom and college student, always wore a smile. If Macy had time, she figured they might actually become friends, but between school, work, family, and a few hours of volunteering at the church garden, time didn’t exist.

“Yup. He was a big tipper. Ten bucks.” Macy adjusted her baseball cap, which advertised Papa’s Pizza.

Sandy nudged her shoulder.” Told you. Did you loosen your buttons like I said?”

“No. But I fluttered my lashes at him,” Macy teased. In truth, flirting didn’t appeal to her these days, not even for a big tip. They walked to the front door of Papa’s Pizza, where the smell of yeast and spicy tomato sauce hung thick.

“Macy!” a voice called out.

“Prick alert,” Sandy muttered.

Macy dropped her pizza warmers on the counter. “Yes, Mr. Prack?”

“Your mom’s called six times, said it was crucial you call her.”

Macy remembered her cell phone was temporarily out of order. No money, no service.

“Then some squeaky-voiced female called,” the restaurant manager snapped. “Seven messages altogether—and you know we don’t allow personal calls.”

“Sorry,” Macy said. She turned to the cook, who slid a pizza onto a rack to cool. “Where am I off to now?”

Mr. Prack leaned in. “Nowhere. Declare your bank and clock out. Call your mommy on your own time. And fix your hair, it keeps falling down. If you want to look sexy on the job, go work at a bar.”