No Offense - Meg Cabot Page 0,75

usually so—”

John yanked open the door and stood there, his uniform completely buttoned, everything in place except his gun belt, and smiled down at Mrs. Filmore. “Is there something I can help you with, ma’am?”

John’s body was mostly blocking the doorway—purposefully, so that Mrs. Filmore couldn’t see that Molly was only half-dressed.

But Molly could hear the astonishment in the woman’s voice, even if she couldn’t see it on her face.

“Oh, um, no, Officer,” said Mrs. Filmore breathlessly. “I’m—I’m so sorry to have disturbed you. I was only checking on Molly. I heard, um, a thump, you see, and I thought—”

“Sheriff,” John said.

“I—I’m sorry?”

“You called me Officer. But it’s Sheriff. I’m Sheriff John Hartwell.” He pointed to his badge. “See? I told you that before, downstairs.”

Molly, by that time, had her boxers back on. She hurried to join John at the door.

“I’m fine, Mrs. Filmore,” Molly gushed. “See? Everything is fine. We were just having some pie.”

Mrs. Filmore looked past Molly and the sheriff at the coffee table, which was covered with the empty plates from which they’d had pie earlier. Of course, the floor was also strewn with books, around which Fluffy the Cat was now sauntering. He’d managed to sneak in between their legs when they weren’t looking.

“Oh,” the older woman said. “Well. All right, then. I’m glad everything is okay. I’ll just—”

John’s cell phone began to chime, shrilly. He dug it from his trouser pocket, glanced at the screen, glowered, and said, “I have to answer this. If you ladies could excuse me for a moment—”

Then, his phone pressed to his ear, he stepped out of the room and into the darkness of the hotel’s second-floor balcony to take the call.

But not, unfortunately, far enough away to prevent Molly from hearing every word he said.

Chapter Twenty-Two

John

John recognized the number on the screen of his cell and felt a spurt of irritation. Of course Tabitha Brighton’s parents chose this moment, of all times, to call him back.

But he supposed it was better than calling him ten minutes earlier, when his time had been even more pleasantly occupied.

“Hello,” he said. “This is Sheriff John Hartwell.”

“Sheriff?” The voice of the woman on the other end of the line sounded surprised. Surprised and agitated. “I didn’t realize . . . oh, dear. Not again. I’m so sorry, Officer. What’s Tabby done this time?”

He did not correct her use of the wrong title. “Well, that depends. To whom am I speaking?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m her mother, Beth, Beth Brighton. I’m sorry not to have called sooner, but my husband and I—Tabby’s father—we’ve been away, and cell phone service was a bit spotty, and . . . well, you know, we just receive so many complaints about Tabby—”

“What did she do now, Beth?” demanded a voice—male—in the background. “Whatever it is, I’m not paying for it.”

“Oh.” Beth Brighton sounded uncomfortable. “Sorry. That’s my husband, Tom. Like I was saying, Tabby’s been a bit . . . troublesome over the past few years, and we felt like we deserved to get away for a bit, so . . .”

“I see,” John said. “How long has it been since you last saw your daughter?”

“Oh, let me see. A year? I think it’s been a year or so since she ran off.”

“Ran off?”

“Yes. Well, for good this time. She’s done it before, but this time it’s seemed to stick. We had an argument about the SATs—her grades have never been the best, even though she’s a bright girl. Her IQ is at the genius level, according to one child psychiatrist we took her to. We’ve just never seemed to be able to make her understand that grades are important for getting into the right college. All her friends are going to lovely schools this year—Yale, Duke, Baylor. But last spring Tabby refused to sit for the SATs. She said they didn’t measure anything that’s actually important, only rote memorization, which isn’t real knowledge or intelligence—can you imagine?”

Remembering his own conversation with the Brightons’ daughter, John said, “Yes, I can.”

“Well, of course, we panicked. I mean, she’s our only child. What was her future going to look like if she didn’t go to college? How was she going to be financially successful?”

John wanted to point out that he knew quite a few successful people who hadn’t gone to college, and that there were many different ways to measure success other than financially, but instead he said nothing. He’d learned long ago that one of the most valuable tools