Page 29 of Skin Game

Heidi’s trademark derisive sniff was almost audible.

He located the yearbooks and spent several minutes flipping through ones from before and after 1978 but didn’t learn anything new. The one Heidi had kept had been the last one where Holly Pritchard had been pictured. She’d been a junior, one year to graduation. What the hell had happened?

They knew she’d stayed in the region because she’d been drawn into Elton’s orbit soon after that time. And wasn’t that an incredibly lucky thing? Gabe felt oddly blessed.

With not much to show for his research, Gabe walked down the street to County Records. Surely, he could at least discover Holly Pritchard’s date of birth and her mother’s and father’s names. But Gabe struck out there too. Either Heidi hadn’t been born in Twana County, or she’d been born at home, and no records had been filed. Nowadays, parents were required to file for a Social Security number within days of the birth of a child, but back then it was still possible to be born off the grid.

Frustrated and not sure where to turn next, Gabe stepped out County Records and into the now glitteringly bright spring afternoon sunshine. And then immediately regretted not waiting for his face to heal.

How else had Dirty Socks Randy recognized him?

“I’ve got you now.”

It was a man’s voice, one Gabe hadn’t recognized at first. Squinting, he looked around to see who the fuck was talking to whom.

Shit, was his second thought. There, a mere four feet away, at the top of the steps, was Randy Witherspoon. The bozo whose house he’d entered in a not-so-legal way, as Casey insisted on reminding him, just two days ago. Randy even wore the same clothes. Either that, or he had a closet full of matching hoodies and stained jeans.

Which was also likely.

“Is it my face?’ Gabe asked him, pointing to his forehead. “This mug brings all the boys to the yard.”

“You’re the fucker who was at my house!”

“How could you tell?” Gabe edged away from him and toward the opposite side of the staircase. “I mean, maybe I’m talking out of school, but consider hiring a cleaning service to give you a hand. Also, I had a key, so I didn’tbreakin, I unlocked the door. But believe me, I have no plans on returning, so you can have it back.” He stuck his hand in his jeans pocket. “I don’t have it on me, but I’ll drop it in the mail. Don’t worry, I know the address.”

His new friend Randy made an inarticulate sound that Gabe quickly translated asvery angry man wants to rip Gabe’s head off. It was a sound he was familiar with. The guy lunged and Gabe scooted, managing to dodge Randy’s outstretched grabby hand. For his part, Gabe darted to the right and careened down the records building’s stairs to street level without tripping and falling on his face. He’d have given himself a small cheer, but that would’ve interrupted his momentum.

There was a scuffle and then a thump, and Gabe risked a glance over his shoulder. Randy had tripped and fallen but, unfortunately, did not appear hurt. Oh, to be that young again. Instead, Randy picked himself up and started after Gabe at a dead run.

Fuck.

It was another mild spring day, and Westfort was a destination town. Sure, it was March and Wednesday, but people in the Pacific Northwest knew better than to waste a single ray of precious sunshine. The sidewalks were not exactly crowded on Wednesdays in early March, but there was a significant number of pedestrians out and about.

“Just what I needed, a damn Weeble,” Gabe muttered as he swerved past a couple who emerged from the Pie Shop without checking for traffic.

“Hey!” one of them yelled. “Watch where you’re going!”

Gabe did not reply. They were lucky he had been doing exactly that.

Not wanting to lead Randy directly to where he’d parked his car, Gabe kept moving. When there was a break in the line of cars waiting to turn, park, or whatever, he cut across the street and between two red brick buildings.

One of the things Gabe appreciated about Westfort was how hard the city leaders had worked over the years to save the historic storefronts. Original painted signage—Genuine Bull Durham Smoking TobaccoandBuhler Motor Company—were among many ghost signs still visible on the sides of buildings. Also, like the “old days,” there were doors leading in, up, and out, even into the alleyways. Many of the shops had more than one entrance, and one of those was Windward Kite Shop. And Gabe was friendly with the owner.

He dove into a handy alcove and pressed back into the shadows, hoping that his man Randy couldn’t see him and would keep on going, giving Gabe time to catch his breath. He also hoped that Randy had the sense to let bygones be bygones.

Considering Dirty Socks Randy’s behavior, chances were seventy-thirty.

If Randy did venture down the narrow alleyway, Gabe could step into the kite shop directly behind him. As soon as he hadthat thought, a shadowy figure wearing a hoodie paused on the sidewalk and peered down the breezeway.

“Hey, fucker!” Randy yelled. “I know you’re around here somewhere. I’m gonna find you.”

Well, dammit.

Randy stood still for a few seconds more, then started in Gabe’s direction.

Triple fuck.

Reaching back with one hand, Gabe pressed the door handle down, pushing in at the same time.Thank fuckthe door opened inward. He heard the quiet jingle of a bell somewhere and slipped inside, softly closing the door behind him.