Page 15 of The Executioners Three

After dropping off Divya at her family’s brick two-story on Maple Street (and forcing Divya to a blood pact of secrecy regarding the stolen archives material), Freddie shoved herself back onto the bike and pedaled home.

Everything in her body ached, but she was so close .

And there was still one more thing she needed to finish before she could collapse on her bed: her civic duty.

Yes, a life of crime might call to her with its siren’s song (that sounded a lot like Lance Bass), but at the end of the day, Freddie was an Upright Citizen and liked being one.

She spotted Bowman’s house as soon as she turned onto the street. Bowman lived across from Freddie. Not directly, but two houses over in a white stucco with ivy that covered everything in green—or, at this time of year, in coppery red.

It glowed like the jack-o’-lanterns on everyone’s front porches, and when Freddie coasted to a stop in front, she caught sight of a dented Honda Civic in the driveway. Its taillights were still on, and as Freddie rolled up behind it, the car cut off and the driver’s door swung wide.

A jean-clad leg slid out along with a pair of black Vans. Then a pale head and navy-striped rugby tee followed. Suddenly Theo Porter was standing in Sheriff Bowman’s driveway.

Freddie squeezed her brakes so hard she almost tumbled off. Only a lucky angle let her regain balance—which, thank god . She did not need to crash her bike in front of Theo Porter.

He blinked at Freddie. She blinked at him. It was weird to see him without his Fortin Prep uniform. Plus, his hair wasn’t so perfectly combed right now, and Freddie had to admit it looked better that way. He had very full, very touchable hair—and ugh, why was she even thinking that about the enemy?

“What are you doing here?” He shut the car door.

“I need to see the sheriff.” Freddie slung off her bike. “What are you doing here?”

“Uh, the sheriff is my aunt.” He shrugged like this was the most obvious thing in the world.

And with a swoop in her gut, Freddie supposed it was. Wow, what a terrible detective she was. She’d known Bowman’s maiden name was Porter, and she’d known that Bowman had a nephew in high school. Except… she thought he lived in Chicago.

“How come I’ve never seen you in town before?” Her grip tightened on her handlebars. He was walking toward her. Not threatening, but still the enemy. Montagues versus Capulets, basically, on fair Verona Beach.

He paused three paces away. “I hadn’t been arrested before now, that’s why.” He folded his arms over his chest, and his thumb tapped his bicep. “Now, however, I am required to eat dinner with my aunt and uncle every night until I graduate. Thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome,” Freddie said cheerily.

Theo’s thumb tapped faster.

“The research does suggest that eating together as a family leads to better life choices, Mr. Porter.”

His lips twisted—although with amusement or annoyance, she couldn’t say. And now his thumb was really tapping. “My aunt is a terrible cook, Gellar. Like, I’d rather eat glass shards.”

“Good thing for you,” said Sheriff Bowman, walking up behind her nephew, “that tonight we won’t be having either. We’re going to the Quick-Bis.”

Theo’s hand fell to his side, and for half a second, his eyes squeezed shut.

Freddie could practically hear him thinking, Crap, crap, crap .

But when his eyelids lifted again, it was with the slightest smile.

“Well played, Gellar. Well played.” Then he angled toward his aunt and added, “You have Spider-Man stealth, Aunt Rita.”

Bowman grinned. “I do. And Freddie here has a great poker face.” She moved next to Theo. He was half a head taller, but side by side, the family resemblance was unmistakable.

Freddie really couldn’t believe she’d missed it. After all, small town. Talky people.

“Hi, Gellar,” Bowman drawled. “What can I do for ya?”

Freddie toed out her kickstand, and after making sure the bike wouldn’t suddenly topple sideways, she said, “I was hoping to talk to you. Alone .”

“Sure. Go wash your hands, Theo.”

“I’m seventeen. Not seven.”

“I also said, ‘Go wash your hands.’ ” Bowman’s glower, which wasn’t even aimed at Freddie, still made her digestive system invert on itself.

Theo seemed to feel the same because he instantly chirruped, “Yes, ma’am,” and turned to go.

Although, before his long legs could carry him completely out of sight, he did glance back at Freddie and offer a head-cock that might have been a goodbye.

Bowman folded her arms over her chest—a literal carbon copy of her nephew from two minutes before. It was almost uncanny. The only difference was that Sheriff Bowman was the toughest person Freddie knew, and yet again, Freddie wanted to offer up every slightly naughty act she’d ever committed.

Which was perhaps why what came out next was a complete jumble of disorganized mayhem.

Yes, she managed to describe what she and Divya had found in the woods, as well as how they’d found it.

And where they’d been too. But she repeated the why of it all twice—and she definitely repeated the where at least six times.

She also might have mentioned the corn syrup prank.

By the end, Freddie had flung off the backpack full of stolen goods and was all ready to confess to her theft too. Bowman didn’t interrupt. She just listened, her face devoid of all emotion and her thumb tap-tap-tapping as Theo’s had.

“So let me see if I got this right, Gellar: you and Divya were working at the archives and you took the shortcut home. Then on your way home, you found a water bottle that belonged to Dr. Fontana, and you think he left it there for Wednesday.”

“I know he did! It literally said, ‘Wednesday run, lap two.’”

“Was there a date on it?”

“Well…” Freddie’s lips screwed sideways. “No, but it had to have been from the same Wednesday. Why would he have left it there otherwise?”

“I have no idea, and I also don’t make assumptions.” Bowman gave Freddie a thorough, spine-tingling once-over. Then fixed her gaze on Xena. “I see you have your camera.”

“Erm…” Squirm, squirm.

“Did you take pictures of the bottle, Gellar?”

“Uh…” Squirm, squirm.

“Photographing a crime scene is illegal. I know I’ve taught you that.”

“But it isn’t a crime scene. Not yet.”

Bowman thrust out a flat hand. “Give me the camera, Gellar.”

“But…” Freddie frowned down at Xena. She’d only just gotten her sugar wookums back.

And she’d taken three pictures of Kyle last night, while they’d hung out in the basement.

She’d planned to develop the photos tomorrow in Greg’s darkroom and then place them on her NSYNC shrine.

After all, without photographic evidence of last night, how could Freddie know it had really happened?

Had Kyle really put his arm around her and said “cheese”?

This must be what an existential crisis felt like.

“Fine,” she grumbled at last, and she unhooked the strap from her neck. But when she shifted to offer it to Bowman, she found the sheriff’s eyes had gone out of focus. Like she was staring at something far, far away. Even her lips were parted.

Freddie glanced behind her, expecting to find someone there… But nope. There was no one and nothing beyond the usual autumn street lined with too many jack-o’-lanterns. And when Freddie looked again at Bowman, the sheriff was rubbing her eyes.

“Sorry,” Bowman murmured. “It’s been a long few days since you found Dr. Fontana. Now, the camera, please? I’ll take the film out and return it to you tomorrow. And I’ll go after dinner to find this bottle, okay?”

“After dinner?” Freddie’s eyes bulged as she handed over Xena. “You can’t wait that long! What if it rains and the bottle gets washed away?”

“It’s not going to rain.” Bowman heaved a sigh. “Listen, Gellar: if that sports bottle is what you say it is, then we’ve got a real game changer on our hands. But I gave my deputies the night off, and I promised Jason I wouldn’t ruin dinner unless it was an absolute emergency.”

Freddie’s spine deflated—and it only deflated further as Bowman proceeded to list twenty-three different reasons that Freddie should not have done what she’d done.

“… obstruction of justice, a complete lack of experience, just plain stupidity, and oh yeah, you’re not a cop.

You’re just pretending to be one. Want me to keep listing? ”

“Please don’t,” Freddie mumbled. “Besides, I’m not pretending anything, Sheriff.”

“And I’m Miss America.”

“You could be,” Freddie offered. “With cheekbones like those.”

“Enough.” Bowman’s nostrils flared. “You’re too much like your dad, Gellar.”

Freddie’s stomach sank. The stones took hold.

Because Bowman never spoke of Frank Carter—even though the man had been her former boss and trained her.

Yet Freddie had never known if Bowman’s blatant omission was because she knew about the Gellar family unspoken rule— Thou shalt not discuss Frank Carter —or if she, like Mom, just had a lot of baggage she didn’t want to deal with.

Freddie swallowed. “Is being like my dad… a bad thing?”

Bowman’s cheeks twitched. She noticeably didn’t reply. “Thank you for stopping by, Gellar. I’ll return your camera tomorrow. Now, go home .”

Freddie winced. She wished she hadn’t asked about her dad. Shame was bubbling up now, and she hated this feeling. Hated it.

Tamp down thoughts, she reminded herself. Tamp down feelings. Focus on the task at hand. Did Dana Scully let weird, amorphous emotions get in her way? Absolutely not.

Nor did Sheriff Bowman right before her, who was once more fixing those blue, wiggle-inducing eyes onto Freddie.

“One more thing, Gellar: for the love of god, please don’t get tangled up in this school rivalry, okay?

” She jerked her head toward the house. “I don’t need two of you geniuses out there causing trouble. ”

Freddie sighed. She was flattered Bowman had called her a genius. She was not flattered to be compared to Theo.