Chapter 3: The County Records Office
The station wagon sat beneath the blistered shade of a dying cottonwood tree at the far edge of the Chevron station parking lot. The engine was off, but the windows were rolled down an inch to let the heat escape. My mother was leaning back against the driver’s seat, her eyes closed, her breathing shallow and uneven the way it got when her chest started acting up.
I climbed into the back seat, clutching the paper bag Martha had handed me—still warm, smelling of sugar and tart cherries.
“Did he take it?” my mom asked without opening her eyes. Her voice was thin, raspy from the dry air and the cheap cigarettes she swore she was trying to quit.
“He put it in his vest,” I said, unwrapping the corner of the brown paper napkin.
She turned her head slowly, looking back at me through the gap between the bucket seats. A faint, sad smile touched the corners of her mouth, making the fine lines around her eyes crinkle. She reached out and patted my knee, her hand rough and cool against my skin.
“Smart boy,” she whispered. “I told you he wouldn't throw it away.”
We stayed in that parking lot for two hours. Through the dirty windshield, I watched the Copper Kettle Diner across the two-lane blacktop. I saw Jax come out once, standing by his Harley with two other men in matching cuts. He looked across the street once, his eyes scanning the station wagon, but he didn't cross. Instead, he kicked his kickstand up, started the engine with a deep, floor-shaking rumble, and rode out of town heading south toward the interstate, the tailpipes spitting blue smoke into the afternoon haze.
My mom let out a long breath that sounded like a deflating tire.
“Well,” she said, reaching for the ignition key. “At least he looked.”
We didn't go back to the motel immediately. Instead, we drove three miles down the county road to the old courthouse in Oakhaven—a square brick building with peeling white paint and a flagpole that hadn't flown a flag in years.
My mom stayed in the car this time, too weak to climb the concrete steps, handing me a crumpled twenty-dollar bill and a manila folder with our birth certificates inside.
“Ask for Mrs. Gable,” she instructed through the cracked window. “Tell her you're Sarah's boy. She remembers the summer of ninety-six.”
The inside of the county office smelled of damp paper, old floor wax, and air conditioning that had given up weeks ago. A ceiling fan wobbled overhead, ticking against the acoustic tiles in a slow, hypnotic rhythm.
Behind a tall wooden counter topped with scratched green linoleum sat an elderly woman with silver hair piled high on her head and thick glasses hanging from a beaded chain around her neck. She looked up over the rims as my scuffed sneakers squeaked across the polished concrete floor.
“We're closed for lunch, young man,” she said, though she didn't look annoyed—just tired.
“I'm Leo,” I said, placing the manila folder on the counter just like I had placed the photo on the diner bar an hour earlier. “My mom said you remember her. Sarah Miller. And she said you'd know where the property records are for the old repair shop by the state line.”
Mrs. Gable stopped shuffling her index cards. Her hands rested flat on the desktop, and her eyes widened slightly behind the thick lenses. She looked down at my face, then over my shoulder toward the double glass doors leading out to the empty street.
“Sarah Miller?” she murmured, more to herself than to me. She took off her glasses, letting them dangle against her floral blouse, and leaned forward. “Good Lord. You've got his eyes, haven't you? Exact same shape.”
“Whose eyes?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer before she said it.
May you like
Mrs. Gable let out a dry, humorless chuckle, shaking her head as she stood up and walked toward the towering metal filing cabinets lining the back wall.
“Jax Vance's,” she said over her shoulder, the metal drawer sliding open with a loud, metallic shriek that echoed through the empty room. “He swore up and down he was leaving this county for good when he packed up that old truck. Looks like he didn't quite make it far enough.”
