Free The Scum of All Fears: Squeaky Clean Mysteries, Book 5 by Christy Barritt

little more.
    “Speaking of dentists . . . I have a date with one tonight!” Her voice sounded sing-songy and way too perky for this hour.
    “A dentist? Where did you meet him?”
    “He was in the coffeehouse yesterday. Absolutely dreamy. He’s a little old—almost thirty. But I’ve always liked older men.”
    I was feeling ancient right about now.
    I focused on the road, trying to keep my thoughts from veering to social security and wearing Depends.
    Silence stretched for a few minutes. That alone was suspicious. Clarice never stopped talking.
    I glanced over at her. She was nibbling on a cotton candy colored nail and staring out the window.
    “Everything okay?” I asked, hoping I didn’t regret it.
    She shrugged. “Do you ever feel like people pigeonhole you to be someone you’re not?”
    I thought about it before nodding. “Sure. People think I’m tough, but I’m not always that way. I guess we all put on fronts and wear masks at times.”
    She stared out the window again. Wordlessly.
    I couldn’t believe I was doing this, but I kept talking. “Why do you ask?”
    “I was with a friend last night who referred to me as an airhead. I know people say that behind my back, but hearing him say it to my face really knocked me off balance.”
    Guilt—my automatic go-to emotion—pounded at me again. Now would not be a good time to admit that I’d thought the same thing about her. Instead, I said, “Ouch.”
    She nodded. “I know people think that about me. So, sometimes, I play it up. It’s who people expect me to be, so why disappoint them? The thing is, the more I think of myself as an airhead, the more I feel like I become one. Isn’t that strange?”
    “As the mind goes, so goes the rest of the body,” I muttered. “What brought this up?”
    “I’m thinking about my date. I know I sounded excited—and I am—but this dentist guy . . . well, he talks down to me, you know? Then I realized I was letting him. Why? Because sometimes I think guys like an airhead, you know? They don’t want someone who’s independent and strong.”
    “Not all guys are like that.”
    She glanced over at me. “I guess your fiancé isn’t, huh? My Auntie Sharon always says I shouldn’t care so much about guys. She says I’m obsessed and I find my identity in them.”
    Sharon had a tendency to lean toward the more feminist side of that argument. “You have to be happy with yourself, Clarice. You can’t find your identity in other people. You can’t live to make other people happy. At the end of the day—and at the end of your life—no one else will be accountable for your actions or how you lived except for you.”
    “ You’re right.”
    “You’re still young. You still have time to figure things out. But never discount yourself. If you don’t believe in you rself, no one else will either. You have a lot to offer, and don’t let anyone tell you anything different.”
    She smiled. “Thanks, Gabby. That makes sense. I need to start making some changes. I need to prove to people that I’m better than they think.”
    “Don’t prove it to other people; just prove it to yourself.”
    My little pep talk resonated in my head. How did what I say play into my decision about my career? Was Sharon right? Would I be crazy to give up a job I longed for to be with the man of my dreams? Was I discounting my own career so Riley could have his career?
    I didn’t have much time to ponder it. I pulled up to our crime scene and saw a n officer waiting there. It was the same rookie I’d met yesterday. I hadn’t given him a key to the place yet, so I took the one the homeowner gave me and put it in his outstretched hand.
    We waited inside the van—with the AC blasting—while he checked out things inside. Just as I was searching for something to talk about, my phone rang. Saved by the cell. “Gabby St. Claire,” I answered.
    “Gabby, this is Ramona from America Live .” America Live was Bill’s talk show.
    “Hi ,