I pick up my ladle and scoop a healthy portion of hot sauce out of its container to dump it on top of the burrito. It spills out and slowly spreads to the edge of the plate. My own tongue bursts with hungry need but I still have at least forty-five minutes left until I can break for lunch.

I drop the plate in the window. “Order 23!” I shout out.

A woman instantly shoots up from the bench about ten feet from the truck to claim it and I move on to the next order in line. Chicken tacos. That’s an easy one.

I zone out completely. I’ll admit, I never expected to ever work in a food truck, but I’ve grown to enjoy it. Mob bullshit only saunters through a few minutes a day. The rest is up to me and I take a little pride in being the Hot Sauce guy.

I lay another few plates out. “Who’s next?” I shout into the air.

I lock eyes with a woman in a jet-black suit outside the window. Her brown hair is locked behind her head in a tight ponytail. A single strand has managed to break free and falls down over her forehead. She looks at me with deep, brown eyes and I instantly slide over to talk to her.

“Excuse me. Are you Milo Murray?” she asks.

I flash a smile. “Why, yes. Yes, I am. How can I help you, madam?” I ask.

She opens the right side of her jacket, revealing the golden badge clipped to her belt. “Mr. Murray, I’m Detective Silva. Boston PD. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Oh.

“Oh,” I say. “Right now?”

“Yes,” she says stiffly.

I scan the thinning crowd. “Well...”

“It won’t take long. Step outside for me, please.”

I harden my face to kill the desperate expression begging to take over.

What do they know?

Have the cops caught on to the Quinns’ new food truck scam? Do they know I’m part of it? If they do, could I claim I’ve acted under fear of my own safety?

Until I know for sure, it’s plausible deniability. I don’t know anything, Detective.

Keep the mouth shut.

I close the window and stick an on-break sign on it before stepping outside. She greets me there, along with some other cop in a dark suit and smug grin.

“This is my partner, Detective Rhys. Do you mind if he takes a look around while we talk?” she asks me.

Act innocent.

I look at her partner, instantly recognizing him. A regular. I point at him. “Steak burrito. Extra hot sauce, on the side,” I say, recalling his order.

He smiles. “Good memory.”

I shrug and shift to the left. “Go ahead.”

He slaps my shoulder as he passes around me and hops up into the truck. Thank god the dealers called a TBD on us. There’s no money in my freezer today. Just ice and food.

I turn back to the detective in front of me. Silva, she said her name was. She stands tall, just a few inches shorter than me. I casually glance down at her shoes. No heels. No boots.

“You’re not in any trouble, Mr. Murray,” she says, turning toward a nearby table. “I just want to ask you about a possible customer of yours.”

I follow her. “Okay…”

She sits down and I take the seat across from her. A light breeze makes that strand of hair bounce along the bridge of her nose. My gaze travels down over her eyes and cheekbones. Thin, tight lips just waiting to be stretched.

She lays out the folder in front of her and slides a photo out. “Do you recognize this man?” she asks, her voice calm and hard.

I pull my eyes away from her pink lips to look at the photo. A mugshot, technically. Some middle-aged man with balding black hair and a deep scar down his mouth.

I shrug. “No.”

“Do you mind looking again for me?” she asks.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t recognize him.”

“He’s never eaten here before?”

“Not that I know of, but...” I glance over my shoulder as something slams in my truck. That bastard is going through my cabinets. There’s nothing in there for him to find, unless he likes four different kinds of cheese.

Act innocent.

“I get a lot of customers and I’m not great with faces.”

She slides the photo back in and grabs another one. “His name is Canon McGregor. Does that help?”

I blink, but probably shouldn’t have. “No, I’m sorry.”

“He was found dead yesterday morning,” she continues, studying me.

“Sucks to be him. What does this have to do with me?”

“Because his body was covered in your signature hot sauce, Mr. Murray.”

I shift. “Wait, really?”

She hands me the second photo. I look at it and cringe at the image of a very dead, very red-covered, body.

“That’s not blood?” I ask, laying it down.

“Some of it is.” She slides it back into her folder. “Can you tell me where you were the night before last between seven and eight?”

I try and think back but I draw a blank. “In my truck?”

“You’re not sure?”

“In my truck,” I say again.

She closes her folder and leans over it as she stares back at me. “Do you make your sauce on-site, Mr. Murray?”

“Uh... yeah. Sometimes, I’ll do a batch at home and bring it in.”

“So, this is a specific recipe?” she asks. “Not something you buy from a store?”

“I make every ounce of it, Detective. It’s my bread and butter.”

“Do you ever sell your sauce? Bottles or jars of it?”

“No, never.”

She tilts her head. “Then, can you tell me how this man, who you’ve never seen before, ended up dead covered with nearly a half-gallon of your hot sauce, that only you have access to?”

I open my mouth to speak but my vocal cords tighten. “Uh...”

“Hey there, stranger.”

We break eye contact and I follow the new voice upward to see that tight blonde from last night standing over the table. She brought a friend with her, a girl just as tight as she is but a little more brunette.

“Hi,” I say.

She nudges her friend’s arm. “This is the guy I told you about,” she says. “The one with the cursed eyes.”

I force a laugh, grimacing between them and the unamused detective sitting across from me. “I, uh...”

“See the different colors?”

The brunette leans over. “Let me see.”

The detective rolls her eyes. “Cursed?”

“Yeah,” the blonde says. “He angered some old lady and she cursed him, so now he stops to talk to every beautiful woman he passes by or else she’ll come back. Isn’t that what you told me?”

I look across the table into her glaring eyes. “Well, I...” I clear my throat, trying to play it cool. “You know, I’d love to tell it again. How about you two meet me back here tonight and the three of us—”

“It’s heterochromia.”

I deflate.

The brunette wrinkles her nose. “Hetero-what?”

“Heterochromia.” The detective chuckles. “He’s not cursed. It’s a birth defect. He only told you that to get in your pants.”

The girls slink back in disgust. “Oh...”

“Go home, ladies,” she says.

They titter and snort as they walk away, bolting for The Smoothie Zone across the street.

“And, for god’s sake, stay in school,” she adds.

My lips twitch. I should be more offended. I crash and burned last night but this was round two. I could easily have taken home a double prize. But suddenly, that stiff, tight-lipped woman across from me relaxed her shoulders, cracked a joke, and I don’t care about anything else.

“Heterochromia,” I repeat.

“My daughter has it.” She picks up her folder. “Guess I don’t find it as cute when it’s used to nail jailbait.”

I swallow. “Fair enough.”

She stands up and drops a business card onto the table in front of me. “Mr. Murray, I’ll be in touch with you if I have more questions. In the meantime, don’t leave town.”

“Oh, I won’t, Detective.”

I turn to watch as she leaves, letting my eyes travel from that high ponytail all the way down to her strong legs, feeling a little whiplashed by the whole encounter. She stopped just short of accusing me of murder and cockblocked me. I should be furious but I can’t keep myself from picturing those pink lips again.

She pauses by the truck and knocks on the window to get the other detective’s attention.

He stomps out of my truck carrying a half-eaten burrito in his hands and holds it up at me. “You don’t mind, do you, slick?” he asks, his mouth full.

I wave. “Knock yourself out, Detective.”

He smiles and they walk off together.

I sit back, pushing every primal urge I have to the back of my head so I can think through what just happened.

Canon is dead. I knew that but I didn’t know that I’m officially a suspect. If that information gets back to Daniel Quinn, I’m in deep shit. I can only imagine how he’d react to finding out that someone on his payroll was responsible for sparking a mob war.

I pick up the business card in front of me. Boston Police Department. Anna Silva. Pretty name to go with the face. I wonder how she’d look with her hair down and bent over with my hands in cuffs because I’m a murder suspect and that’s probably all she wants to do to me. Period.

Priorities, man.

I pocket the card and stand up to get back to work.