I couldn’t figure out what had Bubba Rayhill, our third full-time deputy, giggling like a junior high sleepover until I swiveled my chair around.

Bowie and Jonah had arrived at the station to pick me up. In disguise.

Thank God Connelly had bugged out. Jonah was wearing an inconspicuous black down jacket and a beret. Bowie had gone for a fedora and high school letterman’s jacket.

“Is this a Halloween dinner?” I asked.

Bowie shucked the hat off his head. “You try being chased by a pack of rabid photographers for an hour after school and see how you like it.”

“Sallie Mae Brickman scared them off with an umbrella and a muzzleloader. Then she gave us these disguises,” Jonah explained.

I’d seen first-hand the mess the “newsies” were making all over town. They were clumping in public areas demanding interviews from every passerby. They blocked streets with news vans, surrounded citizens like they were Meltdown-in-Progress Britney Spears, and hogged up all the Wi-Fi at Yee Haw Yarn and Coffee. It was already a nightmare, and they’d been here for only twenty-four hours.

As far as I could tell, not a single Bootlegger had stepped up to the microphone. My town might be torn over whether or not Jonah Bodine Sr. was guilty, but one thing we all could agree on was that no outsider was going to make fools of us.

“We ditched my car on Rum Runner Avenue,” Bowie told me. “So you’re probably gonna have to drive us unless you don’t mind having a dozen reporters jogging next to you asking if any of your family members are killers.”

He was having a rough day. So I cut him some slack on the snark. Besides, he looked pretty cute in that letterman’s jacket.

“All right, boys. Let me get my coat. Did y’all call in the takeout orders?”

Twenty minutes later, loaded down with Thai food and a mixed assortment of subs and two six-packs of beer, I pulled onto a long, winding drive on the outskirts of town. The Red House was on the opposite end of town from the fancy lake houses summertimers rented for a month at a time. It was also conveniently tucked away on a private lane with a scrap of lakefront beyond its front porch.

“Why are we having dinner here?” I asked, putting my car in park.

“Last minute cancellation,” Bowie explained from the passenger seat. Our elbows were almost touching on the console that separated us. Scarlett was a mini real estate mogul in Bootleg Springs. She had a handful of rental properties that gave her a very nice cash flow during the spring, summer, and fall. “Scarlett figured we’d have less of a chance of attracting attention if we all met here instead of one of our houses.”

It was a good plan. If all the Bodines had descended on Bowie’s house, they would have attracted every journalist in town. I probably would have had to shoot someone or at least tase several of them.

We pulled around the front of the house where the rest of the Bodine vehicles were parked on the lawn. Lugging the food and beer with us, we trudged up the front steps. Bowie didn’t bother knocking. He opened the door and gestured for me to enter first.

The Red House was on the tiny side. I’d thought Scarlett was crazy when she bought it two years ago. It had been a heap of rotting wood under a holey roof at the time. But she’d redone it into a cute little cottage perfect for a couple’s getaway.

“There y’all are! I thought you got swallowed up by a horde of reporters,” Scarlett chirped from the kitchen. She was helping Devlin arrange their contribution to the meal—pepperoni rolls and potato chips—on the counter.

Gibson was flipping channels on the TV in the living room. I guessed he was the one who brought the hot wings from The Lookout. Jameson and Leah Mae unpacked bags of paper plates and napkins, followed by a bucket of fried chicken.

Jonah added our spoils to the buffet and slapped a spring roll out of Devlin’s hand. “We’re adding muscle, not food bloat.”

Devlin moped and moved on to the grilled chicken salad some joker had brought.

“I invited June Bug, but she’s pouting over some fantasy football player’s injury,” Scarlett told me.

I nodded. “GT Thompson.” My sister had been an avid fan of the guy since his NFL career began ten years ago. She was taking his injury as a personal affront, claiming he’d ruined her entire season.

Gibson wandered in, big and broody. He reached over and ruffled my hair. “How’s it goin’, deputy?”

“Oh, you know. Another day in paradise.”

Plates were distributed, and food was shoveled onto them. We crowded around the table and spilled into the living room. Bowie sat next to me on the floor. His knee was brushing mine.

“We still good?” he asked quietly. Even surrounded by his family, it still felt like we were in our own little bubble.

“Uh, sure. Yeah.” I bobbed my head like one of those weird drinking bird toys. I liked being mad at Bowie better. The feelings were easier to manage, and I didn’t have to worry about, you know, talking to him.

“So, who got asked the dumbest question today?” Leah Mae asked cheerfully.

There was a collective groan.

“One of those jackwagons caught me at the Pop In and asked me if I thought it was my daddy or my brothers who murdered Callie Kendall. Then they started in on poor Opal on account of her last name,” Scarlett said.

“They caught us outside Leah Mae’s storefront,” Jameson said. Leah Mae had changed gears from model to shopkeeper. She was hoping to open a fashion boutique sometime in the spring with a little help from my sister the investor. At least she would if June would stop haggling the building owner to death over rent and utilities.

“Yeah, they wanted to know if I was marrying into a family of homicidal maniacs and if so, would there be a reality show?” Leah Mae chimed in.

“I had six reporters and photographers show up for the trail run this morning,” Jonah complained. He cracked a grin. “Too bad it was such a fast crew. Some of ‘em are probably still trying to find their way out of the woods.”

I snorted in appreciation.

“They say anything about your name?” Bowie asked.

“Just wanted to know if homicidal tendencies were genetic.”

“What a bunch of dumbasses,” Scarlett said succinctly.

We all grunted in general agreement.

“Cassidy got to play hero this morning,” Bowie told everyone. He recounted the morning’s driveway incident, and I was given an enthusiastic round of applause by all present.

“I get the feeling news organizations aren’t really sending their best people,” Jameson said. “These folks seem like they’re a special kind of stupid.”

Devlin cleared his throat. “I had a few calls and messages today from some contacts back in Annapolis and D.C. If this story gets any bigger we might be facing more than a few dozen dumbasses,” he warned.

“Good Lord,” I muttered. “What about you, Gibson?” I asked him.

All eyes turned to him and he glanced up from his plate.

He shrugged. “You’d be surprised at how many people leave you alone when you hang a couple of rifles in the back window of your pickup,” he deadpanned.

The Bodines thought that was hilarious.

I, however, had the sinking feeling that I’d be arresting one of them before this whole mess was over.

No longer hungry, I leaned back against the couch and found Bowie’s arm resting there. He didn’t move and neither did I. I thought about my cats.

“Enough about this mess,” Scarlett said, sliding onto Devlin’s lap. She had a piece of gauze poking out of the sleeve of her flannel shirt. “Did y’all hear that Bowie and Cassidy showed up dressed all fancy at The Lookout and shared a slow dance?”

“Ooooooh!” the crowd collectively cooed.

“Very funny.” I threw the heel of my bread in Scarlett’s direction. “Why are you bandaged up?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

“Kitten Jedediah was just having some fun. Anyway, as I was sayin’, some folks are calling for a recount on that Least Likely To poll. Y’all might have edged out Reverend Duane and Misty Lynn,” she said with a wink.

Bowie’s fingers brushed my shoulder. Back and forth in a steady, soothing kind of motion. The effects of the touch were anything but soothing. Secret touches from Bowie Bodine? Had I accidentally ripped a hole in time and space, taking me back to my high school yearnings?

Cats. I was a mother to cats. I needed to remember that. I had given up. I was committed to life as a single cat lady.

“All right. Enough with the bullshitting,” Gibson said. “Let’s get down to why we’re really here. We need to make sure we’re on the same page with this investigation shitstorm.”

“Party pooper,” Scarlett hissed in his direction.

Bowie tensed next to me. His fingers stopped their gentle strokes. “No offense, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for Cassidy to be here.”

Offense taken. I whipped my head around so fast my neck cracked. I felt wounded. I’d always been considered a Bodine as much as the Bodines had been considered honorary Tuckers.

Eyes were popping out of heads all over the place.

Bowie turned to me. “Cass, I don’t want you feeling like you have divided loyalties over this mess. We don’t want to jeopardize your job.”

He was punishing me over the DNA results again.

I rose abruptly. “Yeah. Got it. I’ll go.” I was shockingly hurt. Like arrow to the chest, knife to the back hurt. Why did I keep letting this man close enough to hurt me?

I was going to throw the used kitty litter onto his back porch tonight.

“We can drive Jonah and Bowie back,” Jameson volunteered, giving me an apologetic look.

I nodded briskly, not making eye contact with any of them. “Yep. Thanks for dinner, y’all.”

I pushed my way out the front door to a chorus of “Cass, don’t be like that.”

I felt like the front door was slamming shut on a lifetime of friendship. I wasn’t one of them. They didn’t trust me. And that fucking hurt.