“Heard you pulled the short straw earlier this week,” Fanny Sue grinned when I walked into the station.

I rolled my eyes to the heavens. “I swear every time Misty Lynn does somethin’ stupid, Rhett Ginsler runs out and tries to top her.”

Fanny Sue flipped open the file. “Driving a lawn mower under the influence,” she recited from my report. Rumor had it Misty Lynn had been caught making eyes at Freddy Sleeth over a round of beer pong, and Rhett had taken offense. “That’s a new one.”

“Did you confiscate the mower?” Bex asked, filling her bottle from the water cooler.

“I paid Rhett’s 9-year-old nephew to drive it home and park it in the garage.”

“Shoulda kept it. We could have put a plow on it and used it for the sidewalks,” Fanny Sue quipped.

“Thought about it but it’s one of those zero turn ones. No place for a plow.”

“Dang it.”

“Maybe Rhett should hop back on and do a 180 in the opposite direction of Misty Lynn,” Bex suggested.

“Amen to that sister.” I raised my coffee cup in her direction.

“Ladies, perhaps if you were less concerned about the reputation of your neighbors and more worried about enforcing the law, maybe you wouldn’t have an entire town disrespecting your department.” Connelly’s voice was ice cold with an extra shot of disapproval.

He was standing in front of the coffee pot, a thick stack of files under one arm. I wondered if he’d make me scan them.

Fanny Sue hitched up her duty belt and gave him a cool stare. “I think we’re doing just fine in Bootleg. But thanks for the helpful observation.”

Oh, he didn’t like that one bit.

“You have a sheriff who’s run unopposed in the last four elections who hired his daughter to one of the only full-time deputy positions in the department. And when she’s not going easy on townsfolk or cooking up fake fines for visitors to this town, she spends her time gossiping. You tell me if that’s ‘doin’ just fine.’”

Fanny Sue looked like she was about to climb over her desk and give him what for.

Bex looked like she couldn’t decide if she wanted Fanny Sue to clock him or bite her tongue. I was praying hard for option number two. Because I wanted the first shot at him.

Deciding he’d spread enough of his douchebaggery, Connelly turned his back on us and walked into the conference room.

I was hot on his heels.

I closed the door firmly behind me, cutting off Bex’s quiet “Ohhhhhh, shit.”

“If you have a problem with my job performance, I’d appreciate it if you’d share it privately with me, sir.” I put some stank on the word sir. I may be young and female and the sheriff’s daughter, but that didn’t mean I hadn’t earned my place in this department.

He sat, crossing his arms and studying me without bothering to disguise his disgust. “You are everything that’s wrong with these small-town police departments. You don’t deserve to be here. You haven’t earned a place here. You’re underqualified, inexperienced, and you’re more interested in your neighbors’ business than whether they’re on the wrong side of the law.”

“What exactly am I doing wrong in your opinion, sir?” This guy had a beef with me, and I was starting to think it went deeper than the fact that I happened to be in possession of lady parts.

“The only reason you’re here is because of your DNA,” he snapped. “You’re involved with the family of a murder suspect. You cut personal friends breaks and then crack down on unsuspecting visitors because you’re riding some small-time, pathetic power trip.”

Connelly had no idea how lucky he was that I’d spent years learning to bury my feelings deep. There was something gratifying about remaining icy calm when someone else was losing their shit. Because if I weren’t so busy being the supreme goddess of keeping my cool right now, this guy would have my taser contacts attached to his balls.

“I proudly serve this town the best I can. If you have an issue with my performance perhaps you should take it up with my boss.”

“You mean, your daddy,” Connelly corrected me. “If it were up to you and your daddy I wouldn’t even be pursuing Jonah Bodine as a suspect.”

“I’m not involved in the investigation,” I pointed out. I wanted to ask him if he’d even talked to the Kendalls about the photos. But I was mad, not stupid. “I wasn’t aware that Callie’s disappearance was ruled a homicide.” Okay. Maybe I was a little stupid. It hadn’t officially been ruled a homicide. A bloody sweater wasn’t a body or a murder weapon.

Connelly took offense. “Mark my words, deputy. Someone in this town killed that girl and your father let them get away with it. Now, you’re here throwing up smoke screens trying to protect the Bodines. If the trail goes cold this time, it’s on your head. Not mine.”

I leaned over the conference table, putting my fingertips on it. “I don’t know where you’re from, but around here we like to believe that everyone is innocent until proven guilty and that the sins of the father don’t automatically get handed down to the next generation.”

He rose from his chair and mirrored my stance. “Think about how old those Bodine boys were when she disappeared. What’s to say they didn’t know what their father was up to? Or what’s to say it wasn’t one of them? Any one of them could have come across her on her way home that night. Maybe their father didn’t do it. Maybe his alibi was real. Maybe it was one of those boys that decided to have a little fun with a pretty girl. You should think real hard about how well you think you know them. ‘Cause to me, the apple usually doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

The conference room door opened. My dad was dressed in what I thought of as his civilian uniform of jeans and flannel with a ballcap. It was his day off. Through the window, I saw Bex wringing her hands near the water cooler and Fanny Sue pretending to be engrossed in the screen saver on her monitor.

“There a problem?” my father asked, cool as a bucket of ice water.

Connelly shot me a smug look. Look whose daddy came to bail her out.

“No, sir,” I said.

I gave Connelly a curt nod and walked out of the conference room.

I wanted to punch something. Something like Connelly’s face. But I wouldn’t give that turd in the punchbowl the satisfaction of seeing me in a temper. Nope. I was cold as the iceberg that sunk the Titanic. He’d accused me of being a nepotistic moron incapable of doing her job and insinuated that any one of the Bodines could have made Callie disappear.

What was I supposed to do? Report him to my supervisor? I’d just be proving his point.

The man made it clear. He was going to take great pleasure in ruining my career.

I needed to steer very clear of Bowie.