Page 17 of Cowboy Heat

The Girl Beneath the Floor.

A child, terrified. Sitting in the dark.

I wonder how long Alice has been here.

Not as long as the girl, I know that much.

Before I can stop my train of thought, it’s taking me from my time as a kid right up to past year in Orlando. The girl doesn’t fade away, but I can smell the smoke now.

The metal.

Burning my nose.

Burning me.

The blood on the ground…

Now Kissy has it on her.

Robin’s Tree was supposed to be different.

Maybe I can’t get different. Maybe I don’t deserve it.

The dispatch is waiting for a response from me, but I don’t give one. Kissy doesn’t seem to mind my quiet. Instead, she’s looking at the phone.

“George, is Meggie working?”

The dispatcher, George, hesitates. His answer next is off. “Yes. She heard.”

Three words, three syllables.

But they mean something heavy. Heavier than the woman bleeding beneath Kissy’s hands.

She lets out a breath. I think she’s more worried than before.

I want to ask why.

I don’t.

CHAPTEREIGHT

Kissy

The hospital in Trenton,Louisiana, smells sterile. It’s clean-looking too. Even the off-white walls look good. Same for the floor that has my shoes squeaking as I make my way from the bathroom to the emergency room lobby. I almost feel ashamed that the dried blood on my shirt is contrasting against it.

That shame turns to worry for the woman who made the stain.

I almost miss Sheriff Roland standing by the front desk.

He doesn’t miss me. “Miss Lawson, a word?”

Sheriff Bailey Roland is a squat man with a bald spot that never shines. In fact, nothing about him ever looks anything but sour. Wyatt once said the sheriff looked like a man who used to be tall and powerful before a giant used his thumb to smoosh him down. I’ve never been able to unsee it. Even now, I imagine a giant thumb resting on top of his head, the whole reason why that bald spot never shines. He’s in his late fifties and has been running and winning the spot of sheriff unopposed for years.

He likes me okay. I’ve never been a fan of his.

“Hey, sheriff. How’s it for you?”

He has his badge on his shirt pocket. He rubs a thumb against the bottom triangle to readjust it a little, but I know it’s to remind me of who he is despite the fact that I just called him sheriff. “I was out checking on a gator call from Mrs. Keller when dispatch called me into this mess.” He looks burdened. All the way from his bald spot down to his toes. “I’m told you and a stranger found poor Alice bloody.”