Page 11 of Fire Fight

The sheriff didn’t respond; he merely spun on his heel and jerked his head at the desk clerk, who admitted us into the inner sanctum.

The heads of his deputies swiveled toward us, tracking our every step through the bullpen until we reached an office at the back. The sheriff ushered me in and closed the door. Without an invitation, I sank onto one of the guest chairs in front of his desk and waited for him to take his seat.

“Tell me why you’re really here,” he said once he did, resting his elbows on his desk and leaning forward to study me. Clearly, he and Crew were related. I would’ve figured it out even if Crew hadn’t told me his brother was the sheriff. Their hair was the same shade, eyes a matching crystal blue. But where Crew’s entire demeanor was warm and inviting, the sheriff’s was closed off and wary.

“I told you. I’m here looking into the Prom Night Arsonist.”

“How do you even know about it?”

“A concerned citizen.”

The sheriff’s eyes narrowed. “I’d like the name of this concerned citizen.”

“Sorry, Sheriff. No can do. That’s privileged information.”

Like hell was I about to drag the Lees into this when they specifically asked to be kept out of it.

He exhaled harshly through his nose, and I waited for him to stand and start screaming. His hands flexed, his knuckles blanching with each curled fist, highlighting the letters inked on each.

Love free.

Interesting sentiment from a cop.

“Fine,” he clipped. “Either way, the answer is no. Those files are, shall we say…privileged information.” His smirk was downright menacing as he turned my own words against me.

“Fair enough,” I said, rising from the chair and extending my hand. The sheriff straightened to his full height, glaring down his nose at me, ignoring my attempt at cordiality. I let my hand drop. “Thank you for your time.”

I was almost to the door when he said my name, and I looked over my shoulder at him.

“This case brings up a lot of bad memories for a lot of people in this town. You’d be better off packing up and leaving matters to the authorities.”

I snorted. “While I’d love to”—I didn’t, actually, and we both knew it—“it seems to me the authorities haven’t accomplished a damn thing in over forty years. See you around.”

With that, I flung the door open and exited his office.

I felt his eyes like laser beams between my shoulder blades the entire way out.

The next night,I found myself at Dusk Valley’s wateringhole, also known as The Swallow—the ideal place to learn all the local gossip.

The Swallow was about what you’d expect for a small town bar. The sign out front featured a human hand holding a mug of frothy beer, tipping it into the waiting mouth of a bird—a swallow, obviously. The letters were neon tubing twisted into a bold, no-nonsense font that glowed brightly in the dark. A beacon for wayward souls.

Or private investigators who had been stymied by the police.

When I pushed through the heavy oak door, I was surprised by its spaciousness. Though smoking in public places had been outlawed ages ago, the scent of tobacco still clung to the room. Off to one side was a large area cordoned off by wooden half walls to create a dance floor presided over by a raised stage. The bar stretched the length of the opposite wall, and a man and woman hustled back and forth behind it.

As I moved deeper inside, weaving through freestanding tables, I could feel several sets of eyes on me, but I didn’t pay them any mind. I was used to this particular dance. Afterall, I was fresh meat. The new, shiny thing nobody could take their eyes off.

At last, I reached the bar and managed to, miraculously, locate a free stool. I dropped onto it, and the male bartender approached, expression giving nothing away as he slid a coaster in front of me and gruffly said, “What can I get you?”

“Whatever your local draft IPA is, please,” I replied as I withdrew my wallet from my crossbody bag.

With a curt nod, he moved over to the tap, poured my beer, and returned.

“Five bucks.”

I handed him a ten and told him to keep the change.

That seemed to loosen him up a bit because after putting my order in the till and cashing out, he slipped his tip into his pocket and turned to me with a wide grin.