Page 147 of Fire Fight

“So how do you want to play this?” I asked Lane as he navigated across town, toward the trailer park where Missy lived.

“I want you to keep your mouths shut and let me do my job.”

I opened mine to protest, but Lane cut me with a glare. “Both of you are here as a courtesy. Neither of you are cops, andneither of you have any power. I’m lettingyouride along, Crew, because for one, you’re deeply involved in this case on a personal and professional level, having worked the fire that nearly took your girl out. For two, I could use the backup.”

“If you wanted backup, I feel like the former Army Rangers might’ve been better suited,” Trey quipped from the back.

“They’re busy, so I’m stuck with you two idiots.”

“What about your deputies?”

“My department is spread a little thin at the moment dealing with other shit.”

“Other shit like what?” I prompted.

“None of your business.”

I knew better than to push, so I let it drop, and we proceeded the rest of the way to Missy’s in silence.

The trailer park was well-kept, and Missy’s home was no exception. The exterior was robin’s egg-blue with a bay window jutting out at one end, the windows and doors trimmed in crisp white. The front porch was painted a dove grey and lined with fragrant white roses. The pathway stones were free from moss, weeds, and dirt, and the grass of the postage stamp yard was bright green and recently mowed.

“Cute little place,” I remarked.

“To hide the dirty shit that she gets up to behind closed doors,” Lane muttered, and Trey snickered.

When we reached the landing and Lane knocked, faint music filtered through the door, and a voice called, “One minute please!”

As promised, the inner door popped open a moment later, revealing through the screen a woman around Mama’s age, her bleach-blonde hair teased to high heaven and wavy like she’d used one of those crimping tools I’d seen my sister wield a time or two. Her eyes were lined in heavy, dark kohl, her lips unnaturally plump and painted a glossy pink. A Fleetwood Mac teehung off her shoulder, tight denim pants that flared out from the knee encased her legs, and each movement of her arms sent her collection of bangles colliding and jangling. Her feet were bare, toes painted black to match her short nails.

Missy cocked a hip, a coy smile appearing on her mouth. “Well, well. To what do I owe the pleasure, Sheriff?” Her attention turned to me. “Captain.” Then to Trey. “Coach.”

I didn’t appreciate the way her grey eyes dragged over me like I was a piece of meat she wanted to sink her teeth into.

Unperturbed by the assessment, Lane merely said, “Mind if we come in? We were hoping to ask you a few questions.”

“Regarding?”

“The Prom Night Arsonist.”

Missy sucked in a gasp that hissed sharply through her teeth and said, “I’ve been wondering when you’d make your way to little old me.”

When she opened the screen door to admit us, me and my brothers shared a quick glance, excited energy dancing under my skin.

She knows something.

Her home was decorated as the woman was dressed: like the seventies had thrown up on every wall and piece of furniture. Framed band posters hung in the living space, the bay window I’d noticed outside was lined with shaggy pillows, and macrame curtains covered the windows. A wicker stand in the corner held a record player, the disk and needle spinning and filling the space with the sounds of “The Chain.”

She directed us to a sofa that looked straight out ofThe Brady Bunch, my brothers and I barely fitting shoulder to shoulder across it, with me sandwiched uncomfortably in the middle.

“Can I get you fine gentleman anything to drink?” she asked as she moved into the kitchen. The rooms were painted a creamy beige color, giving the whole thing a sepia-toned vibe, aided bythe haze of cigarette smoke hanging in the air, like we’d stepped back in time.

I could only imagine what her bedroom looked like. Likely someAustin Powerstype shit, with psychedelic patterns and a round bed.

“This isn’t a social call, Ms. Plano.”

She waved a hand at him, giggling lightly. “Please, Sheriff. Call me Mel or Missy.”

“Fine,Missy,” Lane gritted out. “Please come take a seat.”