“Mentally, better. But I was so tired today. Like Taylor-Swift-after-an-entire-Eras-tour-concert tired. Are you so tired?”
“Exhausted,” I concurred.
“I’m so sorry to bail on you,” Layna said. She let out a shuddering breath. “I just can’t help with anything else. Not after yesterday. Not with anything criminal. Not with anything remotely to do with guys like that. That was just too close.” That glassy-eyed look again. Like part of her was somewhere else.
I didn’t blame Layna. But I didn’t have the luxury to tap out. And facing this alone felt monumental, overwhelming.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I get it.” And I did. But as I watched Layna climb into her Porsche and drive away, I felt more alone than I’d ever been in my whole life.
Back inside the Impala, I needed to cry again, but no tears came. I was empty, numb, hollowed out. I wracked my brain for someone, anyone who could help me move the mansicle. Emmylou was an obvious no-go. She didn’t have the requisite brute strength or tight lips—I didn’t need her entire Silver Sneakers aerobics class knowing where I’d dumped a murdered corpse.
A phone vibrated. Idaho Connor’s, not mine.
Natty Lite:Any chance you know about some recent happenings at Burgdorf Hot Springs?
My heart squeezed like Phoebe’s fist around the last Jolly Rancher. The phone rattled again with even more unwelcome news.
A quick Cricket reminder! Your month of Cricket service is up in less than twenty-four hours. To continue your service, please make your payment of $40 before 4 PM Mountain Time tomorrow.
Once Cricket turned off Idaho Connor’s phone, surely people would notice he’d gone dark. My crimes—and culpability—were adding up.I couldn’t deal with this madness on my own. And I needed to find out how much the ATF knew about the explosion at Burgdorf. So in a moment of weakness or clarity, I pulled out my phone and invited over a federal agent.
Perhaps staring down the barrel of a prison sentence had spiked my libido because as I carried tumblers of whiskey to the living room, I couldn’t help but notice Agent Nate Duran looked distractingly sexy in jeans and a scotch plaid flannel. Now that he was actually sitting on my couch, it was hard to know whether I’d invited him over to pick his brain about the law-enforcement investigation at Burgdorf, warn him I’d heard rumors of an attack on the state capitol in sixteen days, or merely experience adult companionship and a whiff of his pheromones. I suddenly suspected it was the latter.
I’d closed the blinds against the darkness, the cold, and Emmylou’s prying eyes. The twins and Little Sister slept in their room. Nate’s arrival hadn’t woken them, which confirmed my suspicions Little Sister might not be a natural watchdog.
Nate thanked me for the whiskey. “After the day I’ve had I could use a drink.”
“Stressful?” I asked, sitting next to him. Every ounce of my attention went to the square inch where our knees touched. That was the thing about pure attraction. It could blot out every trying thing in this world—at least for a little while. And I was desperately in need of a break from darker realities.
“Very.”
“Like busting-down-doors stressful?” The whiskey was going down too easy.
“More like interviewing-an-outraged-suburban-lady-about-possible-federal-crimes stressful.”
“Yikes,” I said. “Sounds worse.”
“For me? Definitely worse.”
I wondered if I could get Nate to reveal how close law enforcement was to identifying me and Layna as the women who were at Burgdorf. But I hadn’t found my in yet. “Tell me more,” I said.
“I was following up a lead about this woman who maybe blew up a couple of snowmobiles yesterday with a hand grenade,” he said.
My heart rate spiked to the heavens. “What?” I said. “People are crazy!” That was another of my go-tos. Like “Boise is made of spiders.” I downed another slug of whiskey. “What’s the lead?”
Nate picked up a piece of the Doggyland affirmations jigsaw puzzle off the coffee table. “She paid cash to rent a snowmobile up in McCall, but used her real driver’s license at the rental place.”
I’d forgotten about using Miranda’s license! Even though she may have karmically deserved it, I didn’t actually want to get Miranda in trouble. She was a CPS worker. If she found out I’d implicated her in a crime, she could take my kids!
Nate leaned over a partially assembled section of puzzle that so far read:My Feelings. “She said she lost her ID a few days ago. But she doesn’t have an alibi. Said she was snowshoeing alone on some trails up by Bogus Basin to clear her head.”
“So what’ll you do next?”
“If she has the grenades, she’ll likely try to sell them. I’m gonna tail her to see if it might lead to bigger fish.” He snapped the puzzle piece into place with a satisfying click.My Feelings Matter.
Relief that the ATF wasn’t onto me swirled with guilt that I’d made Miranda a suspect in a federal crime. Those were my feelings. But Nate and his ATF buddies could tail Miranda Carson for a year and all they’d see her do was drink rosé at her mom’s fake designer candle parties.
“What would some suburban lady be doing blowing up snowmobiles?” I said.
