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Ten minutes later her kitchen light came on, and it stayed on till two. I sat on my side of the glass and hated every minute of it.

It was the right call. It was also the stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my life, and that says a lot.

“Raines,” Rob calls. “You with me?”

He grins slowly like he knows exactly where my head is.

“Not one word,” I tell him.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

Halfway through the last round, the tones drop.

“Engine 1, rubbish fire, rear of the Mountain Market. Caller reports smoke from the dumpster.”

We’re there in three minutes. It’s a literal dumpster fire. The thing is full of cardboard, smoking like a campfire.

Betsy Morris, town gossip, is standing in the alley in her bathrobe and slippers, spraying the outside of it with a garden hose about as strong as a drinking fountain.

“I had it under control!” she calls.

“Yes, ma’am,” Rob says. “Raines, bring a line.”

I knock it down in ten seconds. Betsy watches me do it with her hose still running, water pouring on her own slippers.

“So you’re the one,” she says, when I come back to coil the line.

“Ma’am?” I ask, confused.

“The one living over Lindsey’s shop.” She looks me up and down—taking her time—from my boots to my helmet. “I saw you on her porch Thursday night.”

Behind me, Rob makes a sound like he swallowed his tongue.

“Ma’am,” I say because there are zero other words for this situation.

“Don’t you ma’am me. I walk my dog Pearl at nine-thirty. Every night.” She turns off her hose. “That girl has been alone too long. Ever since the Hayes girl ran off, she just works and works.”

I’m already frowning because I know this.

Betsy narrows her eyes at me like she might hit me with her hose instead of spraying me. “You’re not going to run off too, are you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Good.” She shuffles back to her house and goes inside in her wet slippers. Over her shoulder, before the door closes, she says, “Somebody ought to stay.”

Rob waits until the door shuts.

“Sarge,” he says. “Betsy Morris just gave you her blessing. In this town that’s better than a marriage license.”

“Shut the hell up, Rob.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

Cassia finds me back at the station when we return. “So,” she says.

“No.”