The blue crate huffed. “She looks like a dirty, wet dishrag, one that needs to be thrown away. And she smells awful. Worse than sour milk.”

“You would know,” said the red crate.

“Like your milk has never gone bad,” the blue crate replied.

“Don’t listen to them,” said the yellow crate. “They get like this when they’re tired. Misty went outside a few minutes ago.”

I nodded my thanks and opened the back door. The sun reflecting off Misty’s white van nearly blinded me, and I squinted.

The yellow crate was right. Misty was outside. She stood beside the open door to her van with hands in the air. Tears ran down her pretty face.

Too bad the yellow crate hadn’t warned me about the woman with the 12-gauge shotgun.

For a half-second, the cicadas’ drone filled my entire head. Their song drowned out my headache and my panic, but not the sound of the blue crate saying, “I told you the heat melted her brain. She knew Sumner was the killer, knew she might target Misty, and still ran out there without a weapon.”

The blue crate had an attitude problem.

The blue crate was also right.

Sumner’s back was to me. Maybe I could sneak up on her. Tackle her. Struggle for the gun.

Not the smartest plan. Not even close. But being beyond hot, beyond sweaty, beyond sleep deprived, and possibly dehydrated didn’t leave much brain power for rescue plans.

“Mrs. Jones,” said Misty. “Please, help me.”

So much for the element of surprise.

Sumner swung around and pointed the shotgun at me.

I held up my hands. “Sumner, you don’t want to do this. Put down the gun."

“You shouldn’t have come up here, Ellison.”

Arguably, she was right. But running into situations without considering consequences wasn’t new behavior. Next time, I’d find a detective or sheriff before I went rushing in. Where was the sheriff? “Sumner—”

“Move!” She jerked the shotgun barrel in Misty’s direction. “Over there.”

Staring down a shotgun barrel was my new least favorite thing. “Sumner—”

“Are you deaf?”

“You can’t kill us.”

She glanced at the gun in her hands. “I can.”

“Why?”

She jerked her chin in Misty’s direction. “She doesn’t get to have it all.”

“She won't. Graham is gone.”

“Her fault,” said the woman who'd killed Graham.

I needed time. Time for Randy or the sheriff or someone to find us. I had to keep her talking.

“Did you plan Graham’s murder?”

“No. But Friday night changed everything. Move.”

I shifted a few steps. “You realized Graham was having an affair.”

“Graham was always having an affair.” Sumner’s upper lip curled. “But he met someone. He changed.”

“You knew it was Misty?”

“No. But it wasn’t hard to figure out. She's his type.”

Both Sumner and Misty were pretty blondes with big blue eyes.