Desiree wouldn’t be there. Someone would have bailed her out by now.

Even if she hadn’t been able to contact a friend or family member, and she remained in custody, she wouldn’t be at the local police station. They would have brought her to the county jail. Life wasn’t an old Sunday afternoon Western—a single officer eyeing a jail cell full of sleeping drunks and sly gunslingers, his single keyring hung on a thick rusty nail—was it?

Turned out, life was like a western in Hunther. Except for the keyring hung on a nail. I wasn’t sure about the gunslingers. Also, bailing someone out was big business for the Hunther PD. They accepted Apple Pay, PayPal, Square Cash, credit card, Chase QuickPay, and certified bank checks.

But Desiree, she was here. Had been here for seven hours. What kind of asshole family did she have?

I put her bail on my credit card.

A door buzzed, and Desiree walked out with a smile up one cheek, as if this had been her plan all along. As if she hadn’t been sitting in a holding cell, but had been drinking with friends.

Her hair and makeup contradicted her easy expression. Her hair stuck out at odd angles, and her smokey eyes were smudged like sunrays.

“Heather,” she said, drawing my name out, rolling it around her mouth like it was good whiskey.

“It’s been real,” she said to the woman behind the glass, pressing her hand to the window. Was Desiree going out of her way to be bitchy or did she know the woman? The woman nodded, giving the same ambiguous vibe.

I followed Desiree out, and pointed at my car.

The parking lot was well-lit. Seven cars parked far away from each other. The night shift consisted of smokers that needed space to enjoy their last cigarette before punching in.

I pressed my fob, it chirped, and my doors unlocked.

“Well, that sucked,” Desiree said, her cool demeanor cracking as she slid into the passenger seat. “Smelled like sour ass in there. Piss flies everywhere. Can you imagine breathing in that nasty air all day?”

“I can’t imagine. Which way?”

“Left.” She flipped down the passenger side mirror and used her fingertips and spit to clean up her makeup.

I waited to take a left out of the police station onto New York Street. I checked both directions, glancing at Desiree for a beat. The sparkly trick was gone from her pixie-dust eyes.

She still wore her Guppy-logoed jacket and jeans over her Baywatch swimsuit.

Oh God, how uncomfortable. Even when I was a kid and mostly oblivious to discomfort, I wouldn’t entertain wearing jeans over a swimsuit.

She’s crazy.

Not that breaking into a house in late afternoon made her crazy, but wearing denim over a nylon/Lycra blend? Out of her damn mind.