“Second fire today, Kirby,” Anderson said. “Is this town going to hell, or what am I missing?”

“This one’s no accident,” Harwood told him. “We come out on a call, routine business, and that girl opened up on us. In the middle of the firefight, we started to smell the smoke.”

Anderson looked up sharply at the house. “We got people alive in that house?”

“No,” Joy said. Harwood hadn’t even seen him walk up, but here he was, acting like he belonged. “The girl and her mother, they did not survive.”

Anderson stared at him. “And who the hell are you?”

“Drug enforcement.” Joy had a smile on his face that might have seemed charming if you didn’t know what the bastard was capable of. “We had reason to believe Ms. Walker was involved in a trafficking operation. Unfortunately, she shot herself and her mother before we could bring her in for questioning.”

Anderson opened his mouth. No words came out. He looked from Joy to Harwood to the house, dumbstruck. The fire had appeared in the windows, smoke beginning to snake out from the busted front door.

“I don’t have time for this shit right now,” Anderson told Harwood. “I’ve got to save that house, if I can.”

Then he was off, walking back toward the pumper truck, calling out orders.

Harwood watched him walk away. Then he turned back to Joy. “You sure that was wise? That DEA stuff?”

Joy’s smile was gone. “No less wise than setting the fire, Deputy. We could have used that information. If you’d allowed me, I could have retrieved her alive. Now—”

“You said she’s dead,” Harwood said, confused. “I heard the shots. You—”

“She was dead when I found her, Mr. Harwood, one bullet to the head.” Joy looked at Harwood. “Self-inflicted.”

Harwood swore. “Jesus.” He swayed on his feet, felt back to the truck behind him, leaned against it for support.

What in the fuck are we doing here?

Cole and Dale appeared, mud on their faces, guilt in their eyes. Joy ignored them. Harwood did too.

“So, we lost Shelby,” he said weakly. “What happens now?”

“The widow and her companion were here before we were,” Joy informed him. “Whatever information the woman had to share, we can assume that Ms. Winslow obtained it.”

“How?” Cole. “I mean, how do you know?”

Joy barely glanced at him.

“Three glasses of whiskey on the kitchen table, two untouched, with ice cubes,” he said. “A dog’s muddy paw prints on the kitchen floor. They were here, gentlemen, not long ago. If you’d acted with more tact, we could have captured all three.”

Cole and Dale looked at each other. Harwood stared up at the night sky. “Shit.”