Kirby Harwood stood on her porch, Stetson in hand, smiling that plastic smile like he was already running for Sheriff Wheeler’s job, that same plastic smile she remembered from high school, when he was a lock for all-state and the homecoming king, and still the asshole who got his kicks locking freshmen in their lockers when he didn’t think anyone was looking. Harwood was taller than Jess by a fair sight, outweighed her by about a hundred pounds, most of it muscle. He filled her doorframe, and the sight of him did nothing to calm Lucy down.

Jess nodded to Harwood. “Deputy.”

“Was wondering if you’d had the chance to think over what we talked about last time,” Harwood said. He looked past her. “You mind if I come in?”

She did mind, very much, and judging by the growling noises by her right knee, Lucy did too. But Jess and Harwood both knew he hadn’t really asked a question, and she stepped aside and grabbed hold of Lucy’s collar, let the deputy walk into the house and stand in the middle of the living room, looking around the place like a real estate agent, like he was trying to decide how much he could sell it for.

But that wasn’t it at all.

Harwood’s eyes landed on Lucy. “Hey, girl,” he said, smiling even broader, oblivious to Lucy’s clear lack of cordiality. “How you doing? That’s a good girl. Jess, you can let her go, she just wants to say hi.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Deputy,” Jess replied. “She’s feeling kind of territorial tonight.”

This is her territory, Deputy. You’d better step off.

“How many times do I have to tell you, Jess? Call me Kirby. We certainly go back far enough. Hell, we almost dated, if I’m remembering right.”

He wasn’t remembering right at all. She wondered if it was an honest mistake, or if the deputy had talked himself into an alternate version of the facts. He’d asked her out, sure, sophomore year, but she’d seen how he picked on the freshmen, targeting the weak, told him she’d rather they just stay friends.

Later she found out he’d told the whole football team she’d gone down on him in his dad’s old F-150 late one night out by Shipwreck Point Beach. By that point, though, she’d found Ty, and all the rumors and gossip didn’t matter.

Harwood sat down, heavy, on the couch. Glanced at the TV, watched what was playing, another infomercial, then felt around for the remote and hit the mute button like he owned the damn set. The sound died, but the blue light remained, casting flickering shadows on the walls, on the ceiling, on Kirby Harwood’s face.

“Now,” Harwood said. “What was I saying?”