Just in case Mrs. Patterson was having an Angela Lansbury moment, I walked all the way past the turn to Cole’s house, passing the Mini Mart, site of the infamous Kismet PD Gang Bust. Only I wasn’t quite ready to confront ghosts at the dam, so I ducked inside. The clerk, Samit, waved, remembering me from “The Incident.”

“Hey, it’s Kill Bill. Have a soda—on me,” he gushed, grinning at me as if the mystery perp Shay, aka gangsta badass, had pointed a sawed-off at his chest. I nodded and thanked him before heading back to the fountain. While struggling to get the right balance of ice, I heard the jingle of the sleigh bells that hung on the door.

“You’re scaring away our customers, Kill Bill,” Samit said, adding the swipe of an air Hanso sword to my new nickname. I could see he was planning to get a lot of mileage out of it. “He saw you and then, pfft, took off.”

I turned to see a police car rolling up and a guy ducking his head into the hood of his sweatshirt. I recognized the truck he got into as Mr. Miller’s. Hmph. I put a lid on my drink. Shay Miller.

I headed to the cashier, just so the cops didn’t think I was stealing the drink, and reached into my pocket for some money. I might as well have stuck my hand into a pit of snakes, because cash wasn’t what I touched.

My fingertips jabbed the bag of weed deeper into my pocket, just as the police swung through the door with mustached smiles. There went my oops-it-must-have-just-fallen-there excuse.

As my thoughts spun out of control, Samit waved me off. “No, no, free, I mean it.”

“Hey, tough girl,” the taller one said, remembering me.

“Hi,” I squeaked

“Catch any more bad guys?”

“Me? No.” Then I laughed; only it came out as a really stupid and fake-sounding noise. A giggle? Remarkably like Chelsea Westad’s. I’m surprised they didn’t billy-club me.

I needed fresh air and quick. I needed to get out of there.

The short one clapped me on the arm before reaching behind me for a package of Ho Hos. As his body brushed against mine, I froze in place.

Heat filled the collar of my shirt, flaring up my neck, my cheeks. Could he feel the distinctive bag-bulge of my pocket?

“Thanks for the drink, Sammy,” I called, reiterating that I wasn’t stealing it, as I slipped through the narrow opening of the door.

“See ya later, Kill Bill.”

I didn’t look back to see if he added any new kung fu moves to his repertoire. I was too busy evading arrest.