40. thirty-eight
thirty-eight
. . .
CREW
Life on the ranch was surprisingly enjoyable considering the fact that me and my…girlfriend? had moved in with my mother despite being in our thirties.
Aspen adjusted well, and I supposed it helped that she was used to uprooting her life and moving from place to place at the drop of a hat. Even on mornings when I didn’t have to work, and we could sleep in—or spend those hours lazily exploring each other’s bodies—she was routinely up before me. I’d always find her in the kitchen, helping Mama prep meals for the ranch hands. Then we’d venture outside, either heading to the barn so Aspen could learn more about Finn’s rescue operation, or down to the dude ranch with West, where she’d jump at the chance to help turnover cabins for the next set of guests.
I’d known she wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty, but I thought there was more to it than that. Most likely, she was trying to keep herself busy. If she stopped moving, she’d think about all the things that had gone wrong since she’d arrived in town—and she’d run. So I let her do her thing, let her burn off that anxious energy during the day and reward her hard work with orgasms at night .
We spent the Fourth of July on the ranch, surrounded by family—both blood and found. Each of my brothers, Mama, Aria, Aspen, and I pitched in to put together an impressive buffet style spread of summer staples for the ranch hands and their families to enjoy. There were lawn games, pony rides for the littles in the corral under the intense supervision of Finn, and Mama’s signature margaritas flowing endlessly for the adults. We ended the night with an impressive fireworks show curated by West, who had blocked off reservations for his cabins to let ranch hands who lived off the property to stay the night.
The day was perfect, and things on the investigative front had been eerily quiet since the break-in at my house two weeks earlier, so it made sense that not three days later, something finally popped.
I’d been on shift the night before, so when the ringing of my phone dragged me from sleep, I swore heartily.
Blindly, I groped around on the nightstand for the infernal device, answering without looking at the screen.
“You were still sleeping?” Lane asked.
“What time is it?”
“Nearly four.”
“Jesus,” I breathed, rubbing the thumb and pointer of my free hand into my eyes before blinking them open.
Lane tsk ed. “Get up, baby bro. We’ve got work to do.”
“You do realize I worked last night, hence the reason I’m still sleeping. And I’m not a cop.”
“I’m going to interview Missy Plano today,” he supplied. “Thought you’d want to come along.”
Fuck yeah I did.
Since the day Chris had passed along Missy’s name, Lane and the department had attempted to contact her several times with no luck.
“She’s back in town?”
“Johns saw her at the Swallow last night. ”
“You call ahead?”
My brother snorted. “Hell no. We’re showing up unannounced.”
I grinned. I loved me an ambush.
“I’ll meet you at the station in a half hour.”
Lane hung up without another word, and I quickly shot Aspen a text, asking where she was and to meet me upstairs, knowing that’d be faster than searching her out myself.
Five minutes later, the door creaked open, and there my girl stood. By then, I’d managed to sit up and scoot to the end of the bed to wait for her. Wordlessly, I opened my arms, and she came to me, tucking herself between my thighs, my face coming to rest against her chest.
Aspen giggled, her fingers sifting softly through my hair.
“Good morning,” I murmured, then titled my head up for a kiss, which she obliged with a happy little hum I’d never tire of.
“You slept late.”
My palms skated down her sides, following the contours of her body until I cupped her ass. “Guess all those nights worshiping my girl finally caught up to me.”
Aspen sighed as I kneaded her flesh, sagging against me for only a moment before pressing my shoulders and stepping away.
“As much as I love and appreciate it, we don’t have time for any more worshiping right now.”
“Oh, we don’t?”
“It’s almost dinner time,” she explained.
“Why don’t we convince Mama to take the night off from cooking?” I asked. “Lane called, and Missy Plano is back in town. We’re going to interview her.”
“I want to come.”
“Later,” I smirked.
Aspen socked me in the shoulder, packing a surprising punch for someone so small.
“Crew. ”
“Not on this one, little phoenix. If she’s connected to these murders in any way, I don’t want you anywhere near her.”
Aspen’s lower lip jutted out in a pout, an expression that would normally have me on my knees, ready to give her whatever she wanted.
But not this time.
I’d already taken too many chances with her safety, and I’d never forgive myself if she got hurt because of me.
Reaching for her, I brought my hand to her face and my thumb to that lip, brushing against it before cupping her cheek. “I’m sorry, baby, but the answer is still no.”
She huffed out a sigh but said, “Fine.”
“I’ll call you the second we leave the interview, and I’ll tell you everything when I get home.”
“Bring Lane too,” she said. “I don’t want you to leave anything out.”
“Deal.”
As promised, I rolled to a stop in front of the sheriff’s department a half hour later. Lane was already waiting in his cruiser, so I got out and locked my truck before hopping into his passenger seat. But Lane didn’t pull away immediately, and I found out why a beat later when Trey opened the rear door and got in behind him.
“He’s coming too?”
Lane shrugged. “It’s a family field trip.”
“So how do you want to play this?” I asked Lane as he navigated across town, toward the trailer park where Missy lived.
“I want you to keep your mouths shut and let me do my job.”
I opened mine to protest, but Lane cut me with a glare. “Both of you are here as a courtesy. Neither of you are cops, and neither of you have any power. I’m letting you ride along, Crew, because for one, you’re deeply involved in this case on a personal and professional level, having worked the fire that nearly took your girl out. For two, I could use the backup.”
“If you wanted backup, I feel like the former Army Rangers might’ve been better suited,” Trey quipped from the back.
“They’re busy, so I’m stuck with you two idiots.”
“What about your deputies?”
“My department is spread a little thin at the moment dealing with other shit.”
“Other shit like what?” I prompted.
“None of your business.”
I knew better than to push, so I let it drop, and we proceeded the rest of the way to Missy’s in silence.
The trailer park was well-kept, and Missy’s home was no exception. The exterior was robin’s egg-blue with a bay window jutting out at one end, the windows and doors trimmed in crisp white. The front porch was painted a dove grey and lined with fragrant white roses. The pathway stones were free from moss, weeds, and dirt, and the grass of the postage stamp yard was bright green and recently mowed.
“Cute little place,” I remarked.
“To hide the dirty shit that she gets up to behind closed doors,” Lane muttered, and Trey snickered.
When we reached the landing and Lane knocked, faint music filtered through the door, and a voice called, “One minute please!”
As promised, the inner door popped open a moment later, revealing through the screen a woman around Mama’s age, her bleach-blonde hair teased to high heaven and wavy like she’d used one of those crimping tools I’d seen my sister wield a time or two. Her eyes were lined in heavy, dark kohl, her lips unnaturally plump and painted a glossy pink. A Fleetwood Mac tee hung off her shoulder, tight denim pants that flared out from the knee encased her legs, and each movement of her arms sent her collection of bangles colliding and jangling. Her feet were bare, toes painted black to match her short nails.
Missy cocked a hip, a coy smile appearing on her mouth. “Well, well. To what do I owe the pleasure, Sheriff?” Her attention turned to me. “Captain.” Then to Trey. “Coach.”
I didn’t appreciate the way her grey eyes dragged over me like I was a piece of meat she wanted to sink her teeth into.
Unperturbed by the assessment, Lane merely said, “Mind if we come in? We were hoping to ask you a few questions.”
“Regarding?”
“The Prom Night Arsonist.”
Missy sucked in a gasp that hissed sharply through her teeth and said, “I’ve been wondering when you’d make your way to little old me.”
When she opened the screen door to admit us, me and my brothers shared a quick glance, excited energy dancing under my skin.
She knows something .
Her home was decorated as the woman was dressed: like the seventies had thrown up on every wall and piece of furniture. Framed band posters hung in the living space, the bay window I’d noticed outside was lined with shaggy pillows, and macrame curtains covered the windows. A wicker stand in the corner held a record player, the disk and needle spinning and filling the space with the sounds of “The Chain.”
She directed us to a sofa that looked straight out of The Brady Bunch , my brothers and I barely fitting shoulder to shoulder across it, with me sandwiched uncomfortably in the middle.
“Can I get you fine gentleman anything to drink?” she asked as she moved into the kitchen. The rooms were painted a creamy beige color, giving the whole thing a sepia-toned vibe, aided by the haze of cigarette smoke hanging in the air, like we’d stepped back in time.
I could only imagine what her bedroom looked like. Likely some Austin Powers type shit, with psychedelic patterns and a round bed.
“This isn’t a social call, Ms. Plano.”
She waved a hand at him, giggling lightly. “Please, Sheriff. Call me Mel or Missy.”
“Fine, Missy ,” Lane gritted out. “Please come take a seat.”
“If you insist,” she said, damn near gliding across the space to the armchair across from us.
“We have reason to believe you’ve got information that could help us catch the Prom Night Arsonist.”
“ Moi ?” she asked in a horrible French accent, placing a hand on her chest. “Who would say such a thing?”
“The who doesn’t matter so much as the why .”
“You were a senior with Vicky Lee and Roger Stanhope, right?”
Lane nudged me with his shoulder, a silent reminder of his earlier directive: keep my mouth shut . But we didn’t have time to sit here and dance around the matter at hand. I was merely cutting to the chase.
“I was…” she said slowly.
“Anything weird happen that night that you can remember?” Lane asked.
She snorted. “You mean other than two of my classmates being burned alive? Nope, can’t think of anything.”
Her flippancy grated on me. This was fucking serious. People had died .
“Did you have any personal connection to the victims?”
“It’s a small town. Of course I did.”
“I mean…intimately.”
“Not with Vicky,” she said slyly.
“So you were intimate with Stanhope? ”
I’d been so focused on Missy that I hadn’t noticed Lane had taken out his phone and started recording the conversation, the device balanced on his knee. Missy, however, had her eyes glued to it.
Coming back to herself, she leaned over to a side table and lifted a gold case—a cigarette holder. She withdrew a smoke and lit it up. After a few drags, she finally spoke again.
“He and Vicky were constantly on and off. It’s always a grey area when you’re that age, you know? We’re all aware we’re not destined forever with our high school sweethearts.” She paused, as if recognizing whose company she was keeping, and added, “Your parents not included, of course. Birdie and Jase were soulmates. But around prom happened to be one of those times Vicky and Roger were off. So Roger and I got a bit hot and heavy. We had an understanding.”
“What kind of understanding?”
She hitched a bony shoulder, blowing a stream of smoke out her nose like a dragon. “It was just sex. Emotions messed everything up, so we were having fun. Nothing more. Plus, I think he always thought he’d end up with Vicky, and the back and forth of their relationship was only growing pains.”
“Do you remember if they went to prom together? Were they back on by then?”
“Nah,” she said, reclining in her chair, grinning.
“Did you go with him?”
“I didn’t.”
“Then who?” Trey asked before Lane could, taking the words right out of my mouth. The three of us leaned forward, and my breath stalled in my lungs as I waited for her answer.
That gut feeling that we were onto something, that whatever Missy was about to say would change everything, was back with a vengeance, twisting my stomach into knots.
She smirked. “Roger went to prom with Kelly McAllister. ”
“McAllister, McAllister,” Lane chanted quietly. “Why does that name sound so familiar?”
It didn’t ring any bells with me, but Trey caught on almost immediately.
“McAllister,” he said softly, his tone so full of pain that my head whipped in his direction, “is Kelly Saunders’ maiden name.”