Page 13 of Slow Burn
Jocelyn’s temper had her heart thumping harder. “I remember her drinking a glass of wine before I went to bed, but that was it.”
“Might’ve had more after.” His fingers curled slowly into his palms, though his gaze was steady on hers.
Jocelyn’s body went rigid with her rising anger. “Even so, if something had caught fire, she would’ve tried to put it out. And if she couldn’t, she would’ve come to get me. She would’ve gotten us out.”
The tension wound tighter through her, but he expelled a breath, loosening his fists.
“I’m sorry, Jocelyn.” He shook his head. “I don’t have an explanation for that. If all that were true, that’s what would’ve happened. I wish it’d gone that way. Honestly, I do. But the best we could figure, she was too intoxicated to wake up.”
The burn of tears stung in Jocelyn’s eyes. It was stupid to get hung up on that, but it still didn’t make sense. It didn’t seem right.
“Why don’t we call it a day?” Ward suggested. “This is hard, and I want to make sure I give you the right answers. Let’s meet again on Wednesday after I’ve had time to look at the reports. Does ten a.m. work for you?”
She couldn’t force words past the lump in her throat, so she simply nodded and stood, letting him guide her from his office.
six
“The fire doesn’t make you what you are; it reveals what you were.” - Jack Hyles
Cole was about ready to lose his damn mind.
Everywhere he turned, folks had Jocelyn Murphy’s name on their lips—whispering about how she was here to ruin Harvest Fest, acting like she was some storm blowing in to tear the town apart. And for some reason, everyone thoughthehad the inside scoop.
The number of times he’d been stopped in the past two days, he might as well have been wearing a sign that said:I know everything there is to know about Jocelyn Murphy. Please ask me.
And it wasn’t just Henry Wetzel.
Kiki Womack marched into the bar at half-past one with her chin jutted so far forward she looked like a bulldog spoiling for a fight. She didn’t even pretend to glance around for a table, just made a beeline straight for him. Cole stuffed his stylus behind his ear like an old-school reporter, setting his tablet aside. He’dbeen trying—and failing—to run through inventory before the next rush.
“Miz Kiki,” he said, leaning both hands on the bar, already braced for the ambush. His tone carried a layer of exasperation he didn’t bother to hide.
She wedged herself between two stools, glaring up at him with the look that had made him quake as a boy. Even now, a chill crawled up his spine, reflexive as a kicked dog.
“That Murphy girl went into the fire station to talk to Chief Ward,” she huffed, her hair unmoving under the assault probably thanks to half a can of hairspray.
“Not illegal last I checked,” Cole said evenly. Truth was, he didn’t give a damn what Jocelyn did, but Kiki was in his mama’s book club, and crossing her meant grief for Ma. Kiki Womack was a copperhead—best left alone unless you had a stick in your hand.
“I know Henry Wetzel talked to you about this.”
Cole cut her off, patient to the point of sarcasm. “And Edith, and Wheezy Harrington, and Beatrice Eckstrom. I’m keepin’ a list if you’d like to see it. Most run with you, though, so you probably knew already.”
Her lips pinched flat as she ignored that last bit. “How many more of us need to complain before you do something?”
“Ma’am,” he said, trying for polite but slipping into petulant, “I am one man. Withzerosway. Why y’all keep comin’ to me about this, I’ll never understand.”
That only poured gas on her fire. She jabbed a finger close to his nose. “You best have pride in this place that took you back after all your many failings, young man. We need this festival to go well—all of us.”
Words dried up on his tongue as she spun and stormed out. Sweet Southern exterior or not, Kiki had venom—and he’d justgotten a mouthful of it. He half-wondered if her late husband hadn’t just keeled over one day from too many doses.
But the worst part? Her words had landed. Right in the spot he hated most—the part of him thatdidfeel like he owed Cedar Hollow for taking him back. The prodigal screw-up. The one who’d burned every bridge once, then came limping home.
“You don’t owe this town a damn thing, Cole,” Terra muttered from the end of the bar. His cousin knew exactly which bruise Kiki had pressed on. “Festival ain’t your responsibility. And it sure as hell ain’t dependent on whether Jocelyn Murphy sticks around.”
Didn’t matter. He still felt the sting.
By the time the lunch crowd thinned, he was half-convinced he ought to march to Jocelyn’s hotel and run her out of town with a pitchfork—if only to get the locals off his back. His head ran through every ugly angle: he could be rude, push her away, maybe even lie about something his mama’d said that’d cut her off quick. But the thought of wounding his mama like that had him stopping short.
She had made it clear the day before—she understood his feelings, but she and his daddy loved Jocelyn and wanted her to find peace. That was enough to keep him in line.
