My first big solo case and I got redneck morons for law enforce-meant. Figured.

A tiny voice in my head—one that sounded a lot like Paige—said I should have kept my mouth shut about the frying pan incident. I doubted that would have helped, though.

I decided my next step would be to visit the diner I’d noticed downtown. As I walked, I tried to take in my surroundings, get a better sense of the town, but it was too damned depressing. Empty storefronts. Empty streets.

Even the few people I saw looked empty. Hopeless. Agaunt middle-aged woman standing in the window of a store festooned with Going Out of Business signs. Two boys no more than thirteen, kicking a can along the side of the road, skipping school and not caring who noticed. A pregnant teenage girl sitting on a dilapidated bench, as if hoping someone would drive by and whisk her off to a better life.

The diner looked like your stereotypical small-town eatery, right down to the vinyl seats and beehived waitress in a frilly dress better suited to someone half her age—and size. The patrons were all on the far side of fifty, most courting heart disease and diabetes, most wearing clothing bought in the last millennium.

I sat at the counter, ordered coffee and a slice of pie, then chatted with a couple of customers. Both were balding. Both wore button-down plaid shirts and jeans. Both seemed to have made the diner their new home after the sawmill shut down. The only way I could tell them apart was the accent—Bill’s was local and Jacob’s sounded like he’d come from the Southwest.