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Sorry.”
    “You don’t have to be sorry, sugar, just hand it over.” Her voice rises, making the two boys three seats up twist to stare at the back of the bus. Despite my wild hair and bayou stink, they’d eye-fondled the front of my tank top when I boarded the shuttle.
    “I would,” I say, a little too loudly, “but I have oral herpes, open sores all over the inside of my mouth.” The boys turn back around. Take that, raging hormones. “You don’t want to drink after me. It’s really contagious.”
    She rolls her eyes like she isn’t buying my excuse, but turns back to digging through her purse without hitting the call button to alert the driver to trouble in the cabin. I hadn’t expected her to. Most normal people—no matter how cranky and alcohol-deprived—won’t risk making the driver stop outside the iron gates of Baton Rouge. There’s the very real danger of the shuttle being attacked by venom-crazy highwaymen, as well as some scary urban legends aboutfairies sneaking in through the exhaust systems of parked cars.
    In truth, the buggers push their way in through the outdoor vents. If they want in badly enough, fairies can get in, whether the car’s running or not. That’s why people without a death wish take the shuttle. It isn’t safe to drive a normal car between iron-protected towns. Of course
I
could have driven without any worries, if I’d been so inclined. But I’m not. Guess I didn’t want to see the view as badly as I thought.
    I take another drink and close my eyes, feigning sleep between sips.
    Ten minutes later, the shuttle pulls to its first stop outside the state capital. It’s still the tallest in the nation, the better to view the wreckage surrounding the impressive white building. I chuck my empty into my purse along with the few samples I salvaged after my scuffle, ignore Skinny Cigarette Chick’s condemning snort as I ease into the aisle, and amble down the steps and around to the animal compartments, giving the driver a chance to fetch Gimpy from his cage.
    Outside, the air’s even more stifling than it was an hour ago, a steamy, oppressive dog-lick to the face with a side of yuck. My lungs struggle to find oxygen hidden somewhere in the humidity. Hopefully, if I dawdle, the driver will accidentally set the Gimp free to roam the streets of Baton Rouge, looking for another owner with a bigger, better cooler.
    But Gimpy’s still there when I turn the corner,entwined with his true love and only moderately cranky. He even tolerates being lifted and set into my red shopping cart, though now I have no place to put the weird groceries I’m supposed to fetch from Capitol Gourmet. That’s fine by me. I’m not in the mood to hunt down the ingredients for Cranberry Nougat–Stuffed Pork Chop Lamb Shank or whatever Cane’s planning for dinner. It’s doubtful he’ll be in the mood to cook it, either.
    Even if he isn’t mad at me for leaving the Breeze head out in the bayou, he’ll be wrapped up in the murder investigation. He’s only had a few murder cases in the time I’ve known him, but they always tie him in knots. Knots that make him so much more attractive. There has to be something wrong with me that I find the tense, brooding, noncommunicative version of my fuck buddy sexier than the sweet, laid-back, tolerant version who cooks me gourmet meals.
    Probably many things wrong, which I’m sure Jin-Sang will underline, highlight, and footnote for me in a few minutes.
    The slight Korean man is prowling the front porch of the FCC bungalow when I rattle up the street, his knobby knees poking annoyed jabs at his pants legs. In contrast to my clearly piqued supervisor, the office itself is cheery and welcoming, a crazy grandma you love to visit after school. The aging wood has a fresh coat of purple paint with orange detail in keeping with the hippie vibe of Spanish Town. Yellow rockerson the front porch complete the “come on over, y’all” look, inviting the curious to come