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that many unattached women roughly her own age in Hamrickville, West Virginia, but they usually did their socializing outside the police station. They looked like polar opposites: Daina was curvy and blond and blue-eyed, Bo was dark-haired and dark-eyed, and the only curves she owned were in her driveway. But they both enjoyed the same type of movies, liked the same jokes, and had each other’s back.
    â€œI had one beer too many at lunch,” Daina announced, plopping herbutt into the cracked and duct-tape-patched chair across from Bo’s desk. Her stylish blond hair flopped over her eyes and she carelessly pushed it back. “I don’t have another appointment until three, so I thought, what better place to sober up than here? I can have some coffee, chat with you, then you can give me a Breathalyzer after a while and tell me whether or not I’m okay to drive.” Daina owned the local beauty shop, The Chop Shop, a couple of miles out on the main road into town. It was a short enough drive that Bo thought it wasn’t fear of driving while tipsy that had brought Daina by, but rather a way of killing time until her next appointment.
    Which meant she could kiss good-bye the idea of making any real headway on the paperwork, Bo thought as she pushed back from her desk and went to the Mr. Coffee sitting on top of a double-drawer filing cabinet in the corner, which was located there for the sole reason that there was an electrical outlet behind the cabinet. There was about half an inch of dark sludge left in the carafe from . . . this morning, maybe. Hard to tell. It had been there when she arrived a little after noon, so for all she knew, it could have been there since yesterday afternoon.
    She took the carafe into the bathroom, dumped out the sludge, rinsed, then ran fresh water. Coming back into the main office, she began the process of making coffee. “So who were you having beers with?” she asked, not bothering to point out that if she were a real stickler about things, she’d arrest Daina for public intoxication because obviously she wasn’t a stickler. From her point of view, it wasn’t as if Daina was staggering drunk, and she’d done the responsible thing by not driving and electing to come here instead. Bo’s philosophy was don’t bitch about what works.
    â€œKenny Michaels. I’ve decided to go ahead with remodeling the kitchen, and we were going over what I want, paint colors—my gawd, I think I’ve looked at a gajillion paint chips. Stuff like that.”
    â€œSo what colors did you decide on?” While the coffee was brewing, Bo stepped into the so-called break room—it was originally just a large closet—stocked with a refrigerator, microwave, tiny table, and two chairs squeezed into the space. She opened the top freezer compartmentof the avocado-green refrigerator, which of course refused to ever give up the ghost the way any decent-colored refrigerator would have, and took out a pint of ice cream. Well, it had originally been a whole pint, but now it was down to half that. She didn’t know if Daina liked vanilla ice cream; tough cookies because it was all she had. She levered off the top, found a spoon, stuck it in the ice cream, and set the cardboard carton in front of her friend. “Eat.”
    Absently Daina obeyed, her thoughts elsewhere. “A sort of pewter-ish gray, with a grayish blue,” she replied, still on the color theme. “Not very kitcheny, but that’s the whole idea. I don’t want anything that stimulates my appetite or makes food look good. I want something calm and soothing . . . you know, so I’ll stay away from it.” She stopped, pulled the spoon from her mouth and stared at it. “The hell? This is ice cream,” she said, frowning down at the carton as if she had no idea how it had come to be in her hand.
    â€œFive points for observation powers.” Bo resumed her seat.