Officer Sprout tried to hold them back. “Nobody’s goin’ in there! It’s for your own safety!”

“Let ’em go!” a man shouted. “This is America! They can go into their store if they wanna! The First Amendment says so!”

“Wrong amendment, dumbass,” another man snarled. “That’s our right to carry guns!” He aimed a rifle in the air and let off a round. The bullet ricocheted off the brick by the window closest to me, and the crowd screamed and ducked.

The roof over my head groaned, and smoke rolled through a growing crack.

The rowdy crowd was now back on their feet and surging forward. Someone threw a rock, and the sound of the shattering glass window filled the air as pieces of glass fell to the sidewalk.

Mass chaos broke out as the couple pushed past Officer Sprout. The crowd moved forward with them, rushing the store. That was my cue, which was a good thing since smoke was pouring into the apartment at an alarming rate from the ceiling, which appeared to be directly below the burning shack, burning my nose and throat. Covering my arm over the lower half of my face, I raced down the stairs.

Blending in with the crowd would have been easier if I’d had an armful of loot. Everywhere I looked, people were carting a variety of items out of the store. Two men hefted a battered, dirty beige sofa with yellow and brown stains onto their shoulders while a woman ran out behind them carrying a lamp that was shaped like a cow and painted to indicate the various cuts of meat. An older man tried to snatch it from her, but she lifted it over her head and began to beat him over the head with the lamp shade.

I pushed my way through the melee as a new fight broke out between two women over a bust of Justin Bieber—a fine antique if I ever saw one—and I narrowly missed getting hit in the head by a brass statuette of two dogs with clown wigs and noses, which a man had tossed out the window to his friend.

When I reached the safety of the corner, I hesitated. I needed to get to the Greasy Spoon, but it was three blocks away. Part of me wanted to stay in the anonymity of the crowd—rowdy as they were—but the rest of me was eager to get that bag out of the Dumpster and find Skeeter. I’d gotten a lot of potentially useful information from Teagen and his friend. I just needed to figure out what to do with it.

It quickly became apparent that the bag was not going to be easily retrieved. The fire department had parked a truck smack in the middle of the tight alley, and several fire fighters were trying to get to the roof. There was no way to get around them unnoticed. I only hoped the bag didn’t get drenched.

Since the bag was a lost cause for now, I headed for the diner, passing several people hurrying toward the square.

“What’s goin’ on?” a woman asked, looking more excited than a person had any right to be considering the chaos unfolding in the center of town.

I considered not answering, not wanting to draw any attention to myself, but if I ignored her, I’d only make myself more conspicuous. “It’s crazy. Gunshots and fires . . .” I said. “I’m headin’ home.”

“I hope we’re not too late.” A rapturous smile spread across the woman’s face. It was clear this was the most exciting thing to ever happen to her.

Most of the people I passed were headed to the square, but I scanned their clothing, keeping an eye out for Sam Teagen and his friend.

The Greasy Spoon was known for being open late and for offering a menu that lived up to its name. According to town lore, it had originally opened up to serve the patrons of a bar that used to be next door. The greasy food was catered to customers who needed to sober up. But the bar had been closed for years, and the Greasy Spoon’s patronage had dwindled to practically nothing. So it was no surprise there was only one other customer in the place when I walked in—an elderly man who was sitting at the counter with a cup of coffee, watching a TV mounted in the corner.

I slid into a booth at the back, choosing the side that faced the door. I was rubbing my hands for warmth when the waitress walked over. Middle-aged and slightly overweight, she looked like a stereotypical waitress from a TV sitcom, right down to her blue dress and white apron.

“Coffee to start, miss?”

I didn’t have a single dollar on me, but Skeeter had said he was meeting me here. If he didn’t show, I’d have bigger problems than an unpaid food bill. “Yeah, and do you serve breakfast this late?”

She put her hand on her hip and grinned. “We sure do.”

“Then I’ll take a stack of pancakes, bacon, and scrambled eggs.”

The waitress chuckled and wandered toward the kitchen. “I’ll get your coffee right out.”

Way to not stand out.

I was nibbling a piece of bacon, having already made a good start on my pancakes, when the door jingled. My gaze flicked up to see Skeeter walk in, his dark gaze already fixed on me. He slid into the seat across from me and grinned as he took in my heaping plate.

“I love a woman who loves to eat.” He turned up the empty coffee cup at his place setting and poured a cup of coffee from the carafe the waitress had left.

“Turns out running for your life makes you hungry.” I sliced through the stack of three pancakes and took a big bite, then put down my fork and picked up my coffee, cradling the cup in my hands. “I learned a few things after our call.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “Oh, really?” Shooting me a challenging stare, he picked up my fork, stabbed a section of my pancakes, and took a bite.

I laughed, then took a sip of my coffee. “Help yourself. You might as well get a bite since you’re paying for it.”

He chuckled as he set down the fork, then reached for a piece of bacon.

I slapped his hand away. “Get your own bacon. That’s mine.”

“So much for sharing.” He lifted his hand, and the waitress came running, not that I was surprised. Skeeter looked less scary tonight, but he was still Skeeter. “I’ll take what she’s having.” He motioned to my plate. “But with fried eggs and double the bacon.”

“I’ll have it right out.”

Skeeter turned his attention back to me. “What happened after our call?”

“You tell me,” I said. “Ten seconds after you hung up, there was an explosion.”

He glanced around the room, quickly dismissing the old man. “Merv’s car blew up.”

“But how . . . ?”