Free Girls Just Wanna Have Guns by Toni McGee Causey Page A

obviously developers with plenty of optimism in Lake Charles: a new huge section of the neighborhood was under construction on the street behind Marie’s place.
    Bobbie Faye would have picked the Victorian as having been her aunt’s, in spite of having not seen it before. It was quintessential Marie: pinkish siding with deep fuchsia flowers that overflowed from every inch of the yard and porch. As soon as they came within sight of the house, Trevor stiffened and quit holding her hand. They parked at a side entry, and Trevor moved so quickly she didn’t realize what he was doing until he’d done it: he’d zip-tied her hands.
    “What do you people do, buy these in bulk?” She felt the claustrophobic freak-out factor click on. “Get these off.”
    He pointed to where he’d notched the plastic tie; the notch was nearly all of the way across the middle of the tie, which meant one good twist of her wrist and she should be free.
    “Don’t even
think
about this being a regular habit,” she muttered.
    He grabbed her wrists to lead her inside. He bent down to whisper in her ear, a hint of a smile in his voice. “I wouldn’t bet on that.” They stepped inside the house and her really crappy day just went all to hell.

Eight
    Reggie “Buzz Saw” O’Connor and her cameraman walked toward the police perimeter where Cam stood on the bridge, and his mood worsened with her every step. She was a beautiful woman, though Cam refused to acknowledge that maybe he felt that way because she was a Bobbie Faye type: long, lean, and a little curvy. Unfortunately, the beauty hadn’t made it past her skin. Reggie was extremely manipulative and the kind of reporter who would not only plant a banana peel in someone’s path, but who would be there for the fall and probably have paid a hooker to pile on while she took the photos. She called herself an “investigative” reporter, and if there was no news, then by God, she created it, even if it meant blowing a case detectives had worked more than a year to put together.
    “Cam,” she said, when she confronted him. “You look like shit, as usual. Still missing Bobbie Faye, I see.” She looked over to the burnt car. “Literally.”
    “How’s the ex doing? Still annoying you by breathing?”
    “Hey, at least I know how to get his attention. You got anything for the record?” she asked, shoving a microphone in his face as her colleague aimed his camera at Cam.
    He looked at her like she’d lost her mind. Come to think of it, considering how bitter her divorce and well-publicized custody battle had become, she probably
had
lost her mind.
    “So,” Reggie said, talking into the mic, “what would you say if I had inside information that says that Bobbie Faye might be working for organized crime, setting up some big heist. I hear she’s in deep trouble.”
    “You know I never give a statement, Reg. Whatever game you’re playing, you’re wasting my time.”
    Reggie laughed. “I’m not playing, Cameron, but that’s okay, you’ll catch up soon enough.” She turned to walk away and the cameraman followed until she stopped and peered over her shoulder. “You know, it has got to be really debilitating for a girl like Bobbie Faye to be dead broke all of the time. She’s got a niece to raise and no real decent place to live . . . what if she were to suddenly come across a way to be wealthy, even if it’s a little fuzzy, morally? I know”—she stopped him before he could respond—“no comment. But personally, I think she’d be tempted. In fact, I don’t think you know her as well as you think you do. You really don’t know what a woman pushed to the edge is capable of doing. I, however, don’t have any illusions about your Bobbie Faye.”
    Cam just stared at her, poker-faced, until she turned around and left.
    Sonofabitch. What was that all about? He knew Bobbie Faye had shaved a rule a time or ten when she thought they were dumb or in the way and weren’t really