Free Convict: A Bad Boy Romance by Roxie Noir Page A

watching us, entertained.
    “Which one tasted like it was grown with sunshine, harmony, and love?” I whisper.
    “I think it’s number one,” he whispers back. “I could almost hear kumbaya playing as I ate it.”
    We grin at each other.
    Sometimes, I’m pretty sure that my parents had Skye and Raine because Cedar and I came out so different from them. They love growing their own food, meditating, and kombucha; we prefer grocery stores, surfing, and beer.
    Cedar’s a forest ranger, so he wears a uniform and works for the government. My parents hated it. Then I entered the police academy and gave them something to really get angry about.
    That was the only real fight we ever had.
    “So number one is the garden strawberries?” I whisper.
    Cedar nods. We turn around, and I point at the jam on the left.
    “Garden,” I say, and point at the other one. “Grocery store.”
    My mom beams.

    * * *
    A fter dinner , around nine, we’re drinking my dad’s homemade blackberry wine in tiny hand-blown glasses when my phone rings, and I pull it from the pocket of my jeans.
    “Luna,” my dad says, frowning underneath his long gray hair.
    It’s Batali. She never calls me about anything but work. Of course.
    “I have to take this,” I say, making a face. “Sorry.”
    My parents both sigh. Cedar looks entertained.
    “She’s lying, she’s gonna go look at Facebook,” Skye says.
    I roll my eyes and walk away.
    “Rivers,” I say.
    “There’s been a very serious crime,” she says, sounding like a policeman in a murder mystery.
    “What happened?” I ask.
    Batali actually sighs, and I frown. Outward displays of emotion aren’t her thing.
    “Someone set fire to two cars on Palms Road, right where it goes under highway one,” she says.
    I blink in surprise. That is a serious crime.
    “Was anyone hurt?” I ask, my heart speeding up.
    “No. How soon can you be at the scene?” she asks.
    I look back at my family. Both my parents are looking at me. I feel bad, but there’s been a serious crime.
    “Thirty minutes,” I say, and hang up.

    * * *
    T he whole underpass smells wretched , like burnt plastic, rubber, and weird chemicals. The fire is out, obviously, and the firemen are packing up their hoses when I get there. Both burnt cars are soaking wet, though.
    Getting evidence is going to be a clusterfuck.
    Batali’s already there, arms crossed, just surveying the scene, and I walk up to her. This is the first arson I’ve worked as a detective, so I’m glad she’s there.
    She walks me up to both cars, careful not to touch anything, and points to the inside.
    “See that?” she says, gesturing with the beam of a flashlight.
    I nod.
    “Looks like the point of ignition was the front seat of the vehicle,” she says. “The cab is pretty much charcoal at this point, and the trunk is pretty well toasted as well.”
    “Meaning the engine didn’t catch fire first,” I say.
    She nods.
    “Meaning this probably wasn’t an accidental fire,” I go on.
    “There’s an excellent chance we’re investigating an arson,” Batali says, and points her flashlight at the roof of the car. “The burn pattern here also suggests that someone splashed an accelerant up here. Probably gasoline, that’s the easiest.”
    I write down everything. I ask Batali questions, I investigate oddities, and I go over both cars with a fine-toothed comb.
    It’s terrible, but I’m excited.
    A double arson is by far the biggest case that’s come my way in the last month and a half. Mostly, I’ve been investigating who knocked over a mailbox or stole a twelve-pack of beer from a convenience store.
    But finally , something to sink my teeth into. Something I can prove myself with. If I solve this, maybe Sergeant Pushton will stop looking at me like he regrets my promotion.
    And as an extra special bonus, it’ll distract me from wondering why the hell Stone kissed me and walked away the other night.
    I’m so wrapped up in my work that it’s