BODIE

@LocalNewsGuy: LIVE: Big Wade Washington just flipped 6 pancakes at once. Crowd went WILD. Emilio not impressed. This rivalry is REAL. #GriddleGames #GibsonHollow

@MountainMomma: My kids picked teams: 8yo says Big Wade, 6yo says Emilio, toddler just wants to eat everything. Honestly same, kid. Same. 😂 #GriddleGames #MomLife

@GH_Sports: UPDATE: Hour 1 complete. Big Wade ahead on presentation, Emilio leading on taste tests. Dark horse alert: newcomer Janet Mills serving up something SPECIAL 👀 #GriddleGames

@WeatherWatchGH: Perfect day for griddles! 78°F, light breeze, zero chance of rain. Mother Nature wants to see this showdown! ☀️ #GriddleGames #PerfectWeather

@CoffeeAddict93: Someone just asked if we’re taking bets. Sir, this is a FAMILY event… but if we were, I’d put $5 on Big Wade 👀 #GriddleGames #JustSaying

I fixed the newest member of my staff with a stern gaze, crossing my arms as I looked down at her from my full height. “Okay, rookie, this is your first public appearance as a representative of the Gibson Hollow Police Department, so we’re gonna go over my expectations for your behavior one more time.”

She gazed up at me with big brown eyes that sparkled with intelligence, her broad chest puffed with unmistakable pride as she sat perfectly straight, waiting for my instructions. Her compact, muscular body practically vibrated with barely contained eagerness. I wished my other officers brought even half this kind of enthusiasm to the job—hell, I’d settle for a quarter of it some days.

I continued in the same tone I’d used during her training sessions. “It is absolutely essential that you maintain a calm, friendly demeanor out there today. There’s gonna be a lot of folks milling around, and it’ll be noisy and chaotic with all the vendors setting up and the crowds gathering. You must remain calm at all times and stick to everything we’ve practiced. Anything you do will be a direct reflection on the department as a whole and on me personally as chief of police.”

The rookie shifted slightly where she sat at perfect attention, her muscles coiled and ready for action, and the shiny badge attached to her vest gleamed brilliantly in a shaft of warm summer sun streaming through the front windows of the police station. Despite the obvious excitement thrumming through her compact frame, her unwavering focus on me never faltered for even a second.

“Most of all,” I leaned down slightly to make sure she understood the gravity of what I was about to say, “it’s extremely important that, no matter how good everything smells out there—and trust me, it’s gonna smell incredible—you absolutely do not go after any of the food being prepared for the Gibson Hollow Great Griddle Games. That means no begging, no drooling on the contestants, and definitely no unauthorized sampling. Understood?”

As if she’d committed every single word to memory, the rookie gave a sharp, crisp “woof!” in reply, her ears perked forward at attention.

Huffing a laugh at her earnest response, I dug out one of the small training treats I now carried everywhere in my uniform pocket and offered it to her with genuine praise. “Good girl, Rubble. You’re gonna do just fine out there.”

I snapped a sturdy leash onto the tactical harness that sported official badges announcing POLICE DOG and GIBSON HOLLOW PD in bold letters. “Alright then, let’s go patrol and show this town what we’re made of.”

We stepped outside the air-conditioned police station together, immediately hit by the heat of the bright June day and the distant sounds of preparation drifting from downtown. The morning sun felt good on my face as we strolled at a measured pace down the sidewalk, heading the single block over to where all the action was already happening.

Tents had sprung up like mushrooms all over the green space at the center of town. At least two-dozen locals had hauled their gas griddles out to compete in the annual Great Griddle Games, where Big Wade Washington was out to reclaim his title from Emilio Sanchez, who’d been the surprise winner last summer. It was all a long damned way from the mud pit we’d lived with for so many months after the flood that had bitch slapped western North Carolina last September and wiped out half the town. We hadn’t been sure we’d be recovered enough to pull this off, but we’d gone from utter devastation to a sense of momentum and hope.

The closer we got, the louder the buzz of voices and laughter swelled, mingled with the mouthwatering scent of bacon, pancakes, and whatever else folks had decided to fry up for bragging rights. Rubble’s ears twitched, her head swinging back and forth as if she wanted to catalog every sound and smell at once. Her tail gave a steady thump against my leg, betraying her excitement, but she kept her pace right at my side. Good girl.

We didn’t make it ten feet onto the green before we were intercepted by the Sasspatch Society in all their glory. Nobody commanded a crowd like they did—sequins, rhinestones, big hats, big hair, and bigger personalities. Uncle Dee—Delilah Devine today—was front and center, a vision in white chiffon that shimmered every time he moved. Wide-brimmed sunhat, lashes for days, and a fan that snapped open with all the drama of a curtain rising. He could work a crowd better than a revival preacher.

“Well, look at her.” Uncle Dee dropped into a graceful crouch that showed off a mile of leg. He offered Rubble his hand like he was presenting a royal decree. “Now this is an officer who knows how to hold herself. Calm, cool, collected. You’ve got yourself a star, Chief.”

That was all the invitation Miss Bea needed. She swept forward in a gold sequined sundress that sparkled like a disco ball. “The pride of Gibson Hollow PD! Bodie, she’s the best thing you’ve ever done for this town.”

Rubble’s whole back end wagged, and her tongue lolled as she soaked up the praise like she understood every word.

I cocked a brow. “The best thing?”

Miss Bea laughed. “Well, the cutest, anyway.”

Miss Glory bent next, elegant and commanding in a sleek emerald jumpsuit, her lipstick flawless, her jewelry catching the sun. Somehow she didn’t break a sweat in summer heat, even with the crowd pressing close. She lowered her sunglasses just enough to give Rubble the full weight of her gaze. “May I greet the lady?”

Rubble sniffed her hand with the solemnity the question deserved, then leaned her whole weight against Miss Glory’s thigh.

Mo’nique was already sweeping around in a bright floral maxi-dress, phone held high, snapping pictures like she was covering the Met Gala. “Smile, sugar,” she sang, clicking away. “Officer Rubble is trending already. Oh yes, she’s going on the Hollow socials tonight.”

The ladies clucked and cooed, and Rubble preened under the attention, tail beating against my leg.

“She knows a kindred spirit when she meets one,” Uncle Dee stage-whispered, sending the others into shrieks of laughter.

I shook my head, fighting a grin. My big, bad pittie mix, reduced to a puddle of affection in the middle of the green, basking in the spotlight like she’d been born for it. I probably should’ve intervened. This was hardly the formal protocol of her working dog training, but everyone, including Rubble, seemed to be having such a good time, I couldn’t bring myself to stop them.

“Where’d you get her, Chief?” someone called from the back of the crowd.

“Yeah, I thought police dogs were usually German Shepherds,” someone else added.

I laid a hand on Rubble’s head. “She’s a rescue. Came out of a statewide partnership program that works with shelters. They evaluate the dogs that come through, looking for drive, focus, and willingness to work. Rubble passed with flying colors, so she was transferred into K9 training.”

Miss Bea dabbed under her eyes like I’d just given the keynote at a charity gala. “Plucked from despair and polished into a diamond. A Cinderella story!”

I snorted. “Something like that. She’s trained in scent work—tracking, narcotics, evidence retrieval. Still young, so we’ll keep sharpening those skills, but she’s already a damn fine partner.”

Rubble sat on command at my heel, posture perfect, tail thumping against the ground like a drum line. The crowd gave a little collective “awww,” and I couldn’t help the tug of pride that went through me.

“But she’s more than a working dog.” I scanned the circle of familiar faces. “She’s approachable. Kids can come up, folks can say hello. She’s here to bridge the gap, to remind people the department isn’t just uniforms and citations. We’re part of the community, same as anyone else.”

Miss Glory gave a regal nod. “A little hope on four legs.”

Well, damn if that didn’t give me a little tightness in the throat. Clearing the knot, I scratched Rubble behind the ears. “Something like that.”

I straightened, gently tugging her leash. “Come on, rookie. Let’s make the rounds.”

Uncle Dee looped his arm through mine. “Let me walk with you a bit. There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Sure.”

We strolled along the recently poured sidewalks, both nodding and offering hellos to friends and neighbors. Because it was built into the slope of a mountain, downtown Gibson Hollow was shaped more like a C than a square. With rows of buildings on three sides, the fourth was taken up by a small amphitheater set into what had, up until a few months ago, been a sinkhole remaining from the flood. Engineers had figured out how to take advantage of the dip and shore everything up into something actually useful. The how of it was all above my pay grade, but even I could admit that the end result was gonna add something special to town.

I glanced down at my uncle. “Do you and the ladies have plans for an inaugural show once the amphitheater is finished?”

All four members of the Sasspatch Society had been drag performers down in New Orleans for years before relocating to Gibson Hollow after Uncle Dee had come home to help out in the wake of my mother’s death. They still trotted out glitter and glam on a regular basis, and the town lived for their occasional performances. Their particular brand of sparkle had been such a help during the dark days after the flood, when we’d been struggling with even the most basic things. Utilities had been out, washed out bridges had disconnected us from the rest of the world, but they’d kept our spirits up.

He patted my arm. “Oh, you know we can’t resist a stage, my boy. Actually, the thing I wanted to speak to you about is tangentially related.”

“Oh?”

“We’ll get there. I want to loop someone else in on this conversation.”

We moved past the amphitheater into the story garden that had been laid out and planted in the spring by a whole platoon of helpers as a living love letter from my best friend, Ramsey Shaw, to my twin, Alia. It was greening up now, leafed out and flowering. If I were a more romantic sort, I might’ve said it reflected the way she’d bloomed in the relationship.

She’d about run herself into the ground during her stint as interim mayor when our dad, the actual mayor, had been seriously injured rescuing folks from the flood. And all of us—from the rest of our massive family to the entire town—had let her, because holding things together and making the hard calls was just what my sister had always done with so much competence that we’d all taken her for granted, without giving a single thought to the toll it was taking on her. At least until Ramsey had called us out for having our heads up our asses. Not that he’d used that particular phrasing, but that had been the gist. We’d collectively shaped up to take things off her overflowing plate, and Alia had married my closest friend just a few weeks ago.

The newlyweds themselves were heads together on one of the many benches along the winding path through the garden. Their long-haired mini-dachshund, Biscuit, peeked out of a sling strapped to Ramsey’s broad chest. Given he was one of the leading tight ends in the NFL and built like a giant, that would never not be hilarious.

Rubble spotted Biscuit first and gave a sharp wag, trotting forward to investigate. Biscuit answered with a shrill yap, all ten pounds of her puffing up like she was ready to take on the world and had no idea she was approximately the size of my dog’s head.

Rubble’s tail was going a mile a minute as she leaned in for a sniff, but I took a firmer grip on her leash. “Easy there, rookie.”

Alia laughed, scooping Biscuit out of the sling before Rubble’s nose could bowl her over. “They’re fine. She’s tougher than she looks.”

I raised a brow. “She’d have to be, to survive living with Ramsey. Still not sure I’d call that thing an actual dog.”

Ramsey smirked. “Careful, Bodie. That ‘thing’ can take down a steak in record time. Pound for pound, she’s meaner than your rookie there.”

“Yeah, but Rubble doesn’t need a baby sling to avoid getting stepped on,” I shot back.

Alia rolled her eyes at us, though her smile stayed soft. She had that glow about her—not just the newlywed shine, but the kind of peace that came from finally not carrying everything alone. I was damned glad for it. I just didn’t care to dwell too long on the mental picture of my twin tangled up with my best friend. Some doors in my brain were better left shut.

Before the silence could stretch, Uncle Dee snapped open his fan with a flourish. “Well, isn’t this sweet as honey butter on a biscuit? Newlyweds, proud pups, and the Chief here pretending he’s not sentimental.” He gave my arm a pat. “But as charming as this tableau is, we’ve got business to discuss.”

Ramsey tilted his head. “Business?”

Uncle Dee’s eyes glinted. “The next step. Main Street’s coming back, but the blocks beyond still look like a war zone. Folks are tired. They need a reason to keep at it. A goal. A reward.”

I frowned. “What kind of reward are we talking?”

“A festival,” Uncle Dee declared, fan snapping shut again like an exclamation point. “Early fall, before the leaves turn. Music, food, crafts, contests. A celebration to remind people what we’re building toward. You dangle a festival, and they’ll push through the rest of the work just to see it happen.”

Rubble gave a soft woof, like she agreed.

Ramsey rubbed his thumb along Biscuit’s head. “That’s not a bad idea. If you tie it to fundraising, you could stretch the recovery dollars farther.”

“Not just early fall. September,” Alia said. “On the anniversary of the flood. To remind everyone not only of what we’re building toward but of how we survived. That is the real cause for celebration.”

Uncle Dee pointed his folded fan at her. “You are a genius, as always.”

She shifted Biscuit onto her lap. “I’m afraid ideas are all I can offer. You’ll have to count me out for most of the planning. I’ve got a wall-to-wall calendar with book events for the new release.”

Hearing her say that still caught me sideways. My twin. The same one who used to keep her writing under lock and key, now out in the world as Kella Harmon, with signings and panels and so many fans I couldn’t even begin to wrap my brain around it. I was proud as hell of her, but my brain was still catching up.

Uncle Dee patted her hand. “That’s fine, sugarplum. You’ve earned your author tour. The rest of us can handle logistics. Though you did promise me one small errand before you ran off to play famous.”

Alia groaned. “The shelter trip. I know. I didn’t forget.”

I arched a brow. “What shelter trip?”

“To pick out my new roommate. A fine feline companion.” Uncle Dee pressed a dramatic hand to his chest. “A dignified creature who won’t abandon me for the bright lights of Charleston.”

Ramsey chuckled. “So you’re replacing my wife with a cat?”

I snorted. “Cat’s got big shoes to fill.”

That earned me a smile from Alia, and the tension that had been riding my shoulders since morning eased just a little.

“So it’s settled.” Uncle Dee fanned himself once more, already shifting into planning mode. “We’ll get the committee together and make it happen. Before the leaves turn, Gibson Hollow will have a festival worth remembering.”

From the nods all around, it was clear nobody was about to argue.

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