The screen door slams behind me as I step onto the porch, the humid southern air sticking to my skin like a second layer. Inside, a record plays scratchy jazz, the music muffled through the walls—but not enough to hide the sounds of her moving through the house.

My hand rests on the holster at my hip as I push open the door without knocking. She's standing at the kitchen counter, back to me, wearing that yellow dress that drives me wild. The one that hugs her curves in all the right places. I can tell she knows I'm there—her shoulders tense for just a second before relaxing again, as if she's pretending she doesn't care.

"Brenda from the station called today," I say, my voice low and deliberate as I cross the room. She doesn't turn around, just keeps chopping vegetables like my words mean nothing. That arrogance is what I love about her—and what makes me want to put her in her place.

I reach her in three strides, my body pressing against hers from behind. My hand closes around her wrist, stopping the knife mid-chop. The blade glints in the lamplight, a reminder of what she does when she's not playing housewife for me.

"She thinks you're acting suspicious," I whisper against her ear, my free hand sliding up her thigh beneath the dress. "Thinks my wife might be involved in those killings." I feel her shiver as my fingers find their target, and she leans back against me, her resistance melting away like butter in the southern heat.

"What are you going to do about it, Detective?" she breathes, and I smile against her neck before biting down hard enough to leave a mark.