The hair on my arm began to prickle from the chill. I soaked it in, raising my arms in front of the vents and letting the glorious cool air dry out the marsh under my armpits. Not very ladylike—I know, I know. Of course, I couldn't give a damn about what was or wasn't ladylike. Not when it was over a hundred degrees in the shade and the groggy wet heat would choke you out if you even dared to breathe it in too deeply.

        It's July in Florida, goddamn it, and I'd literally rather die than go outside...

       ...but earlier I'd had to. My paper shipment came in—late I might add—and this particular driver, Dale, seemed immune to the heat since all he'd wanted was to chat me up under a cloudless sky instead of wheeling my damn boxes inside. A life of labor had left its mark on his body—his arms were roped with sinewy muscle and his skin had browned from baking in the sun.

       I'd stood to the side of his truck, trying to hide in the nonexistent shade of his trailer and failing. Sweat dripped down every shallow crevice the Lord had blessed me with. Exhaustion creeped in. What felt like days had been three measly minutes. I'd wiped my brow, then used that same hand to shield my eyes from a sun on the war path.

       I don't understand why he always needed to talk outdoors in hundred- and three-degree weather. It never seemed to bother him, but it sure as hell bothered me. But the man was oblivious to the comfort levels of others, no matter how hard I hurled death glares at him. I'm honestly not sure how he's survived this long without someone killing his over-talking ass!

       And I'm not saying I thought about it, but I'm not saying I didn't either...

       "I been thinkin' 'bout starting a power washin' business on the side." He'd said as I'd eyed one last box that belonged to me in the back of the truck.

       I'd inhaled a breath of hot air. "Uh huh." A bead a sweat slid down my back. The agony.

       "You know," he'd leaned his elbow casually against his dolly and I'd died a little on the inside while wiping yet another layer of sweat from the side of my neck. He didn't seem to notice. "My brother has a lawnmower business. It don't pay the bills but he gets a bit of pocket change. I could use a bit of pocket change."

       I'd wondered if they have AC in prison. Would it be worth it? "Couldn't we all?" I'd eased toward the door, hoping he'd take a hint.

        He did not. "...And I'm getting old. If I'm going to do something I should start."

      I forced a small smile and tossed him some of that southern hospitality. "You're not that old!" A courtesy. By my approximation, he was ancient at the least.

       He'd smiled and finally worked the dolly up the ramp and towards my final delivery. "You're right, Evie. Thirty-one isn't that old."

       Thirty-one? Goddamn, I thought that man was sixty-two! Even more reason to Stay. Out. Of. The. Sun! And as an aside, thank you God for this lovely dark skin. Barely a drop of sunscreen has ever touched me, yet at twenty-nine I still got carded when I tried to buy Wite-Out at Walmart. The true test of an unageing beauty.

       It took another five minutes for him to finish up. Afterwards I had pushed closed the back door, left my napkin, cup, and bag deliveries stacked in the hallway, and retreated to the wall mounted AC unit in my office to try and dry my sweat dampened tank top.

       Fuck summer.

       But bless the soul that invented air conditioning.

       I stood there letting the ice-cold air baptize me and wash away all thoughts of outside. I was born anew! The cool down took me from annoyed, cranky, and low on patience to...a little less so. Hey, I was cooler, but I'm still me.

       I leaned against the wall unit and shut my eyes. As my internal temperature lowered, the cogs in my brain kept on spinning. Delivery's in. That's done. Had an appointment coming up soon. I needed to throw something over the tank top and shorts I was wearing to appear professional. Doable, but annoying. In a couple of weeks, I'd have to start looking for a new baker as my old one was about to fly the coop, but for right this second, I could relax—

      "Evie?" Came a voice from the other side of the door.

       I sighed and dropped my arms. "Yeah?"

       My assistant manager, Pasha, walked in on a cloud of sage that could have smoked out even the most devout of holy men. My nose tickled but I stifled the sneeze. "Your twelve-thirty is here."

       Awesome...

       I nodded. "Send her back. And tell Devonte to start unpacking those boxes."

       "Okay."

       I found some old Subway napkins in my desk drawer and wiped the remaining layer of sweat from around my face, neck, and cleavage—if you could call it that, then grabbed my emergency blazer to throw over the spaghetti strap shirt I was wearing even though I was at work because professionalism could go fuck itself, I'm in charge here.

       By the time Pasha and the new client were back I'd sat back in my chair and pulled my mass of curly black hair into a lazy pony. I looked semiprofessional (besides the khaki short shorts) on the outside and felt like I was melting on the inside.

       My twelve-thirty peeked her head into the room like a meek ten-year-old waiting her turn to meet the principal's paddle. But she looked kind of young so maybe the general stupidity of this thing called life hadn't yet annihilated her good manners like it does to all of us eventually.

       Memo to self: start mentoring the children. I have so much wisdom to bestow.

       "Ms. Pham." I stood, even though it meant she could see my not-so-professional short shorts and held out my hand.

       She crossed the three steps between her and my desk and shook it. "Call me Ashley."

       "Ashley. Please, have a seat."

       She pulled out one of the hard backed chairs across from me and slid into it, careful to smooth down the back of her dress. Neither her round faced, big-eyed stare, the way she slouched in my chair, nor the sloppiness of her long black hair helped age her. If I had to guess, I'd say she was eighteen at the oldest. But I'd already run a background check and knew, she was a freshly turned twenty-six.

       "How can I help you?" I said in my boss-lady voice.

       She swallowed a lump of nerves. "Oh, well..."

       I waited but her words never drifted back to her lips. I realized she wanted some sort of encouragement so in my best sympathetic voice I said, "Whatever it is, it's okay."

       She swallowed again and tucked a strand of thin hair behind her ear. "Well...someone's blackmailing me."

       My eyebrows pinched together as I looked her up and down. She wore a simple floral wrap dress that clung around her petite form. Her shoes, I remember, were basic wedge sandals. The jewelry she wore probably wouldn't total a hundred dollars combined. What sort of incompetent extortionist blackmails someone who's lower middle class?

       Then again, many a secret millionaire preferred lower end products rather than the luxury brands you'd typically associate with them. I was no millionaire, but I often shopped below my means because, well, why spend fifty for one shirt when I could go elsewhere and get two for forty? Perhaps her thinking was similar.

       "Why?" I asked when her silence stretched beyond human reason.

       "I don't know."

       "How?"

       "I don't know."

       "Who?"

       "I'm hoping you'll tell me."

       I stifled a yawn—mostly I was tired. It was only mid-day, but it felt like late afternoon. "What do they have on you?"

       She looked away. "You know, I was the first person in my family to go to college."

       That's not what I asked, but... "...Okay."

       "My parents are from Vietnam. They didn't really understand anything about how college worked here. Just that I would go and would graduate." She smiled but it didn't reach her eyes. "They didn't realize how expensive it was, so they didn't save anything for it. I had to take out loans."

       That was a plight I understood. Despite both my parents having cushy government jobs—one in Air Quality and the other a fire fighter—neither had set aside a college fund for little old me. I got through it by supplementing my financial aid with the smallest loans I could manage and two jobs.

       Missed a lot of parties but I missed a lot of debt too.

       "One semester, I was a little bit desperate." Ashley continued.

      Ah, finally. "What did you do?"

       As she talked her eyes started wondering to anything other than me. "This other student...offered me money...for some pictures."

      I didn't need to ask, but I did anyway. "What kind of pictures?"

       "The naked kind."

       Mistake number one. "Your face in them?"

       "Yes."

       Mistake number two. "Who'd you give them too?"

       "This guy named Cal Henson."

       I wrote that down. "You think it's him?"

       Her hands fiddled in her lap. "He's the most likely suspect, isn't he?"

       "Maybe" I shrugged. "Did you send them to anyone else?"

       "No."

       "Do you have any copies?"

       "No. I deleted them immediately." Something in her eye twitched as she said it. I didn't push.

       I sat my pen down and sat forward to let my hideously sweaty back breathe a bit. "You got a name. Sounds like a job for the cops."

       "If I go to the cops, my family might find out."

       I shrugged. "So? Isn't a little embarrassment less important than finding this guy?"

       She shook her head wildly. "You don't know my parents! They'll disown me! I don't even want to think about what Noah will think."

       "Who's Noah?"

       "My fiancé." Her lips pressed together as her eyes darted around. "He can't find out I did that. He'll think I'm a slut!"

       Amateur hour. Are we still in high school?

       I picked up my pen and continued note taking. It's not my job to moralize the choices people make—even when they're dumb. "How did the blackmailer contact you?"

       "Gmail."

       "Gmail?" How hilariously brazen of him. "When did he first contact you?"

       "A couple of weeks ago."

       "What does he want?"

       "A thousand dollars by next Friday or he leaks them."

       A whole month to come up with a grand. I could make that. Very forgiving blackmailer. "I can't guarantee I can find him. And when I do what's your plan then?"

      For the first time she spoke confidently. "Confrontation."

      "I don't recommend that." They always wanted to confront, but there's too many crazy people out here to risk your life over bullshit.

       "If that doesn't work, I'll call the cops as a last resort."

       Well, that made me feel slightly better, I guess. I tapped my pen against the table and thought it over. "Alright. I'll look into it. But no guarantees. And you be on standby to call the police."

       She signed with relief as a big smile stretched between her cheeks. She was pretty without the layer of stress. "Okay."

       I took her information, then told her to give me three days and no longer. If in the end I can't find the guy, the contract's void, and she won't have to pay.

       I'm keeping the deposit, though. I don't believe in refunds.

******************************

       There wasn't much to go on, honestly. All Ashley had was the blackmailer's email and the name of the guy she'd originally sold the pictures to. Luckily the background check database I subscribed to had a reverse email search feature. Hopefully I could use that to connect the account to the blackmailer.

        But first, I wanted to check out Cal Henson. Ashley had sold the nudes to him as a desperate college student, so according to her he should have the only copy. He was suspect number one. Out of one.

       I put his info in and ran the background check. There weren't to many bells and whistles involved, just a little ding when the search was complete. I looked up from a rerun of Westworld and over to the laptop sitting with me on the bed when I heard the telltale chime.

       Hmm. It seemed Cal Henson was now a banker in Arizona with a wife and one newborn. Not exactly the loser type you'd imagine could do this sort of thing, but then, maybe it's not about money. Maybe it's about control. Even still, the man looked like he had way too much to lose just to toy with some woman he went to college with a couple of years ago. But what if he'd shared the pics with some friends and they had tracked her down? Possible, but there was no way for me to confirm that, so Cal Henson was officially a dead end.

       The only other thing I could do was reverse search the email address:

       [email protected]

        As I waited for the results to come in, my phone started ringing. I glimpsed over at the caller ID and smiled when I read the name. "Hey." I said after I picked up.

       "Hey, what you up to?" Manny sounded tired, not that that was a surprise. Most nights we were together, but he'd had to raincheck to finish up on some work at the police station.

       "Running a background check on an email address."

       He laughed. "Don't you ever stop working?"

       I gasped like a diva. "You some kind of socialist hippy or something? I'm proud to work until I die for the capitalist gods."

       "Oh, then I guess you won't accept the free tickets to a show I got."

       That perked me up. "A show? What kind of show?"

       He hesitated. "Well...there's this thing at the Memorial Arena."

       Memorial Arena? They don't put on a production of Rodgers and Hammerstein's Cinderella at the Arena. "A thing? Vague."

       "Yeah, a thing. Well, an event...kind of."

       "Kind of?" He's up to something. "What's the name of this show?

       He cleared his throat, then took the deepest breath I've ever heard. "Uh, well...Combat Night."

       I sighed dramatically. "That's not a show, that's a fight."

       "Yeahhhh...want to go?"

       "Not particularly."

        "I would ask Henry, but I can't get him on the phone."

       "Oh yeah, he wanted me to tell you he wants to break up with you. Sooorrrry."

       "What?"

       I snickered. "Kidding! He finished his manuscript, so he's locked himself in his office until the editing's done."

       "Really?"

       I nodded out of habit. "He does this every time. He really takes this novel writing thing seriously."

       "Huh."

       "You'll have to ask one of your other friends."

       "I can't invite Mike." He said with a pout.

       "Why not?"

       "I like you better. And he looks terrible in a dress."

       Why would I wear a dress to a fight? "But fights sound boring."

       "So did Fiddler on the Roof but I went." That's a good point actually. Furthermore, despite not being a musical person he not only bought the tickets and accompanied me, but he also said nothing when I would randomly break out into an off-key version of Tradition for two whole weeks after. "Not sure what that had to do with fiddlers or roofs."

       "It was a metaphor." I only invited him because I like to share things I love with the people I love. I suppose this is the same. "Okay, okay. I'll go to the fight with you."

       "Yes! You'll love it!"

       "How do you know?"

       "It's buff topless dudes swinging on each other." Damn. He knows how much I like watching sexy topless dudes moving around. "Nervous for Saturday?"

       The pivot in conversation almost made my head spin. "Extremely."

       "Don't be. My mom will love you." He was so sure that this first meeting of the boyfriend's mom would go off without a hitch. I on the other hand was a nervous wreck. Was it too soon for this? What if she didn't like me? What if she did? What's the next big step after meeting the parents?

       My laptop chimed. I sat up to check the results of the email search. "You keep saying that but meeting the parents is always—shit!"

       "What happened?"

       "No name on the reverse email search." Great. My job was about to get a little bit harder.

       "Sorry."

       "It's fine. Listen, I need to finish this up before bed."

       He yawned a little and suddenly I felt sleepy. "Okay. I got to get up early anyway. Talk tomorrow?"

       "Of course. Dream about me?"

       "Who else?"

       "Cher."

       "Cher's my girl." The mention of one of his celebrity crushes pepped him right up. "She's so beautiful!"

        I chuckled. "Okay, you weirdo. Keep that up and I'll start talking about The Rock."

       "That's unfair! I can't compete with The Rock."

       "And I can compete with Cher?"

       "Well..."

       I mimicked his tone. "He's so beautiful."

       "Good night!"

       "Bye!"

       I hung up and went back to snipe hunting. There was no name, address, or phone number attached to the email. Worse, the IP address claimed the person lived in Minnesota. Either some rando across the country had somehow found Ashley's pictures or the blackmailer was using an anonymous proxy to hide his IP. According to the results, [email protected] had only one hit that could connect it to a real person and it was nothing but a single Facebook page with the same name.

       I plugged it in and found a bare bones page—no pictures, no text, no nothing. Well, nothing except a series of angry comments left on his page calling him all sorts of assholes, and dicks, and everything else but a child of God.

       As far as I could tell, there were a couple dozen victims of Sherwood91. I looked through them and picked the five most recent. I followed the trails and banged out a generic message for each one:

       Hey! I noticed you left a message for Sherwood91. Is he blackmailing you too? I think I have a solution to our problem. Contact me at...

       ...I suck at this Facebook thing, but hopefully I'd catch a bite in the morning.

        A yawn strangled my remaining interest. I checked the clock. Eleven fifty-five. Bedtime. I shut down, wrapped my hair, set my alarm, and crawled into bed.

       As I drifted off, I pondered the case. Ashley was probably telling me half-truths when it came to exactly how many people had access to those pictures. From her manner she was probably lying about deleting them too.

       And why did my perp choose the name Sherwood? Was that a clue? Was it some kind of Robin Hood reference since he was robbing people presumably with more money? Sherwood Forest? The real Sherwood Forest was in England. Did he live there? But then, there was a neighborhood named Sherwood Forest right in town.

       Whatever was going on, it would have to wait. I had a full day planned, and I needed every drop of my beauty rest. Couldn't do that if I was up over-thinking things. Things like half-truths and hackers, and best friends on semi-sabbatical, and meeting people's moms, and hiring new bakers...It was a lot, and my brain sometimes kept puttering on even when my body was down for the count.

       But tomorrow, first task, I had to hunt down a hacker. And hopefully the answers were more simple than they seemed.