The low threat hung between them, trailing Jolene's sweet perfume. Nadine felt a flicker of annoyance. Not fear, just a profound irritation. Blowing up the crop reserve? Did Jolene have any idea how much *work* that would create? Farmers would be frantic, the town would be in chaos, and Nadine would inevitably be dragged into some grand scheme to ‘rebuild’ or ‘replant’ or some other horror that involved lifting things and being awake before noon. It was an unacceptable imposition. She watched Jolene retreat from Vance, her expression a mask of performative concern. Vance, for his part, looked as if he’d rather be wrestling a greased pig than deal with Deputy Barnaby, Jolene, or the accusation that he, the most honest man in Mudlark, was a thief. Nadine had to admit, the whole setup was rather ingenious. Frame the most obvious ‘sugar daddy’ to the town’s resident lazybones, then hold the town hostage with the threat of economic collapse. Jolene really was doing an awful lot of running around for someone who claimed to be Nadine’s friend. *Industry.* That was the curse. Jolene always threw herself into projects, an almost desperate need to prove her worth, to be seen, to be *more*. Nadine had glimpsed it before, years ago, when they were both fresh out of high school and Jolene had been rejected from the coveted position of Assistant Quality Control Manager at the Picket Fence Canning Company. Nadine, who hadn’t even applied, had been offered a general packing job she immediately turned down. The position Jolene had coveted went to Bertram ‘Bert’ Picket, the owner’s nephew, a man whose only qualification was his last name and an uncanny ability to open a jar of pickled gherkins with his teeth. Jolene had been furious. “It’s always the same, Nadine!” she’d spat, slamming her fist on the chipped Formica counter of the old soda fountain. “Hard work means nothing! It’s all who you know, who you’re related to! They just want to keep the good ol’ boys in charge while the rest of us sweat ourselves to death for pennies! Well, I’ll show them! I’ll show *all* of Mudlark County what happens when you spit on honest labor! I’ll bring this whole rotten apple cart down!” Nadine had been half-asleep, slumped over a vanilla milkshake. “Mmm, too much work, Jo. Just nap.” She’d slurped her shake, oblivious to the simmering resentment that would one day erupt into a town-wide catastrophe. Now, Jolene’s threat echoed that old fury. Nadine straightened on the teal velvet couch, a rare, almost imperceptible shift. Vance was still being questioned, Brenda was still fuming, and Deputy Barnaby was still looking utterly baffled. The detonator, Nadine surmised, had to be on Jolene’s person. Or close by. If Jolene intended to blow up the crops tonight, she wouldn’t have left it somewhere easily discoverable. “Brenda,” Nadine called out, her voice surprisingly clear, cutting through the low murmur of the crowd. “You look absolutely haggard, dear. Have you even slept?” Brenda, still clutching the crumpled balance book, blinked. Her neatly coiffed hair looked a little more askew than usual, her 'power suit' seemed to sag, and the dark circles under her eyes could’ve won an award. “I haven’t slept a wink, Nadine Finch! Not with all this… this *larceny* afoot! I’ve been up all night trying to make sense of these numbers, trying to save this town!” She gestured wildly at the dog-eared notebook, then swayed. “My goodness, you look ready to drop,” Nadine clucked, a sound of genuine, if self-serving, concern. “Barnaby, if you’re quite done with Vance, I think Brenda needs a long rest. And some chamomile tea. Perhaps,” she mused, eyes drifting to Jolene, “a girls’ night? With movies, gossip, and absolutely no talk of agricultural stocks or canning quotas?” Jolene’s eyes narrowed slightly, then softened into her usual, saccharine smile. “Oh, Nadine! That sounds just delightful! We haven’t had a proper sleepover since… well, since forever!” She shot a triumphant look at Brenda, who looked on the verge of tears. “Maybe we can even help Brenda unwind. She looks like she’s about to spontaneously combust.” Brenda bristled, but the fight had gone out of her. Her knees buckled, and she slumped against a stack of discarded tires, the accounts folio sliding from her grasp. “I… I just need… to rest my eyes,” she mumbled, already halfway to unconsciousness. Vance, released with a reluctant nod, walked over to Brenda, gently picking up the accounts folio. “Hey, Skip,” he called to his lanky apprentice, a perpetually anxious young man named Skip Pendergraft. “Get Brenda a cot in the back. Make sure she gets some real rest. And don’t let her near any paperwork until morning.” Skip, startled, nodded vigorously, already moving to assist Brenda. It was the first time Brenda Gable had allowed anyone to help her, a tiny, exhausted victory for sensible rest over relentless sweat. “Perfect,” Nadine sighed, stretching out luxuriously on the couch. “Jolene, darling, you know where I keep the chilled Riesling, don’t you? And bring my emergency stash of extra-strength sleeping powder. I’ve had a rather trying day, what with all the talking.” Jolene’s smile was a little too wide. “Of course, Nadine! Anything for my best friend!” She disappeared into Nadine’s minuscule kitchen, which consisted mostly of a hot plate and a mini-fridge. Nadine waited, counting to ten, before a faint *clink* confirmed Jolene had found the tiny, unlabeled vial of white powder tucked behind the coffee filters. Nadine almost smiled. Jolene truly was predictable. Minutes later, Jolene returned, two brimming wine glasses in hand. “Here you are, dear. A lovely, crisp Riesling. Just what the doctor ordered.” Her eyes sparkled, hinting at a secret satisfaction. Nadine took the glass, brought it to her lips, and took a delicate sip, feigning ignorance of the ever-so-faint chalky aftertaste. She knew Jolene had probably doubled the dose. Nadine, however, had a tolerance that would make a narcoleptic proud. “Oh, Jolene, this is divine,” Nadine purred, setting the glass on the floor beside her. “Now, tell me *everything*. What’s the latest gossip from the church bake sale? Did Myrtle Abernathy really try to pass off store-bought cookies as her own?” Jolene, emboldened by what she thought was Nadine’s unsuspecting consumption of the drugged wine, launched into a detailed, snarky account of Mudlark’s petty social skirmishes. Her voice grew progressively slurred, her eyelids drooped, and her hands, which had been clutching her large, beaded purse on her lap, grew slack. Nadine kept up her facade of rapt attention, nodding at appropriate moments, occasionally asking a leading question about Mrs. Henderson’s prize-winning zucchini. It was dull work, but necessary. As Jolene finally succumbed, her head lolling to the side, a soft snore escaping her lips, Nadine slowly, carefully, reached for the beaded purse. Her fingers worked the brass catch with unusual briskness. She pulled it open, the scent of lavender and mothballs wafting out. Inside, a jumble of compacts, hairspray, a lipstick-stained tissue, and then, nestled among them, a small, black, plastic box with a single, red button. A familiar symbol, a stylized explosion, was etched onto its surface. The detonator. Nadine’s fingers closed around it. It felt cool, a little cheap. She pulled it out, her eyes scanning the room, making sure no one else was present to witness this rare act of… *doing something*. Just as her thumb grazed the red button, intending to press it and disable the device, the garage door to Vance’s office burst inward with a resounding crack. Vance stood silhouetted in the doorway, his face streaked with soot, his hair disheveled, a faint smell of smoke trailing behind him. His grease-streaked forehead knotted into deep furrows as he shouted, “Nadine, the garage is on fire!”

The Sleepover Interrogation