If there was one thing Sally didn't miss from her time with Anya, it was the fans. It's not that they were all bad; in fact, a lot of them were sweet and just happy to be near her and the crimson-haired menace.

  It had boggled her mind, especially since she wasn't a celebrity. She just dated one. Yet, she had her own following of mostly good people.

  There was that one little girl that made her cry too. She had to be no older than eight, dressed up to look just like Sally with her wavy hair and a little hat.

  That one was a good memory.

  But, for every one of those precious little things there were at least five of the worst type: trolls. The ones that claimed to be fans, but would ignite a virtual shitstorm if you stepped out of whatever nonsensical box they decided you fit into. Sally had her share of these too.

  Sally had heard of toxic fandom before, believing it to be nothing more than people talking shit on social media. Maybe someone feeling like they had to tell you what to do while you were out trying to grab a quiet coffee.

  But the "Not Yours" murders changed it all.

  A singer. Two actresses. A tourist.

  Sally almost joined them too.

  These girls had died because they looked like Sally. Because they had blue eyes and a wavy tangle of blonde hair. Because Sally was dating the hottest celebrity on Earth, Luna and Mars. Because Sally was the one that kept Anya from dating the woman 'they' wanted her be with. Because Anya's heart wasn't hers to claim.

  Another actress, the 'Doctor' from her film series. The Ice Queen that the fans adored.

  Sally was just a Texas Ranger working the DFW Metroplex. Not a celebrity. Not some action hero. She was inferior in their eyes.

  And they all died because of it, but for what? Sally and Anya's perfect little world shattered three years later, only for the Ice Queen to take her place anyway.

  No. Sally wasn't bitter. She wasn't crying in her car for the third time this month. To be fair, she thought, this was the first time in a month that she broke down.

  "One ain't none, Sally," she said, looking at the tear-streaked face in the rear mirror. "Isn't. Not ain't," she sighed, then reached over the center console and opened the glove box.

  Two packaged honeybuns stared back at her. The cheap little pastries had always been her go-to when she began to spiral, whether it was Anya, a case, or more recently, the silent scream of re-learning to be alone. But, now, there were only two left.

  She pulled one out of hiding and unwrapped it like it was a fragile treasure, then took a bite. She let the cinnamon and thick sugary glaze melt onto her tongue before she chewed. She knew it was a strange habit, but to be honest, she didn't give a rat's ass.

  Sally ate the honeybun like it was a religious experience. A cleansing of her soul. She sucked the glaze from her fingers, then looked back at her reflection.

  "There. Better?"

  The woman in the mirror sniffled. Sally reached across and ate the remaining honeybun in between sobbing fits. She looked out of her Hummer's window, back at Anya's Cheshire-like grin on the billboard that hovered above Field Headquarters parking structure and sniffled again. The words 'Not Yours' were sloppily spray-painted over Anya's 'Heart of Gold' slogan in a hideous, bright green.

  "You're not helping."

  The billboard didn't answer. It just kept beaming that green-eyed lie down at her. God, how Sally missed that grin. How it used to drive her wild.

  Sally sniffled one last time, aggressive and final, then wiped her sticky fingers on a napkin she dug out of the center console. It was stained with old tears, but it did the job. She jumped as a loud rap sounded from the passenger window.

  "You better not be crying in there, Forthe!" A muffled voice yelled through the Hummer's thick door.

  Sharp brown eyes under neatly combed dark hair peered up at Sally through the tinted glass.

  Sally hit the unlock switch and Lauren climbed in, trailing a wave of mid-noon heat into the cool cabin.

  Lauren looked at Sally's tear-stained face, then at the ravaged honeybun wrappers.

  "Those things are going to kill you, Sally," Lauren said, inspecting one of the sticky wrappers. "The nutritional values on the box are suggestions more than facts."

  Sally deflated into her seat. "I don't eat them for nutrition."

  "No shit? Guess that big glaring reminder out there got to you. I'm sure that driving this monstrosity doesn't help much either."

  Sally pouted.

  "But, I love my Hummer."

  "Uh huh..."

  Lauren climbed over the center console, fell to the floor then plopped herself into the second row seating, kicking her foot out to hover six inches from the center console.

  "...and you need all this space for... Why again? Oh, wait, so you can listen to the echoes of your misery? Or, for all of the activities you wished you were still having back here?"

  Sally spun, her face a mask of horror, and swiped at the woman she called 'best friend', missing by at least two feet.

  "You have the reach of a T-Rex, Forthe," Lauren laughed, dodging the swipe without even uncrossing her legs. "And stop blushing. We both know the acoustics back here are fantastic."

  "I hate you," Sally muttered, her face burning hotter than the Texas asphalt.

  "You love me. I'm the only one who tells you the truth about your rolling fortress of solitude." Lauren stretched her arms out, emphasizing the ridiculous amount of empty leather. "Seriously, I could sublet this row to a family of four."

  "Get in the front, Lo. You look like a perp."

  "No, I look like a pimp. Besides, I'm comfortable. I'm starting to understand why..." Lauren's nose wrinkled, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "Wait. Did you and Anya? Here?"

  Sally gripped the steering wheel like she was trying to strangle it. "I hate you so much. Get up here. Janice."

  Lauren's jaw dropped. "You. You went there."

  "I did. And for the record, yes. Right there. Often." Sally pointed at the front passenger seat. "Now, git."

  Lauren stared at the passenger seat then back to the seat that she, and the formerly hot couple, occupied with a grimace. She scrambled over the center console, moving significantly faster this time, and buckled herself in.

  "Okay. Fine. Point made. You didn't need to drop the middle name," Lauren muttered, smoothing her uniform. "But I'm sanitizing this seat before I sit in it again."

  "I had it detailed, you drama queen."

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  "Takes one to know one, Sailor Marie."

  Lauren's smirk melted as she turned, placing her hand on Sally's shoulder. "But, seriously. I know she bought this for you. It's just a constant reminder."

  Sally forced a sighing smile. "I hear you and you're probably right, but this..." She tapped the dashboard, the hard plastic warm under her fingers. "This is mine. Not hers. Mine. It's that thing that needs to go."

  She pointed a sticky finger out the windshield at the looming face of the woman she used to love.

  Lauren stared up at the crimson-haired starlet, whose personality was even larger than the billboard made her out to be. Even she liked her, but Anya crossed a line when she left Sally. The lime green spray painted epitaph only made things worse.

  "You know what? Fuck it. And her." Lauren gave Sally's shoulder a squeeze. "Now let's get moving before I need a honeybun too."

  "Too late." Sally thumbed the start button, bringing the Hummer to life with a hydrogen-powered roar. "Those were the last ones."

  Sally maneuvered the excessively large truck through the winding parking complex and out onto the street, merging seamlessly into a sea of electric cars like a shark swimming within a school of fish.

  The Hummer lurched forward, its massive tires singing against the reinforced concrete as Sally guided the beast out of the shadowed depths of the Field Office garage.

  As they crested the exit ramp, the DFW Metro-Plex sprawled out before them like a circuit board that had overgrown its casing.

  To the north, the gleaming, needle-like spires of the Corporate Sector—formerly Plano and Frisco—pierced the smog layer, reflecting the harsh sunlight with arrogant brilliance.

  That was where the money flowed, where the air was scrubbed of particulates, and where people like Anya lived in climate-controlled penthouses that smelled like jasmine and wealth when they were actually present.

  And for three years, so did Sally.

  Until she crashed back down here, in Garland, in "The Wash." Back where the trash belongs.

  It was a tangled mess of retro-fitted industrial parks, neon-drenched strip malls, overcrowded apartments, and elevated freeways that cast permanent shadows over the streets below. The air shimmered with heat haze and the exhaust of a million cooling units fighting a losing war against the Texas sun.

  Sally merged onto the I-635 loop, the Hummer’s hydrogen engine roaring as she bullied a sleek, autonomous delivery drone out of the fast lane.

  "Look at it," Lauren said, kicking her boots up on the dash, right next to the empty wrappers. "Beautiful, in a 'cancerous growth on the face of the earth' kind of way."

  "It's home," Sally grunted, checking her blind spot. "And it's thirsty work."

  "You literally just ate two thousand calories of sugar."

  "That was for emotional stability. Now I need hydration. And caffeine. And," Sally pointed a finger at the massive, rotating holographic sign spinning in the distance, "I need to pay tithe to the Armadillo."

  The sign was a beacon of civilization in the wasteland: A smiling cartoon armadillo wearing a ten-gallon hat and a handlebar mustache, rotating slowly in the smog.

  DILLIES MEGA-STOP #412.

  FUEL. BRISKET. AMMO.

  "Pull over," Lauren sighed, though she didn't sound too upset about it. "I could use a Dr. Pepper and a chopped brisket sandwich. And maybe a bag of Dilly-Nuggies."

  Sally swung the Hummer across three lanes of traffic—ignoring the angry honks of the automated commuter pod drones—and drifted into the sprawling concrete expanse of Dillies.

  It was a cathedral of consumption. Pumps for hydrogen, hyper-fast charging bays for electrics, and a convenience store the size of a Lunar colony. It was also the happiest place on Earth.

  Or at least this section of I-635.

  Sally pulled into a spot marked COMPACTS ONLY, the silence ringing in the cab for a second before the ambient noise of Dillies rushed back in.

  She smiled down through the window at the frustrated man in the diminutive Fiat Micra she had parked beside. She pointed helpfully at the eighteen-inch gap between the Hummer’s running board and his driver’s side door.

  The gap may have been a bit tighter were the truck's 38-inch tires intruded into the man's stall, but, oh well. What do you do, right?

  "See! Plenty of room!" she shouted cheerily through the glass.

  The man stared at her, then waved back with a single finger before throwing his Fiat into reverse and peeling out of the stall.

  "Two minutes," Sally said, unbuckling. "Grab me a Pepper too. And the biggest box of Honeybuns they have... get three."

  Lauren opened the door, the heat and cheerful music hitting them instantly. "You have a problem, Forthe. A serious, sticky problem."

  "My problem is an empty stomach, a broken heart, and a full itinerary. Move it, Ranger Ballard."

  The door shut with soft thud, then a whir as the door actuators pulled it tight.

  The aroma of smoked brisket had found its way in, eliciting a growl from Sally's belly as she watched Lauren pull her hat over her ponytailed head and march toward Dillie's front door.

  Another growl and Sally found herself beside Lauren at the entrance. Dillie the 'dillo waved at them enthusiastically from within.

  "Couldn't resist it, eh?"

  Sally sighed. "Never can."

  The automatic doors slid open with a cheerful ding, and the blast of air conditioning hit them like a physical blow—a glorious, sixty-eight-degree wall of artificial winter that smelled of caramelized sugar, floor wax, and hickory smoke. Somewhere, someone had doused themselves in patchouli.

  "Oh, sweet mother of climate control," Sally groaned, stepping into the flow of the crowd.

  Families of tourists in matching 'I BRAKED FOR DILLIE' shirts were swarming the merchandise aisles. A group of trans-orbital roughnecks were arguing over coolers in the back. And someone named Robert Birch was introducing himself to a group of tourists with way too much zeal from the Sporting Goods section.

  "Divide and conquer," Lauren commanded, adjusting her hat. "I'm going to the Carving Station. If the line for the Chopped Blue-Ribbon is longer than five people, I'm exercising executive authority."

  "Abuse of power. I like it," Sally nodded. "I'm hitting the Wall of Flesh, then the bakery. Meet at the register?"

  "Five minutes, Forthe. Don't get distracted by the plush toys."

  Lauren vanished into the throng, heading for the glowing neon sign that promised FRESH BRISKET ON THE BOARD.

  Sally drifted to the right, navigating the aisles with the practiced ease of a veteran. She bypassed the rows of "Dillie" swimsuits and scented candles, heading straight for the holy land: The Wall of Jerky.

  It was sixty feet of dried meat, color-coded by spice level. Sally grabbed two bags of Ghost Pepper Garlic without breaking stride, tucked them under her arm, and made for the bakery case.

  There they were. The Honeybuns. Glazed. Massive. Fresh.

  Not the vending machine trash. These were still warm.

  "They'll go bad in the glove box," she told herself with a sad smile. Then turned to the packaged snacks aisle and found her usual vice.

  She grabbed a box of three, feeling the weight of all thirty-six buns like gold bars, and snagged a chilled Dr. Pepper from the cooler on her way to the front.

  She paused at the plushie island, gravitating toward the orange cat in a white spacesuit, complete with a bubble helmet. Sally knew better. The tag read "Astro-Cat Jones". She really did know better.

  She met Lauren at the counter with Jones under her arm. Lauren was already there, holding two foil-wrapped sandwiches that smelled like heaven and grease.

  "Oh, god... you're weak," Lauren said, tossing a bag of Dilly-Nugs onto the counter as Sally shrugged innocently. "Whatever, the cutter gave me extra pickles because he liked the badge."

  "It wasn't the badge that he liked," Sally grinned, dropping her loot next to the brisket. Lauren's smile was all the confirmation Sally needed.

  The cashier, a teenager with a holographic nametag that read KYLE, scanned their items with a bored expression.

  "Kyle, huh?" The bored teen looked at Sally with dull eyes, her curly hair tangled in the nametag's pin.

  "Julie, actually. Kyle hacked mine, so I took his." Sally and Lauren peered over the counter to see a glitchy nametag that cheerily displayed "Droolie".

  "Want us to go rough Kyle up for you?" Lauren asked with a wink.

  Not-Kyle laughed as she snapped the brisket. "No need. You'd break that little pencil dick in half just looking at him. That's thirty-five dollars. Thanks though."

  Sally reached for her slate to pay, imagining things she shouldn't.

  "Keep the change, Julie," Sally said, tapping her slate to the reader. "And give Kyle hell."

  "Always do," Julie smirked, handing over the receipt.

  Sally grabbed the bag containing the brisket and the cat, feeling a rare moment of equilibrium. They had food. They had AC. They had justice for Julie. And Sally had Jones.

  They made quick time back to the Hummer and Sally dumped an entire box of honeybuns into the glove box, then shoved the rest in the storage compartment under the second row seat, tossing the fleece-lined denim jacket she kept in it to the floor to make room. Lauren and Jones watched from the front of the cabin.

  "You're a pack rat."

  "At least I'm cute," Sally grunted as she shimmied back to the ground.

  Lauren shoved Jones into her face, her voice taking a snarky, high-pitched whine. "That's debatable."

  "Uh huh. I've seen you checking my butt out. More than once."

  Lauren covered Jones's ears, squashing the bubble helmet around his head. "Shh... I was just trying to figure out what made a superstar so hot and--"

  The slate clipped to Sally's belt chirped. It wasn't the red alert of a direct order; just the amber pulse of inter-agency chatter playing in her earpiece.

  "...Dispatch, Unit 4-Alpha. We're finally clearing the scene at the Sector C Greenbelt. ME is loading the John Doe now."

  Sally paused, straightening her white shirt and vest. She tapped her earpiece, listening in out of habit. The storm from last night had washed out most of The Wash, but it seemed it had uncovered some trash, too.

  "Copy 4-Alpha," Dispatch droned. "Cause of death confirmed?"

  "Preliminary is blunt force trauma to the trachea. Guy's throat was crushed. No weapon found. ME says it looks like... well, like he ran neck-first into a steel pipe. Weird one."

  Sally snorted softly.

  Or a debt collection gone wrong, she thought. The Wash never disappointed when it came to finding new ways to die. Or kill.

  "Sounds personal," she muttered to Lauren, climbing into the driver's seat.

  "What does?" Lauren asked, tearing the corner off her foil-wrapped sandwich.

  "Garland PD found a stiff in the park. Crushed windpipe. Sounds like someone didn't pay their bookie."

  "Hate to see it," Lauren shrugged, taking a bite of brisket. "Mmm. Worth the wait. You want a—"

  Then, the slate in Sally's hand vibrated.

  Hard.

  Not a text. Not the amber chatter of local PD.

  Lauren's slate began to vibrate too, nearly shaking itself off the dashboard where Lauren placed it.

  A Priority Override.

  The screen flashed red.

  INCOMING TRANSMISSION: DISPATCH [MILLER]

  PRIORITY: CODE 99

  The smile slid off Sally’s face. The smell of smoked brisket suddenly made her stomach turn.

  "Don't answer that," Lauren whispered, seeing the screen. She stopped chewing. "We're on break, Sal. We have sandwiches. Don't. Do. It."

  Sally looked at the foil-wrapped brisket, then at the Astro-Cat staring up at her through its plastic helmet. She looked at the flashing red screen.

  Sally sighed, a long, deflating sound that was mostly exhaustion.

  "Sorry, Jonesy," she muttered to the cat, tossing him onto the denim jacket lying on the floor.

  She tapped the accept button and raised the slate to her ear, her voice dropping into the cool tone she reserved for the real job.

  "Go for Forthe."