“Oh, so you’ve run a lot of political campaigns, huh?”

“I’ve seen it done on TV.”

Spenser smirked and looked down into her wine glass. Ryker reached across the table and took her hand, gently caressing her knuckles with his thumb. She looked into his eyes and felt some of the weight she’d been carrying around on her back begin to lift. That was another of his many talents.

“We’re going to get you through this,” he said.

“He’s got the Dispatch on his side. That woman—Kyra Foster—popped up after I talked to him and grilled me. It’s clear she was putting me on the spot on his behalf,” she told him.

“Nobody takes the Dispatch seriously. Not for hard news anyway,” Ryker said. “And they sure as hell don’t form their political opinions based on anything they read in that rag—the same rag that once printed an in-depth exposé on the Bigfoot problem around town.”

Spenser covered her mouth as a laugh exploded from her mouth. “Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack,” he replied. “It was some years back but I’m pretty sure that shot what little credibility they had left. Now, people like to read it for the laughs.”

They shared another laugh, but Spenser’s good humor soon faded. She looked down at the table, doing her best to stave off the feelings of doom that were wrapping themselves around her like an anaconda that was starting to squeeze so tight, she was having a hard time breathing.

“I feel like I’m already behind,” Spenser said.

“Have you seen any polling?”

“Well… no.”

“Then you can’t know you’re behind.”

“But I feel like I am.”

“You’re not.”

“I will be if the Foster woman runs pro-Johansen stories,” Spenser countered. “And even more so if she runs that hit piece about Derrick she was alluding to. She’s trying to make it seem like I framed him or something. I can’t beat the perception people will have of me if she makes me corrupt or part of some grand conspiracy to put an innocent man in prison.”

“Then you need to go on the offensive—which I’m a fan of, by the way. I’ve never been one who enjoys sitting back and simply reacting to what comes my way. I say throw the first punch. Bloody your opponent before they have a chance to bloody you,” Ryker said.

“Hit him with what, though? As far as I can tell, the guy is squeaky clean.”

Ryker scoffed. “Nobody is squeaky clean. And guys in Johansen’s privileged position are even less clean than most. There’s dirt on him out there to be found.”

Spenser’s lips curled down. “I don’t like politics at all. You know that. But I like dirty, mudslinging politics even less.”

“He’s dragging you through the mud, Spenser. If you want to beat him, you have to be willing to get down into the gutter with him.”

“I don’t know that I’m comfortable with that.”

“I know you’re not. But if you let him bloody you up without responding, it will make you seem weak. And that will be a problem for you. But if you go on the attack and knock him down a few times, that’s going to help.”

Spenser drained the last of her wine and set the glass back down gently, a dark melancholy settling down over her as she contemplated the idea of getting down into the mud with Johansen.

“I hate having to think about winning that way.”

“I know you do. Because you’re a good person,” Ryker said softly. “But Johansen is not. And this town can’t afford to have him doing your job. Which means you need to be willing to get into the ring and throw some blows.”

Spenser sighed and shook her head. “Honestly, I wouldn’t even know where to start. Where does one go to get dirt on somebody? I can’t imagine that’s something you can get off Amazon.”

Ryker flashed her a devious grin. “Let me handle that. I might have a guy.”

“I don’t know—”

“It’s necessary, Spenser. If for nothing else, you can use it as private leverage,” he said. “If we find something good, you might be able to make a deal with him—you won’t release it if he drops out. Something like that.”

“That’s brutal.”

“That’s politics,” he said. “And I’m sure you find it abhorrent, but your office is inherently political. So, you’re going to have to learn to embrace it.”

Spenser ran the tip of her finger around the rim of her empty wine glass, staring at the small puddle of dark purple liquid sitting in the bottom as she thought about what Ryker had said. It was distasteful, but her position was inherently political. That didn’t mean she had to like it, though. And as she sat there staring at her empty wine glass, Spenser felt her cheeks flush, no doubt reddening as a thought popped into her brain.

“What is it?” Ryker asked.

“Nothing. It’s just… I guess there’s some small part of me that thought people would be so impressed with me that nobody would run against me.”

“Well, to be fair, nobody in town has. Johansen’s not even from town.”

“No, but he’s buying a house here so he can claim residency.”

“Exactly. He’s carpetbagging. And nobody likes a carpetbagger,” Ryker said. “Trust me, I’m going to do some digging and I’ll let you know what I find. And I will find something. I promise you that nobody like Johansen gets to where they are without some skeletons in their closet. I know it makes you uncomfortable, but I’m going to find what’s in his boneyard.”

“You really are too good to me,” she said.

“I know. But you’re easy to be good to,” he chirped brightly. “Just relax. We’ve got you. We are not going to let you lose this election. I promise you.”

Spenser kissed him on the cheek. Though he’d managed to help make her feel lighter about things, not even Ryker and his magically soothing ways couldkeep all the darkness around her at bay. She’d have been lying if she said she wasn’t worried about Rafe Johansen. Especially because she knew that while she was going to be looking for dirt on him, he’d be looking for dirt on her.

And Spenser feared she had more skeletons in her closet than he had in his. She was terrified of what he might find when he went digging.

With the town’s annual Strawberry Festival in full swing, the sound of music filled the air. It blended the animated conversations and laughter of the festivalgoers, and the divine aroma of strawberries prepared in a thousand different ways, creating a light, festive atmosphere. Spenser closed her eyes and breathed in the fragrance of strawberry shortcakes, sheet cakes, donuts, jams, and the host of other pastries vying for the blue ribbon and the bragging rights that went with it in the bake-off.

“Wow. That look on your face is so indecent, it’s making me blush,” she said. “You must really enjoy strawberries. Like, a lot.”

Spenser opened her eyes to see Amanda Young, her second-in-command, standing there with a sly grin on her heart-shaped lips. A couple of inches shorter than Spenser, Amanda was lean and had a lithe, dancer’s physique. With ash-blonde hair pulled back into a braid that fell to the middle of her back and jade-colored eyes that always seemed to sparkle mischievously, she was in many ways, the yin to Spenser’s yang.

“I do. Strawberries are one of my favorite things.”

“Clearly.”

“Shut it,” Spenser said with a laugh.