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“But seriously,” I say. “We could really have something here. I’ve got some solid leads in my in-box.”

“Oohhhh . . . and I’ve got a voice mail from the sheriff,” Bristal says, holding up her phone to show me. “Do you think they want to deputize me, or arrest me?”

“Maybe both,” I tell her, my heartbeat rising. “Dude, this could be the real thing. We might have cracked a cold case.”

“Cool,” she says nonchalantly. “Too bad there’s no reward money.”

“No,” I agree. “But the real reward is in—”

“Justice, blah-blah,” Bristal says, rolling up her window. “And admittance to Ivy Leagues.”

“Or in listens,” I tell her. “If we actually manage to see this through . . .”

I’m so excited I have to break off, visions of exploding download numbers and guest appearances on big-time true-crime podcasts. On the Ground in Flyover Country could become the podcast overnight, which we might be able to monetize to help pay the hefty Harvard tuition fee—if, of course, that’s where I decide to go. If the podcast goes big, everyone is going to want me—and if I play my cards right, losing my college savings won’t be a roadblock.

I flip on my blinker, turning left to head out of town to the county dog pound. “The only thing I want to do right now is tear through my phone and start taking notes, but we’ve got to finish out this series about the long stretch, and it would be a disservice to Linda Chance if we didn’t give the flash flood decent coverage.”

“Yep,” Bristal agrees, cracking the window and exhaling vape out into the cold air. “Have you seen our download numbers lately? I think news got out that the Denney lady found Denise Halverson, and everyone knows the podcast is to thank for it. Have you talked to her at all?”

“Denise? No,” I admit. “She sent me a friend request, and I accepted it, but we haven’t talked yet. I mean, I’m not trying to be crass, but—”

“If she’s not dead, she’s not all that interesting and there’s no story,” Bristal finishes for me. “Plus, you’ve already got what you wanted out of this deal. I get it.”

“That makes me sound pretty horrible,” I say, pulling into a slot near the pound’s front door. Dogs run loose in the outdoor play area, noses poked through the fence, hind ends wagging away as Bristal and I get out of the car.

“You are pretty horrible,” Bristal says. “Only you do it on the lowdown, real sly. That’s what I like about you.”

“Thanks, I think?” I say, following her as she heads for the fence and the eager dogs, not the front door.

“Hey, boys and girls,” she says, squatting down and scratching their noses. “Who’s the good girls? Who’s the bad ones? There you go—that one,” she says, pointing at a terrier of some type that is wagging its tail but also showing its teeth to Bristal. “That’s the interesting dog.”

“Hey, ladies,” Linda Chance says, propping the front door. “Glad we could work something out. Your show is all anybody is talking about, and I’ve got a thing or two to say about what went down during the long stretch.”

Linda’s been saying a thing or two—possibly three or four—long before On the Ground in Flyover Country went on the air, but I know she’ll make for a good interview. I’ve seen her opinion pieces in the Hometown Henley Headlines. They are always concise, to the point—and worded to wound.

The three of us settle into her small office, even though there are only two chairs; Bristal climbs onto a stack of dog food bags that are Saran-Wrapped together, her heels dangling inches from the floor.

“So,” Linda says, getting comfortable behind her desk. “Which one of you is in charge of the flash flood episode?”

“I am,” I say. “Is it okay to record you?”

“Of course,” Linda says, moving a framed monogram that reads, “You’re Not Drinking Alone If Your Dog Is Home,” so that I can set my phone in the middle of her desk.

“You were the dog warden in 1994, correct?”

“Yes,” Linda says, nodding her head. “I’d taken on the job a couple of years earlier. People used to joke that I was still wet behind the ears, even after the flood. But I tell them I do have a choke chain and I’ve been known to use it. Just never on a dog.”

“Cool,” Bristal says.

“Tell us about the flash flood, in your own words,” I continue.

“After the tornado went through, everything was just a mess. I know that isn’t news to anybody, but I don’t just mean people’s underwear was lying in the road. Roads were blocked, electricity was out, cars had been tossed around. You couldn’t get anywhere, even if you had somewhere to go. Pretty much everybody just picked a spot as close to where they thought their home had been and started gathering their stuff, and piling it there—anything that was still useful, that is.

“We were told dumpsters were coming in, but we had to wait because two hundred of the three hundred and forty-eight bridges in the county were out of commission, and half the roads had big trees lying across them. A lot of people just started burning what would burn, so we had a couple of little fires break out, too. It was just this godawful, end-of-the-world mess, and add to it about three hundred animals running around loose, lost, scared to death.”

My pen is flying, my journal page filling up. “Is that just dogs? An estimate on cats?”

“I don’t deal in cats,” Linda says. “That’s the Humane Society, but they were filled up to the rafters, too. And I mean that. There were literally cats in their rafters. And people won’t collar a cat like they will a dog. I think only twenty or so of those cats ever got claimed. Of course, they never made the news because they didn’t get flooded out.”