Page 15 of The White Picket Fence

“I’ll send it over as soon as I’m finished with it,” Tino promised. He ended the call and closed his eyes. He’d had an early flight and needed a nap.

CHAPTER3

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Tuesday, March 29, 3:45 p.m.

Dammit.Dottie’s little window garden was destroyed.

Charlotte stood in front of her aunt’s rowhouse, staring in dismay at the mangled window box. Last week it had been filled with at least five different kinds of daffodils, with impatiens and sweet peas mixed in. It was a delicate cacophony of color, and Dottie had been so proud of it.

Now, it was ruined. The flowers had been ripped out and lay strewn on the ground.

Who would have done such a thing? Dottie had suffered enough without this.

Charlotte pulled out her phone and snapped a photo of the mess. She wasn’t sure who she’d show it to or what they might do about it. But if the cops had done this when they were processing the crime scene, she was going to have words with them. This mess was inexcusable.

She’d worked herself up a head of angry steam when the sound of a closing door had her whipping her gaze to the right, her heart leaping into her throat.

Her aunt had been viciously beaten here in her home where she should have been safe. It had triggered Charlotte’s memories of her own attack. Also in her home. Also where she should have been safe.

It can’t be him. He’s in prison.

Please let him still be in prison.

Please, please, please.

It took a moment for her panic to subside, for her to see the woman standing on the stoop next door.

“Mrs. Murphy.” Aunt Dottie’s best friend and sometimes nemesis—but only when it came to flowers. The two had been neighbors for more than forty years and kept their window box competition in the friendly zone. Mostly.

Mrs. Murphy was frowning, her concern clear. “Charlie, child, are you all right?”

“Yes,” Charlotte said, forcing a smile that felt as fake as it was. “What happened to Dottie’s flowers? Did the cops do this?”

“Oh no. Not the cops.” Mrs. Murphy slowly shuffled sideways down her front stairs using her walker, her arthritis visibly worse than it had been just last week. She was in an obvious flare-up.

Charlotte knew just the food she’d make for her aunt’s best friend. She had a recipe for a fish dish that had all kinds of good anti-inflammatory properties. And berries for dessert. Berries were also good for reducing inflammation, and she knew dozens of ways to prepare them. Hundreds of ways.

She was no longer a professional chef, but she still loved to cook.

Maybe she could cook for Tino.

And...no. She was not even considering it.

But you’re friends again. Friends cook for friends.If she cooked for him, maybe he’d call her Charlie again.

No, she thought firmly.Not gonna happen.It was cruel to Tino for her to expect it and cruel to herself to hope for it. They’d be friends. Nothing more.

She brought her mind back to the conversation at hand, shoving Tino Ciccotelli out of her thoughts. She had a lot of practice doing so. She’d been shoving Tino out of her thoughts since the day she’d walked away from him.

“If it wasn’t the cops, then who did this?” Charlotte gestured to the ruined window box. “Was it those teenagers from up the block?”

“No, it wasn’t the kids. I don’t know who it was, but I saw him.” Mrs. Murphy finally reached her side and scowled at the flowers on the ground.

Charlotte froze. “Him?”

The older woman met her gaze. “It was a man wearing a gray hoodie. Didn’t see his face. He was trying to break the window, trying to get inside the house, I guess. My son put a stronger lock on the doors and windows after Dottie was...” She swallowed audibly. “After she was hurt. Put stronger locks on my doors and windows, too.”

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