Page 97 of A Secret to Die For

“Or read. We’re planning to put in a bookshelf, more of a little free library, where people can leave their old books and take home a new one.”

Brooke appeared behind me. “Speaking of ‘we,’ did you go on a date with Alex?”

Darla turned coy. “I did.”

“And?”

“A lady never kisses and tells.”

“Oh, so there was kissing?”

“I really should take these cookies out.”

“She’s definitely getting kissed,” Brooke whispered as Darla snatched up the plate and marched off. “Did you see her blush?”

“At least someone’s happy.”

“I’m so sorry. Did you hear anything from Garrett?”

“No, and I don’t want to.”

“What he did was wrong, but he didn’t deliberately set out to hurt you.”

“Please, can we not talk about this?”

“I’m just saying that he clearly still cares. The evidence is sitting in the parking lot.” Brooke stood on tiptoes and looked past me through the break room window. “And leaning against the wall out there.”

I turned to look, and stooge number three raised a hand to wave.

“When will this ever end?”

“Luca and Colt are both working on it, and a bunch of other deputies too. I mean, violent crime is rare around here.”

Apart from when it was committed by the Baldwins, obviously. Plus there was a vigilante who showed up occasionally, although he seemed to be on the side of good rather than evil. Last year, he’d rescued Brooke from a horrible situation, and rumour said he was responsible for saving Colt from impending doom as well.

“Have they ever tackled a case where they knew who was responsible, but they just couldn’t prove it?”

“I’m not sure about that. But I bet you Garrett has a team working on it as well.”

“Because he didn’t learn from his mistakes?”

Brooke grimaced.

The bell over the front door jangled as I finished making the coffee, and I arranged three mugs on a tray for Darla to take out to the parking lot. I wasn’t officially working today, but I was grateful to have a safe place to hide out while the sheriff’s department tried to work a miracle. If I’d been stuck on my own at The Lookout, this situation would have felt a hundred times worse. Perhaps I’d get out my paints later? Dad always said that art was just emotions on paper, and that was another reason I knew he and Mom had been happy. His paintings had been filled with bright colours, a hug in a frame. No stormy skies or moody colours. He’d painted Mom often, but he hadn’t sold those pictures. No, they were tucked away in a safe deposit box, and the key lived around my neck.

Close to my heart.

I was in there too, plus a few self-portraits, sketches of our home, and several watercolours of Mom’s pet bearded dragon. Sir Duster of Dessau had been a gift from her mom for her fifteenth birthday, and I remembered him sitting on my arm when I was four or five years old. He was buried in our old yard in Virginia. Dusty had outlived Grandma Susan by three years, which I thought was why Mom had cried so much when he died. It was like losing another piece of her mother. Maybe someday, if I ever found a place I felt settled enough to stay, I’d adopt a pet of my own.

Darla poked her head into the break room. “It’s for you, hun.”

Tell me Garrett hadn’t… Oh, he hadn’t. Parker appeared, and Brooke picked up the tray.

“I’ll leave you two to talk.”

Great.

Parker leaned against the wall next to the door, hands in his pockets. “How are you doing?”

---