It’s just the cold wind. I mulishly wipe at them with a gloved hand.
On the cold, snowy street, I feel about as lonely as I ever have.
That was how Taylor Grace got me. Josie and I used to be best friends—we still are—but she got a handsome, rich boyfriend, then got married, then had a baby, and I barely texted her anymore, let alone saw her. Taylor Grace had been on theperiphery of my social circle for years. She seemed fun and cool, and when Josie had less and less time for me, I started hanging out with Taylor Grace.
It was like we were kindred spirits. Friendship soulmates. We liked the same music and loved baking and the town of Harrogate.
In hindsight, she was just toxic and pretending to be my friend. I ignored all the little criticisms, the digs about my weight, about my family.
She would always tell me to stop texting Josie so much, to stop asking her to hang out, that I was annoying her, that I was bothering her. Then she would hug me and say, “But don’t worry, we’re best friends.”
As if.
I never should have gone into business with her. We didn’t have a formal contract, so I thought I was protected. But Taylor Grace is bad-mouthing me around town, saying I stole her business.
Too bad she wasn’t the one who died.
“Now that’s an awful thing to think,” I scold myself as I head back into the Christmas market.
People are staring at me.
“What the—”
“You’re the murderer!” several tween girls scream dramatically and run away.
A couple of the maintenance staff from the city give me odd looks.
“What?” I snap at one of them.
“Is that you on the poster?” he blurts.
“The—” I whirl around.
On a stall, a flyer is tacked up.
WANTED: MURDERER!
Do NOT patronize the Jingle Bites Café, or you are supporting a MURDERER!!!!
“Is there really a warrant out for your arrest?”
“Is this reward real?”
I tear down the poster.
“No. It’s not.”
Taylor fucking Grace.
I need to find the killer stat. But I don’t have any clues. The police are useless. Well, actually… I do have one clue. The earring is where I left it at the bottom of the cash drawer. I pocket it as several people approach the stall.
“Do you have cookies left?” one tourist asks. “The ones from Instagram?”
I hate Christmas.
“Of course!” I am really digging deep to sound cheery.
“I need two of them. The prettiest ones.”
