“You’re an accomplice, Willow. And we have a video of you confessing,” the cops explain.
“The police in this town are incompetent!” I screech and rattle the bars.
The worst part? The murderer is long gone with their bloody coat from Gran’s house.
Damien leans over to puke.
“We also,” interjects the police chief, a big, burly man with a bad sunburn and an even worse attitude, “have several witnesses to you wandering the Christmas market, screaming your head off about how your wife was cheating on you and was trying to steal your money.”
“She is trying to steal my money, Uncle! You need to tell Taylor Grace that I started the divorce proceedings. I want a restraining order against her—and the guy she’s cheating on me with.”
“Dr. Merriweather,” I tell the police chief, filling him in.
Damien wrinkles his nose.
The police chief swears. “Well, both of them are dead.”
“Wait, Taylor is actually dead? Like, you’re not just fucking with me? Uncle Ralph, my wife is dead?” Damien sits heavily on the floor.
“Now don’t cry, pet,” one of the elderly women says to him as he buries his face in his hands. “My husband keeled over dead one day in the ’80s, and it was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Chewing on a toothpick, the police chief glares down at Damien, then he grunts. Does he think Damien is innocent? “Willow. Your bail’s been posted. You’re free to go. You cannot,” he warns, “leave town. Can’t believe this shit. I leave town for five days—I have a five-day vacation—and it all goes to shit.”
I follow him out into the chilly lobby.
Hughes wraps me up in a hug. “Are you all right?” He cups my face. “I tried to get you out sooner. They wouldn’t let me, even though Nana said they usually take bribes.”
“Wait, you bailed me out?” My eyes search his.
“The amount they’re charging for bail these days!” His grandmother is horrified.
“They upped it because of the Christmas season.”
“This town is run by the Mafia!” Nana shakes her fist in the direction of the police chief, who looks like he would rather be anywhere but dealing with the general public.
“He sprung you out of jail.” Gran tries to wipe at my face. “You need to let him hit that, girlie. Man puts up that much bailmoney, he should get to open as many Advent calendar doors as he wants. You feel me?” She swats my hip. “Go get ’em.”
“You probably want to go home,” Hughes tells me. He still looks concerned.
“Can’t,” Gran states. “The new Airbnb-ers are there. They want their dog to stay in your shed. You’ll have to stay at Mary Lou’s carriage house.” My grandmother winks at me. “I’m your best wingwoman.”
“I should, um…” After a murder and a night in jail, I really just want a shower, but is that weird? I mean, getting naked with just a door between me and the guy I like seems like a big step to make on no sleep. “I really need to go clean my shop. I need to get it open again. I can’t keep hemorrhaging money.”
“Well, thankfully, Taylor Grace is dead, so you don’t have to.”
There isa small crowd outside my shop when I walk up, Hughes protectively beside me. I pull at the caution tape over the door and step inside. Instead of the smell of freshly baked cookies, it smells like death.
“I don’t think I can do this.” I slump into a chair.
“Let me make you some tea. Peppermint?”
“Black tea. I need some caffeine,” I groan.
The kettle boils.
“Willow,” Hughes says then waits a beat.
“What?”
