My planner is open to a two-page spread titled “Halloween Takeover and Other Semi-Legal Adventures.” Half the page is filled with sticky notes and a doodle of a bat in a witch hat. The other half? My murder notes. Clues. Suspects. A tiny sketch of a rolling pin with the wordsweapon of choice?circled three times.
At the front of the bakery, Fish and Chip are sitting on a literal velvet throne. Guests fawn over them like they’re feline royalty, which honestly isn’t far off. Fish looks bored and vaguely offended. Chip is eating it up like he thinks it comes with free tuna.
If I have to pose with one more screaming toddler, I’m peeing on your planner,Fish mutters.
Do it,Chip says.I’ll back you up. Riot at dawn.
The door swings open in a hurricane of energy and whipped cream perfume.
McKenna and Riley barrel through like they’re fleeing campus security, dragging behind them a girl whose eyes look suspiciously familiar.
McKenna and Riley would be my sweet baby girls. Only they’re not babies, they’re grown college women who happen to share my addiction to caffeine and have an affinity for winged eyeliner.
McKenna, my diplomatic daughter with autumn-red hair and peace negotiation skills, spots me instantly. Riley, my other daughter, fellow redhead, and the human equivalent of a tactical nuclear weapon with better hair, waves with enough enthusiasm to generate renewable energy. They get the red locks from me—also the hyperactive imaginations and tendencies to run after bad boys from me as well.
The mystery girl hangs back with polite uncertainty. Dark hair catches the morning light, and those bright blue eyes have that quality that makes you wonder whereyou’ve seen them before, probably on someone significantly more attractive than your current reflection suggests you’ll ever be.
“Mom!” McKenna calls, navigating tables with gazelle-like grace. “Emergency fashion consultation and business meeting!”
“Plus, gossip that could power the entire East Coast,” Riley adds, because Riley never met a dramatic statement she couldn’t amplify.
They descend on my table like sorority sisters planning a social media revolution, and Mystery Girl approaches with the careful steps of someone who’s been involuntarily drafted into family chaos.
“Ladies,” I say, closing my murder board because introducing college students to homicide investigation techniques probably violates several maternal guidelines, and maybe a few collegiate ones, too. “What brings this caffeinated invasion to my peaceful day?”
“We’re here to rescue your social life,” Riley announces, claiming a chair with the authority of a college student staging a friendly takeover. “And maybe revolutionize your business model while we’re at it.”
“Also,” McKenna adds with perfect poise, “meet Emma Drake. You know—your boyfriend’s daughter.”
I gasp as she says it.
Mystery Girl steps forward, and those familiar eyes click into place like puzzle pieces. “Hi, Ms. Janglewood. I’m Emma. You’re dating my dad.”
I pause mid-sip and gasp again. “I am?”
All three daughters nod with the synchronized certainty of backup dancers.
“Fascinating,” I muse, because apparently, my romantic status gets decided by committee now, and I so approve. “The mom is always the last to know. If only Detective Dreamboat could get a memo and pick up the obvious clues.”
The truth is, Dexter and I exist in some undefined relationshiplimbo. We’re not dating. We’re notnotdating. We’re two people who bonded over a corpse and kissed like the world was ending after catching a killer. Standard romantic comedy material, except with more actual felonies and fewer meet-cute scenarios. Guns and bullets were involved. It was a whole thing.
“Anyway,” Emma continues, sliding into the remaining chair with the inherited take-charge confidence I’ve seen before in her father. “I have ideas about your Halloween expansion.”
“It’s September,” I point out.
Emma shakes her head with the patience of someone explaining basic economics to a particularly slow toddler. “Theme parks launch Halloween in August. You know that magical kingdom in Florida where a couple of mice run the show? They’ve been doing this since before the internet existed. You’re basically behind schedule, and every day you wait is money walking out the door.”
She produces her phone with the efficiency of someone whose generation emerged from the womb with smartphones pre-installed. “I’ve got ideas. College partnership programs, extended Halloween season through November, holiday transition packages that eliminate the dead zone between Halloween and Christmas.”
I stare at her. “You’re hired.”
“I’m a business major at Brambleberry Bay University,” she continues, gesturing toward my daughters. “Same school as McKenna and Riley. I’m happy to offer my newly acquired expertise for free.”
“Free?” I echo, because nothing good comes free, especially from college students who should be learning that money doesn’t grow on student loan trees.
“Absolutely,” she says with the emphatic enthusiasm that lets me know I won’t be paying her a dime. “Real-world experience beats theoretical knowledge. Consider it an internship with profit-sharingpotential.”
“Done and done,” I say. “Now go get yourself some coffee and a sweet treat on the house.”
