“It could calm my nerves,” he says, collapsing onto the couch.
I pour him a glass from the bottle I keep around for Earl-related emergencies while he piles items from his tote onto the coffee table. He has a magnifying glass, a jar labeled ‘fingerprint powder’, and a shiny badge declaring him a detective. He clips the badge proudly to his shirt.
“What are these?” I ask, handing him the glass.
“Tools of justice,” he replies gravely.
“Noted.”
At least Earl’s theatrics distract me from the boy who vaporized my sanity, though the image slips right back in the moment I stop paying attention.
“So what’s Baywood’s criminal underbelly up to?”
Earl leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“They’re plotting our demise, that’s for sure. Case number one. Someone keeps rearranging Steve’s garden gnomes into ‘positions’.” He air-quotes dramatically, wiggles his eyebrows, and shows me a photo of two ceramic gnomes barely touching.
“So suggestive,” he mutters darkly. “Is gnome-sexuality a thing?”
“I really don’t know, Earl.”
“Case number two.” He pulls out a sticky note covered in looping cursive and reads out loud. “Bread, milk, eggs. Don’t forget toilet rolls!”
“That’s a shopping list,” I point out.
“Or a coded plea for mercy,” Earl counters, eyes haunted. “Don’t get me started on the Mystery of the Disappearing Lawn Flamingos.”
“There was no mystery. Delilah forgot she had donated the flamingos tothe town raffle,” I remind him.
“I think she was pressured. These are troubled times, my friend.”
Despite myself, I smile. The tightness in my chest loosens.
“So what exactly do you want me to do?”
“You’re smart. Handsome. Charismatic. People would confess to you,” Earl says earnestly. “Maija said you have a dominant aura. Together, we can bring down the syndicate before it destroys us all!”
He thrusts the magnifying glass into my hand. I peer through it. The plastic distorts Earl’s face until he looks like a noble, slightly worried goldfish.
“Now, are you more willing to interrogate suspects or dust for fingerprints?” he asks.
I set the magnifying glass down.
“Earl,” I begin, using the tone I reserve for Noah when I need him to listen, “what if I call Steve about the gnomes, and we take it from there?”
Earl exhales in deep, heartfelt relief. “Thank you for taking me seriously.”
“Of course. Meanwhile, could you do me a favor and cut back on crime novels?”
“Why? They give me such delicious goosebumps,” he protests.
“At least let Juniper help you pick,” I suggest. Our kind librarian would make sure Earl doesn’t borrow something that sends him looking for witness protection.
I walk him outside, his detective badge flashing in the porch light.
As soon as I close the door, my thoughts drift back to soft curls and sharp scowls.
Beneath it all, an exquisite certainty blooming in my chest—I’ve found my person.
