Lyla Nell screams bloody murder. “LOTTIE LEMON, GIVE THEM BACK! YOU SHARE RIGHT NOW!”
But Lottie’s already collecting all five pieces of Bernard Thornbury, holding the box out of reach from tiny,grasping hands.
“I guess Midge can finally tell him he’s as dumb as a box of rocks,” Carlotta says. “Though in this case, he literally is a box of rocks, so the joke writes itself.”
I bite back a laugh despite the absurdity.
Everett tips his head. “That man handled the accounting for half the organizations in town.”
“You’re fun at parties,” I tell him.
Lyla Nell is still crying, reaching for the box, and Lottie is trying to explain why we don’t eat dead people while her mother’s voice continues from the phone, listing increasingly bizarre options for posthumous transformations.
Everett catches my eye. We both stand, moving to the kitchen where it’s marginally quieter.
“We need to handle the Pickens situation,” he says quietly.
“Agreed. I’m following up with the DA’s office tomorrow. Pushing for them to actually prosecute instead of letting it slide.”
“And I’ll make some calls. See if we can’t make Daryl’s life a little more complicated legally.” Everett’s smile is cold. “Nothing unethical. Just thorough.”
“I like thorough.”
We shake on it. A silent pact between two men who love the same woman and will burn down the world to keep her and her children safe.
I head back to the living room, give Toby a pat, and crouch down to Lyla Nell’s level. She’s stopped crying, now glaring at the blue velvet box like it personally betrayed her.
I kiss her forehead, and she immediately wraps her little arms around my neck.
“I love you, baby girl,” I tell her.
“Love you, Daddy.” She pats my cheek with one sticky hand. “No more rocks?”
“No more rocks,” I confirm.
“Kay.” She releases me and toddles back to Pancake, who’s currently pretending she doesn’t exist.
I kiss Lottie on the forehead next—quick and casual, a gesture that’s become muscle memory over the years. Her skin is warm, and she smells like vanilla, and I have to physically force myself not to linger.
“Night, Lottie,” I murmur.
“Night, Noah.”
Outside, the spring night has turned cold, so cold that it settles in your bones and whispers that winter isn’t quite done yet. Toby trots beside me as we cross the street to my cabin, and I can’t shake the chill that has nothing to do with temperature.
Murder leaves a stain on a town. I’ve seen it before. And somewhere out there, someone’s walking around thinking they got away with killing Vivienne Pemberton-Clarke.
They’re wrong.
The night air smells like regret and mistakes people think they’ve buried deep enough that no one will find them.
But I’m good at digging.
And I always find what I’m looking for. That is, if I can outpace the best detective in all of Vermont—Lottie Lemon.
EVERETT
I’m in the shower thinking about the Richardson case I need to rule on this morning—a straightforward contract dispute that should be wrapped up by noon—but my mind keeps drifting back to the Pickens family.
