“I know, right?” I say. “How can summer possibly be on its way with weather like this?” I look to the men by my side, but neither of them is paying attention. Instead, they’re both intently staring at something across the street, in the exact direction of the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery.
“What is it?” I ask, following their gazes.
The soft glow of the refrigerated pastry shelves gives the storefront a cozy, welcoming appeal. Through the rain-speckled windows, I can see the silhouettes of my display cases, the bistro tables, the chalkboard menu on the wall. And it feels like home.
Everett and Noah exchange a glance and they both look fit to kill.
“What?” Isquawk. “What is it?”
I scan the perimeter, checking for anything out of place. The flower boxes look fine. The windows are intact. The door is?—
My eyes land on my white bakery van parked at the curb, and I gasp.
Spray-painted across the side in large, red letters dripping like blood, it readsSNITCHES GET STITCHES.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” I cover my face with my hands.
“The Pickens kids strike again,” Noah says, his voice flat and dangerous.
“The Pickens kids,” Everett confirms, and his tone suggests someone is about to regret every life choice that led them to this moment.
As we drive through the rain-soaked streets toward home, I can’t help but think that somewhere out there, a killer is sleeping peacefully, thinking they got away with murder.
And somewhere else, a bunch of teenage boys are probably high-fiving each other over spray-painting my van.
Tomorrow, we’re dealing with both.
Tonight, I’m going home, putting on dry pajamas, and snuggling with my cats, my kids, and my husband.
We drive home as the storm moves in full force, rain pelting our windshield as if it were trying to break in. Everett slows down as we pass the Pickens house, and we see the oddest sight—all four of the Pickens children bobbing up one by one past the side gate as they jump on the trampoline in their backyard, completely soaked, laughing and hollering into the storm.
At nine-thirty at night, in a downpour, with no adult in sight.
“Unsupervised or under-supervised?” I ask.
Noah shakes his head. “At this point, it’s the same thing.”
Everett nods slowly. “The sight of that alone tells us everything we need to know.”
We drive on, leaving the Pickens house and its feral occupantsbehind, heading home to where our own kids are warm and dry and tucked safely into bed.
If Honey Hollow wants a war—between murderers and miniature vandals—it just picked the wrong mom to mess with.
NOAH
It’s ten o’clock the next morning, and I’m sitting at my desk at the Ashford County Sheriff’s Department, staring at two separate case files and wondering which one is going to make me lose my mind first.
Toby sits sprawled under my desk with his head on my foot, occasionally giving a deep sigh as if he, too, is carrying the weight of unsolved crimes and teenage delinquency. I decided to bring him along so he wasn’t cooped up in the house all day. Instead, we’ll both be cooped up in my office all day. I guess misery likes company.
The precinct smells like burned coffee and copy machines. I’ve got a box of donuts, six down from a dozen, that I picked up from Lottie’s earlier, and I’d much rather munch on those than deal with what I have to face.
My office is small. Gray walls, gray desk, gray filing cabinets. One window that looks out onto the parking lot.
A framed photo of Lottie and Lyla Nell sits on my desk. Lyla Nell is making a face at the camera with her tongue out, completely being herself. It makes me smile every time I look at it.
But right now, I’m not smiling.
Case file number one is Vivienne Pemberton-Clarke. Murdered with a cast-iron skillet at her own garden party. Three strong suspects—Dolly Hatchett, Gigi Wentworth-Crane, and someone we haven’t identified yet, who was paying Vivienne hush money. The affair angle points somewhere, but we don’t have enough to narrow it down.
