“The lab is still running samples from it. It was the last thing Larry ate. And he did have a system full of toxins. We should know soon enough. But the corn pudding wasn’t the only thing Larry ate that day. He sampled food from multiple vendors. The killer could have contaminated anything—a napkin, a spoon, even the air around him if they were clever enough.”
I frown, watching fireflies dance over the water. “You’re saying Julia stands a chance at innocence?”
“I’m saying we shouldn’t assume the most obvious suspect is always the right one,” Cooper replies. “Sometimes the best killers are the ones who make sure someone else looks guilty.”
Cooper reaches across the table and takes my hand, his fingers warm and a little rough, and just like that, I forget about murder and start thinking about far more interesting activities.
“You’ve done good work, Detective Canelli.”
“Detective Canelli,” I repeat, liking the sound of that more than I should. “It has a nice ring to it. Sounds official. Maybe I should get a badge.”
“Better than your current job title,” he says with a wicked grin that suggests I’m about to make a series of deeply delicious decisions.
Before I can ask what he means by that—because Cooper and I maintain a very careful policy of willful ignorance about my employment with Uncle Jimmy that allows our relationship to function without anyone getting arrested or shot—he leansacross the table and kisses me with an intensity that makes the lakeside evening disappear into background noise.
The kiss tastes like Italian seasoning and promises, with an undertone of danger that has nothing to do with the murder investigation.
Cooper’s hand finds the back of my neck, and my brain forgets how to form coherent thoughts—or why I was worried about anything in the first place.
When we break apart, a practice run of fireworks goes off over the lake, reflecting in the water like they’re showing off. Red, white, and blue light up the dark, and for a second, everything feels perfect and uncomplicated.
Which is probably a red flag.
“Tomorrow is the Fourth,” Cooper murmurs against my lips.
“Tomorrowisthe Fourth,” I groan, though my mind is already spinning through all the ways this is about to go sideways.
Tomorrow, I need to help Lottie win a booth decorating contest while assassinating the judge who happens to be Watson’s new best friend.
Tomorrow, I need to figure out which of my three suspects actually killed Larry Rocket before they kill someone else or pin it on me.
Tomorrow, families will gather around this very lake to celebrate freedom and independence while I juggle my double life as baker and killer, dog mom and someone who really needs a better life plan.
Watson barks once at a particularly spectacular firework, then settles back at our feet, perfectly content as long as we’re nearby—even if we occasionally discuss murder over Italian sandwiches.
I look out over the lake, fireworks already reflecting off the water, and it hits me that tomorrow I’ll be celebrating America’sindependence while trying to solve a murder—and possibly commit one.
Pretty sure that’s not what the Founding Fathers had in mind.
Happy Fourth of July.
I’m out here hunting a killer and possibly being one.
Land of the free, home of the brave… and apparently, the morally complicated.
CHAPTER 19
The Fourth of July at Honey Lake looks like America threw a party and invited every patriotic decoration ever manufactured, then deep-fried the whole thing.
It’s late afternoon, and the festival is in full swing. By the looks of it, all of Vermont showed up.
The lake sparkles under the July sun, crowded with boats of every size—pontoons draped in bunting, kayaks with tiny American flags stuck everywhere, and one fishing boat that looks like it lost a bet and had to dress up as Uncle Sam’s birthday cake.
The air is alive with the sounds of summer—loud enough to wake the dead. Kids shriek with sugar-fueled joy as if they’ve been mainlining cotton candy. Baseball bats crack from impromptu games on every patch of grass.
Speakers blast everything from “Born in the U.S.A.” to what sounds like a mariachi version of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” while boat engines hum and swimmers splash as if the lake is the only thing standing between them and spontaneous combustion.
The smells are even better—charcoal grills pumping out enough smoke to take down half of Vermont, kettle corn youcan practically taste from fifty yards away, and funnel cake mixing with sunscreen and that unmistakable festival scent—part excitement, part sugar, and part barely controlled chaos with a strong chance of heatstroke.
