Just before dinner, Cassie arrives with a plate of cookies swimming in green icing and a grin that fills the room.
I keep my post at the counter, allowing the girls their space and listening as Cassie explains why the icing is green. They start swapping stories of job horrors. Cassie tells a story of a student who ate glitter on a bet, and Milly tells Cassie about Nancy and her glass office. Their laughter rises and falls in easy sync. It’s natural, unforced. Something I want but can’t let myself reach for.
Then Milly says it, testing the words. “Maybe I could start a little clinic. Just for fun. Like a little pop-up. People here must need a vet, right?”
Cassie’s eyes light up. “Yes. A pop-up would be fun. I can bring some kids from the school clubs; you know, extra credit and stuff. They can man the lemonade stand, and the art club or the theater arts club can design the flyers. I’m already in. I can even talk to the principal, see if she has any ideas.”
Milly beams, her cheeks pink. I make a note of Milly’s excitement silently because Penny would want me to. She’d want Milly to find her place here among the town and make friends.
Later, after Cassie leaves, Milly lingers at the porch railing. She watches the chickens scratch in the dirt. Sherlock is perchedlike a sentry on the tractor again. He’s like Houdini. Milly glances my way.
“It’s… a lot. All of this. And you, here, doing numbers for a house that probably hasn’t balanced a budget since Reagan was president. Don’t you ever wonder why Penny picked you?”
Her tone is light, but I couldn’t tell her the truth—not all of it, at least.
“We’d met Penny a few times and had some mutual business associates. She was always so animated. You’re a lot like her, you know? You both have a passion for life and adventure. Maybe she chose me because she knew I’d help bring balance to the chaos she left behind,” I say simply. Not a lie, but not the whole truth either, hopefully a happy medium. She nods, though she doesn’t look too convinced.
She drifts toward the barn a few minutes later. I follow at a distance and pause at the threshold. The air is thick with hay, leather, and the steady breath of horses in their stalls.
A black gelding nudges my shoulder. For a second, I’m ten again on a farm in the countryside, my horse trotting too fast while the trainer tells me to tighten the reins and push my heels down. It’s a memory I’d shoved into the recesses of my mind. I skinned my knees when I fell off that day.
Milly strokes a mare’s neck, her laughter low and threaded with comfort. She’s known this world longer than she remembers.
When she finally heads back inside, I circle the yard. That’s when I see them: muddy boot prints by the shed. Fresh. Not a woman’s shoe. A man’s boot, size 12. The gate latch wasn’t locked. They weren’t professionals. This was sloppy.
I crouch, phone in hand, and take two photos: one close, one wide. Documentation is key.
Through the kitchen window, Milly’s shadow passes, unaware of the dangers outside. She’s finding her place here. I’m finding security breaches.
And I can’t tell her why.
The wood in the house creaks, as if Penny herself is still pacing the halls. Upstairs, Milly’s footsteps cross her room. A drawer slides open, then shuts. The faint hum of her voice drifts down, a tune half-remembered, much like the song in the piano.
I make my final sweep of the house. Porch lights on. Deadbolt set. Windows latched. Each check goes in the notebook, columned and timed, as natural as breathing. The list grows longer: muddy prints, unlocked gate, missing wrench from the shed. Alone, none of it screams danger. Together, they whisper trouble.
Back in my room, I sit on the edge of the bed and let the day fall off me, piece by piece. My boots line up by the wall, my watch sits on the dresser, the notebook closed. I should be at ease. The perimeter is secure, the house quiet. But my thoughts don’t stop.
Her laugh. The image of me brushing flour from her cheek this morning, our eyes meeting. She’d been flushed. Most people hate the spotlight when they’re off-balance. Not Milly. She faces the world head-on, even when it knocks her down.
That openness is dangerous. Every instinct I’ve built tells me to stay detached, stay sharp. Protect her from a distance. And yet, I linger in her orbit, taking in more than I should.
I stretch out on the bed and turn toward the window. Outside, Sherlock stands by the tractor, his favorite spot, ears flicking, a shadow against the moonlight. His presence is oddly reassuring, Milly’s own guard already on duty.
Chapter 7
The Volunteer Vet Pop-up
Milly
In bold letters, I wrote “Vet Pop-Up!”on a pink sticky note and placed it on my mirror. Now it glared at me. I’d underlined it twice. Pulling my hair into something that was supposed to be a braid, ten minutes later, I was ready.
Three outfit changes later, I landed on jeans instead of scrubs. Scrubs seemed too stuffy, and slacks were impractical. I paired them with a scrub top for functionality and called it good. Pumpernickel’s cage sat by the door. I thought I’d take him with me just for show.
By the time I padded downstairs, I was humming under my breath to distract from the jackhammer of my heart. The kitchen smelled of coffee, dark and strong, and there he was: Austin, already at the counter, sleeves rolled up, pen tapping against a small notebook. His morning checklist, as always.
“You’re up early,” I said, aiming for casual. It came out squeaky.
He glanced up, and instead of the brisk nod I braced for, his mouth softened into something dangerously close to an actual smile. He slid a mug across the counter toward me. “Are you ready to wow them and show them what the real Milly Thomas is all about?”
