Page 87 of Happily Ever After

Cece smiled tiredly. “It doesn’t feel like enough.”

“It never does,” he said. “But we aren’t the only ones gathering names, remember.”

She leaned her head briefly against his shoulder, grateful. “Thank you,” she said.

“For driving?” he teased.

“For everything.”

He kissed her gently. “Anywhere you go knocking on doors, I’ll follow.”

Cece straightened, smiling at that.

Darcy Lane might be disciplined. She might be patient. But she didn’t have a man like Joe on her side.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Essie felt it in her feet before she felt it anywhere else.

The dull ache that came from hours of walking. And hours of stopping, explaining, listening, repeating the same careful phrasing over and over again.

By the time she pulled her golf cart into the driveway, the afternoon sun sat low enough to cast long shadows across the lawn, and all Essie wanted was to sit down for five uninterrupted minutes. Or maybe fifteen. Actually, an hour seemed more reasonable.

She cut the engine and stayed where she was for a moment, hands resting on the steering wheel. Canvassing had been…mixed.

Some doors had opened easily. Familiar faces. Neighbors who nodded along, who understood immediately why vague bylaws were a problem and signed without hesitation. Others had listened politely and declined, saying they didn’t want to get involved or politics made them uncomfortable or falling back on the ridiculous idea that things tended to work themselves out.

They absolutely did not. Essie knew that better than most.

She climbed out of the cart, clipboard in hand, and headed for the front door, suddenly aware of how quiet the house looked. The curtains were open, sunlight slanting into the living room, but there was no movement inside. No shadow pacing near the window. No little woofs of recognition.

Her chest tightened. Maple usually heard her coming and responded.

Essie unlocked the door and stepped inside. “Hello?”

Nothing.

Her tired feet forgotten, she set her bag down slowly and glanced toward the corner where Maple’s bed sat. It was empty. The water bowl was there in the kitchen, half full. The leash was gone from its hook.

Essie left the clipboard on the kitchen counter and moved farther into the house, her heart in her throat.

“Sophie?” she called.

Again, nothing.

She stood in the kitchen, listening. The house made its usual sounds—the faint hum of the refrigerator, the soft tick of the wall clock—but no voices. No movement.

Essie’s pulse picked up. She glanced at the counter and that’s when she saw it.

A folded piece of paper, propped carefully against the fruit bowl. Essie’s name written across the front, neat and deliberate.

She exhaled the breath she’d been holding, reached for it, and read as fast as she could.

Essie,

I took Maple for a walk. Seemed like she needed to go out, and I thought it would be helpful. We’ll be back soon.

S