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I inhale and nod my understanding, even though I don't understand what's going on at all. "Yeah, I get it. I'll just— Did you get a name or number of who called?"

"It was a guy. We just assumed it was the college kid who helps you sometimes," her husband says.

None of this makes any sense. Jas and I are the only two who handle the bookings and calls. No one else. I rub my forehead hard and try to quell the flood of adrenaline I feel. "It must've been a misunderstanding. I'll talk to him." But I already know Tim isn't responsible for this.

So does that mean Thad is? But how?

"I'm really sorry," Brooke says again, looking visibly upset.

"It's fine. Just a misunderstanding. I'll get out of the way and let you guys get back to the party."

"Take care, Violet," her husband says, heading back to the porch.

Brooke lingers.

"Is everything okay, Vi?"

I lower myself behind the wheel and toss the schedule book aside to go over again later. My entire body is shaking. "Yeah. All good. Have a great party. Tell Connor happy birthday from us and that we have a burger and fries waiting on him whenever he wants it."

I shut the door and fire Betty up, waiting patiently while the adults make sure all the kids are where they should safely be. It gives me time to take a few breaths and try to still the rising tide of anger. Not that it works.

I force myself to take it extra slow as I back Betty into the street. My grip on the wheel is tight and my knuckles ache.

Jas helped prep all the food before I drove Betty to the party, which means I have a bus load of food I need to sell or take the loss on.

My dry eyes burn with fatigue and anger. I booked the party for extra cash since we were still in the offseason, but Jas started her period and was cramping so badly that I'd sent her home to rest.

Now I have to head back to the boardwalk and hope I can find somewhere to set up quickly to recoup what will be another loss. I mourn the hours I should have had to rest before heading into my bartending shift later and resign myself to working an eighteen-hour day.

And then there's the whole "mix-up" and who had called the Richardsons to cancel.

So much for being able to enjoy my happy.

I spend the next few hours hitting up the spots most likely to bring customers, telling myself the goal of the moment is to break even.

I troll the police station and firehouse, then hit the jackpot when I stumble upon a group of UNCW students doing some sort of marine biology class near the pier. Then, as I pass a church lot, I see a group of construction workers emerging from a building and slow long enough to gauge interest.

I hit the break-even point and call it a day, heading back to the house to grab a quick shower before going to the Pelican.

I pull into the driveway and park and yank out my phone to take a picture of the booking schedule. I don't remove it from the bus, because Jas and I have a rule about it staying on board.

That done, I carry the things needing to be washed and sterilized toward the house but pause when I see the screen to my front-facing window on the ground again. I turn and look around but see nothing unusual.

The lot across the way has just sold, but the build hasn't started yet. The homes closest to my parents' are quiet, most of them belonging to younger, working professionals who are gone during the day. Our street is one of the "old" ones where homes aren't crammed together and actually sit on lots with space between them.

And right now, the space creeps me out, so I hurry inside. "Jas? You awake?"

I see Jasmine's head pop up from the other side of the couch. I drop the stuff in my hands in the kitchen before going to where she's propped with a heating pad across her belly. "Any better?"

"Some. What's wrong? When I left, you seemed pretty okay. And where have you been? I thought the birthday party was only two hours?"

I explain what happened and how I went back to try to sell the prepped food, and by the time I finish, Jasmine is fully upright and looking at me with concern.

"Vi…that's weird."

"I know," I admit softly. Reluctantly. Right now, the last thing I want to do is face the truth.

"I don't want to freak you out, but…maybe you should talk to the cops?"