Page 73 of Unpacking Secrets

“When I first saw Nan’s sketch, I had a vague feeling of familiarity,” I replied, though Henry also shook his head. “But then it evaporated, so I thought maybe I imagined it. Doyourecognize him?”

Chief Roberts slowly cocked his head to one side, then the other. “I’m not sure. I should get this to a bigger department. The county sheriff’s office has a sketch artist they call in sometimes. Maybe he could do up a picture, age it by about thirty years—unless you want to give it a go?”

I blew out a breath. “I’ll take a picture of it so you can keep this copy. You should see if a professional can take a crack at it, but in the meantime, I’ll try. I can’t promise I’ll be able to do it justice, though. Portraits aren’t my specialty.”

The chief promised us he’d have a patrol car outside Henry’s house and another cruising by the inn at regular intervals, then suggested we go home and get some rest. None of it made me feel any less unsettled by this short visit, especially after letting the image of Heller’s face take up so much space in my brain.

“This is an unusual situation for a place like Spruce Hill,” Chief Roberts said somewhat apologetically, “but it’s our top priority right now to get to the bottom of this.”

Henry and I shook his proffered hand, then Hanson’s, and left the station. The sunshine felt almost like an insult in light of my current mood.

Once we were seated in the truck, Henry asked, “Do you want to take Libby up on the underwear shopping offer? Not that I have a problem with you going commando, but if you want a dose of normal, I know she’d be happy to take you.”

I grinned at his comment but shook my head. “I think I’d like to just go home and play with this sketch, if you don’t mind.”

I didn’t miss the warm glow of pleasure in Henry’s eyes when I referred to his house ashome. At least, I assumed that was the reason for it, since I hadn’t said anything else to warrant such an expression or the resultant rush of emotion along my limbs.

The memory of my own home engulfed in flames dampened it immediately, but I let the curl of belonging twine through me anyway.

“Home it is,” he replied.

As he shifted the truck into gear, my heart whispered the word again.

Home.

Twenty-Nine

Henry

Julietstayeduncharacteristicallyquietduring the ride back to my house, but I resisted the urge to ask how she was doing, recognizing how idiotic it would sound. Her pain was palpable, coursing through my veins as surely as my own blood. As soon as we walked inside, she pulled the sketchbook from Libby out of its bag near the door and settled down at the kitchen table with her phone displaying the drawing from the station.

I kissed the top of her head and moved to the living room sofa to give her some space.

Muffled curses punctuated the silence, along with the occasional sound of paper crumpling. I fielded texts from not only Libby and Mark, but from my brother as well, who’d apparently been roped in and updated on the entire situation.

I wasn’t sure whether my grandfather or my ex was to blame for that development, but I appreciated Aaron’s concern, nonetheless. The more people looking out for Juliet, the better.

The inn was safe in the immensely capable hands of Mrs. Gregson, Sally, and Gramps, who were all shaken up after the fire but assured me they’d feel better if I stuck close to Juliet instead of coming in to help. They would hold down the fort as long as necessary, knowing one of their own was grieving.

Juliet was family—it hadn’t taken long for them to recognize that, certainly less time than it had taken me. I had only my own stubborn pride to blame for that. The irony of my appreciation for her acceptance into the Lakeside Inn family didn’t escape me, given that it was a source of annoyance for me before Juliet’s arrival.

Now, I was simply grateful.

It was only a matter of time before my parents started blowing up my phone, too, now that my brother knew what was going on. I wondered if Juliet had updated her friend from Minnesota about any of this. If telling Sarah about her fall could have resulted in her friend rushing to her side, Juliet was probably even more hesitant to mention the fire.

Or the serial killer who could also be her father.

As far as I was concerned, she was much too used to fending for herself. Hopefully, with time, she’d come to accept the support of the people who loved her.

The doorbell rang and the scratch of Juliet’s pencil abruptly halted. I glanced out through the glass pane at the top of the door, grinning despite the hell of the past eighteen hours, and swung the door open.

“Thought you might need a hearty meal,” Sally said, shoving a wicker picnic basket into my hands, followed by a bottle of wine.

I stared down at them, so moved I had to take a moment to just breathe, which drew the scent of Sally’s signature roast chicken into my lungs. After everything, all the ways I’d fucked up from the moment Juliet got to town, family—this family,ourfamily—kept showing up for both of us.

“Thank you,” I finally managed, just as Juliet slipped around me to greet the chef with a hug.

“Can’t be living off pizza like you usually do.” Sally’s voice was gruffer than usual and a light sheen of tears glazed her eyes. “There’s some things in there from Mrs. Gregson. Trinkets and photos Nan brought over from the cottage to keep in her office back when she was spending more time at the inn.”

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