Page 1 of By the Book

Chapter 1

My phone buzzed with an incoming call—the third one that day.

And, for the third time that day, I hung up on my parents.

It’s not technically hanging up, not without a receiver you can slam into a cradle; I know that. But it sounds more dramatic thanI declined the callorI sent them to voicemail.

Seconds trickled past, and my phone stayed quiet. I let my eyes drift back to the laptop screen.

I was sitting in the den at Hemlock House, which I had turned into my office/writing room/occasional napatorium. By a rare bit of luck, I had the late afternoon all to myself. And I was trying to balance my checkbook.

I mean, I hadn’t written a check in at least a year, so there weren’t a lot of transactions to reconcile. And I was probably missing some obvious piece of information, but I wasn’t even surewhypeople balanced their checkbooks in an age when you had instant, online access to all your account records (including your current balance). But—based on the little I knew about finances—balancing a checkbook seemed to be one way to find money. Or at least that’s what it looked like in TV shows and movies. People would sit at a table with a gingham tablecloth, and they’d have a pen in one hand, a calculator near their elbow, maybe a cup of coffee. They’d go down each line of the register and add numbers and subtract numbers. And voilà—money!

This was part of being the new, responsible, independent Dash, who was a fully functioning adult and who didn’t need anyone to take care of him.

Also, I really, really needed money.

I’d lived in Hastings Rock for over a year now. It had been—even with all the murder and mayhem—the best year of my life. I owned a Class V haunted mansion (okay, that was my own designation, but honestly, Hemlock House was amazing). I had wonderful friends, not counting the time Keme had tried to give me a homemade tattoo with a ballpoint pen. I had met someone I loved more than I’d ever thought possible, and somehow—against all odds—Bobby seemed to love me back. I was even writing again. Well,againwasn’t the most accurate word. I was writingconsistentlyfor the first time in my life.

But one of the things they don’t tell you about owning a Class V haunted mansion is that they’re expensive—expensive to heat, expensive to maintain, and particularly expensive when ordinary household maintenance (say, a leaky roof) gets complicated by factors like, oh, historic preservation.

It wasn’t only Hemlock House, though. I hadn’t worked—unless you count writing, which nobody considers a real job—since I’d left Providence. I’d blown through my meager savings because, in addition to this money pit, I had other expenses. Like food. I was crazy about food. I wanted to eat it every day. And occasionally getting a haircut so Bobby didn’t decide he’d accidentally gotten into a relationship with an unkempt mountain man (is that rude to mountain men? Should I have saida grizzled old prospector?). Plus, a few months before, a very dangerous man had run me off the road. I’d survived with nothing more than some bad scrapes, but the Jeep had been totaled—and I didn’t have money to replace it. On top of those concerns, there were other expenses in daily life—like occasionally going out for dinner and drinks with my friends. Or doing something nice for my oh-so-patient, oh-so-understanding, oh-so-handsome boyfriend.

Based on the current balance of my bank account, the only nice thing I was going to be able to do for Bobby in the near future would be buy him a ring pop.

Not that I was thinking about rings. It was too early.

I mean, not that I hadn’t at least considered the possibility.

Like, there was this one ring I’d found. It wasn’t anything fancy—just a gold band—but I knew from the picture that it would look AMAZING (cue Millie) on Bobby because on top of everything else, he had nice hands, and sometimes he wore a gold chain so I knew gold looked good on him, and of course he’d want something simple and understated and traditionally masculine and—

A door opened and closed, and familiar steps moved toward the den as Bobby called out, “Dash?”

He appeared in the doorway a moment later. He was wearing his running socks (that’s a thing, right?), running shorts, and a tank top that was dark with sweat. His golden-olive skin was a little darker than usual, his shoulders and nose sun-kissed from his time outside. (August on the Oregon Coast is probably the only time anyone around here ever comes close to sun-kissed.) A few damp strands of hair had fallen out of their perfect part and clung to his forehead. My brain immediately decided to roll over and play dead.

“Oh,” he said. “You’re writing. Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m not writing.”

“You’re not?”

“Uh, actually, I am.”

This was apparently grounds for further investigation by Deputy Bobby. He grabbed the door jamb with one hand and, with the other, began to stretch his quad by pulling one leg up and back.

It was, to say the least, distracting.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Mmmm.”

“Dash?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re writing? During your writing time?” Bobby switched legs and hammered home with “Like we talked about?”

“Uh huh.”

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