Page 112 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder

I think of Rocco and Lionel Astor, frowning. “No father is in the picture.”

“Oh, dear,” my mother says again, and I can just picture her fretting. “That won’t do. Caroline? Caroline!” she shouts.

“What?” my sister’s voice says, sounding exasperated. “Why are you yelling? I’m right here.”

“Oh, sorry, sweetie; I didn’t realize. Just listen up. Aiden’s girlfriend—what’s her name?”

“Juniper,” I say, and Caroline echoes the same thing.

“Juniper,” my mother says. “Juniper needs a family. I want you to go over there tomorrow morning, Caroline, and tomorrow evening we can all have dinner together—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say quickly. “Slow down. She has a brother; they get along well. She’s not completely alone. So no one needs to come over here in the morning. And we’ve got a lot going on this week, so probably no dinner tomorrow.” Inexplicably, a lump has begun to form in the back of my throat, spurred by my mom’s immediate call to arms—no hesitation, no questions, just love. I swallow thickly. “I just meant that I’m dating her, and I like her, and I hope you’ll be welcoming. That’s—” I clear my throat, squeezing my eyes shut a few times to get rid of the sting. “That’s all I meant.”

“Oh,” my mother says, and her voice softens. “Of course, sweetheart. Of course we will. Although”—now her words turn stern—“we should discuss how you’re living in sin.”

I can’t help it; I smile.

She’s truly the greatest mother in the world.

When I’ve finally maneuvered the phone call to an end, I return to the living room and sink into my reading chair, swiveling just briefly to pull a book from my shelf. I grab one without looking, my mind lost to my exhausted thoughts.

I open the book and am pleasantly surprised to find that my random grabbing led me to Shakespeare once again;As You Like Itthis time. One of my favorites, actually. I begin to read, trying to force my brain to pay attention.

It’s slow going.

At some point, I hear several disconcerting thuds from upstairs; a few seconds later, Juniper blunders down the stairs, dressed in her pajamas. Her eyes are more closed than open, and she’s moving like a zombie.

“Juniper?” I say as she lurches dazedly into the bathroom, only barely missing the doorframe. But she doesn’t answer; she just closes the door behind her, and I look back to my book. We haven’t reached the converse-through-the-bathroom-door stage of our relationship yet. So I once more turn to my reading, trying to focus.

And I try hard. I cross my legs. Uncross them. Rest my ankle over my knee. I even manspread for a bit. But no matter what I do, I can’t get comfortable. And it’s not because my body is restless, either; it’s my mind. Pretentious as it might be, Shakespeare never fails to grab my attention. But tonight he’s falling short, and my brain is jumping to every whispered shadow I see, startling at the most innocuous of sounds. The slam of the neighbor’s car door, a dog barking, the refrigerator running; they all make me jump out of my skin.

I’m on edge.

Why am I on edge?

When I hear the sound of the front door lurching open, honest to goodness, I almost wet myself.

“Caroline,” I mutter, saying her name like a curse as I stand.

“Not Caroline.”

Two words, spoken in a soft voice. Friendly, even. But the hair stands up on the back of my neck, and it feels like someone has poured ice water into my lungs.

I hold back my sigh. I’m so dang tired; I donotneed this today.

I look around grudgingly, hunting for anything that could be used as a weapon. My gaze scans the room and finds exactly nothing of use—why have I filled this home with unhelpful items like books and pillows and lamps?—so I turn on my heel to go to the kitchen instead.

Except my path has already been blocked—by Rocco freaking Astor.

My psycho murderous coworker, in my living room, holding—holding—is that a knife?

“Holy crap,” I say without thinking as my eyes narrow in on that blade. “Are you gonna stab me?Seriously?”

All right. I would not be a good hostage negotiator.

But Rocco just barks a laugh, a sardonic, wheezing sound, before holding the knife up. It’s not huge, but it doesn’t need to be; that’s four inches of razor-sharp metal that will pop me like a balloon. Crap. I amnotprepared for this.

“Hey,” I say, holding my hands up. “Let’s slow down, okay? That’s a pretty creepy knife you’re pointing at me. Can you put that away?”

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