Page 115 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder

* * *

Matilda callsJuniper the next day. I call in sick, lying through my teeth—though to be fair, if we were able to acknowledge the need for mental health days, I wouldn’t have to be so dishonest.

Juniper puts the phone on speaker as soon as she answers. We’re curled up on the couch together, pretending to read our own separate books while secretly stealing glances at each other. I’m captivated by the shadow Juniper’s lashes cast over her cheeks when she’s looking down at the book in her lap, and I can’t quite look away.

“Hi, Matilda,” Juniper says into the speaker, sounding tired. She shuts her book without marking the page, and I do the same with mine.

“Juniper,” Matilda says in a nasally voice. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you.”

“Yeah,” Juniper says. “Sorry. It’s been a bit crazy. What’s up?”

“What do you mean, what’s up? You asked me to see what I could find about some guy named Cam Verido. I asked around.”

These words manage to pull my attention away from Juniper’s lashes; I look at the phone in her hand. Her body stiffens against me, and she straightens up.

“Okay,” she says, her voice quivering slightly. “Did you find anything?”

“I did, actually,” Matilda says. “He lives super close to you. You’re in Autumn Grove, right?”

“Mmm.”

“Next to your town is a town called Valley Hills. He lives there. 405 Atlas Lane, Valley Hills—”

“What?” Juniper says, cutting her off. “Say that again.”

“The address? 405 Atlas Lane.”

Juniper’s eyes flutter closed, and my heart stutters; that address clearly means something to her. “Thanks, Matilda,” she says. “Anything else? Job or family or anything?”

“He’s a social worker,” Matilda says. “Wife and two kids. That’s all I was able to find.”

But Juniper is already nodding. “That’s perfect. Thank you so much.”

They say goodbye and then hang up.

“You know that address,” I say. It’s not a question.

“I do,” she says quietly, her gaze far away. “I send him a Christmas letter every year.” Then she turns her head to look at me. “My case worker. Cameron, I’ve always called him.”

I blink at her. “Your—what? Your case worker?”

She nods. “He settled me in my foster home, kept in touch, checked in on me.”

Her case worker? He was her case worker? What are the odds of that? What are the odds of him being nearby the whole time? Minimal, right?

“But…” I trail off, frowning as I think. “Why didn’t you recognize his name? Or his face in the yearbook?”

She shrugs, her shoulders brushing against my chest. “We called him Mr. V. I didn’t put those pieces together. And he looks different than he did in high school, but—” She shakes her head. “I haven’t seen him in years. Since my senior year.”

“How did that happen?” I say, my mind working through possibilities.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I’ll write him and ask. Later, maybe.” Then she pats my leg. “Want to help me research something for my book?”

“Don’t you want to know?” I say with surprise.

“I do, yeah,” she says. She swallows. “But not right this second. I can’t process anything else at the moment. I’ll write him a letter tonight.”

That’s fair. So I raise my eyebrows at her. “What’s the book research this time?”

---