Page 15 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder

I do not move.

And then, to my absolute outrage, I hear another sound: Aiden’s footsteps, walkingback up the stairs.

“Hey!” I say, maneuvering myself into a sitting position so fast it makes my head spin. “Hey!” I push my hair out of my eyes, sweeping it impatiently to the side.

“Hey…what?” he says. His voice is flat, his expression unperturbed. One hand is tucked casually into his pocket; the other holds a book. He looks for all the world like a man who didnotjust let his new roommate fall down the stairs—and yet there’s a flicker of wicked amusement in his eyes as he stares down at me.

“What if I was dead down here?” I say, frowning up at him. “You nudged me and I didn’t move. What if I was unconscious? What if I needed to go to the hospital?” I rub my lower back, wincing as I poke and prod.

“You twitched,” he says, as though this explains everything.

“I’m sorry?”

“When I nudged you with my foot,” he says. “You twitched.”

“I did not,” I say, narrowing my eyes.

“Yes, you did,” he says blandly. “Your left leg. It twitched.”

“And you just let me fall,” I go on, pointing to him. “I grabbed you to steady myself, and you let me fall.”

For the first time since this conversation started, an easily recognizable expression passes over his face: he looks at me like I’m nuts. Holding up the book in his hand, he says, “This is acollector’s edition, Juniper.”

“What?” I blink at him.

“It’s acollector’s edition,” he says again, waving the book in my direction—now that he mentions it, I do notice the fancy-pants gold leaf on the cover—and still looking at me like I’m crazy. “An old one, at that. The spine would probably crack if I dropped it down the stairs.”

I roll my eyes and heave myself to my feet, muttering under my breath, cursing his pretentiousness while simultaneously wondering how I can get a closer look at that special edition. I climb all the way up to my attic bedroom and flop down on the bare mattress, staring at the sloped ceiling.

The room is furnished already, but I need to put on bedding and set up my desk and closet and whatnot. I need to add my own dishes to the cupboards downstairs and hang some of my own art on the walls. I can make this feel like home. I did it when I moved to the foster home my senior year; I’ve done it in every place I’ve lived since then. I’ll adapt to my surroundings.

And then I’m going to do it. I’m going to write a murder mystery. And if the gruesomely killed victim happens to be a hot young professor named Aiden?

I won’t lose any sleep.

Well, all right. Maybe a little, because I struggle with bouts of insomnia.

But I won’t losemuch.

5

IN WHICH AIDEN SPOTS A SPUD

Someone is following me.

I have done nothing attention-worthy in my life, and definitely nothing that merits being followed. But I’m almost positive that the car I just watched drive by the food bank is the same car I saw parked outside my house yesterday when Juniper moved in.

I noticed it first from the kitchen window. I’m not in the habit of spotting cars, but this one had several of the bumper stickers we sell at the high school. That’s the only reason it grabbed my attention.

Except now that same car just drove past the food bank, looking like every sketchy car in every mystery movie ever—the slow pass, the window rolled down just slightly at the top, the sudden speeding away when I stepped out the front doors to get a better look.

“Hey,” I say now, settling myself on the top step and pulling my blazer tighter around me to ward off the chill. I press my phone more firmly to my ear, talking to my colleague.“Do you know when we stopped selling those dancing potato bumper stickers?”

Rocco Astor is the gym teacher at the high school, but like me, he also wears more than one hat. Where the higher-ups have me teaching English along with my counseling job, Rocco teaches gym, coaches track and field,andoperates the school store—where we sell our merchandise—during lunch hours. If anyone will be able to answer my question, it’s him.

“Hmm,” Rocco says from the other end. His voice is thoughtful as he goes on, “Two years ago, maybe? I think we replaced it with theSpud Nationone. The dancing potato sold better, though. Why? Want me to dig around and see if I can find one for you?”

I snort, shaking my head. Autumn Grove High School is the unfortunate home to one of the lamest mascots I’ve ever heard of: Solomon the Spud.

---