Page 19 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder

I stare at that miniature heart for a second, trying to stop my hands from shaking. But my knuckles are white where I grip the invitation, and there’s a weird tangle of emotions fighting for dominance inside. They’re living entities, all these feelings, and the image pops into my mind of the creeping vines I saw climbing the wrought-iron fence around the cemetery yesterday.

It feels like those vines are growing in my gut now, in my bones, my lungs—squeezing and strangling until I can barely breathe.

My eyes move from the heart exclamation point to the strangest word on the entire piece of cardstock:parents.

My mother didn’t even remember who my father was. How does someone in this town know what my own mother didn’t know? How is that possible?

“I’m going to bed,” I say, my voice faint. “I can’t think about this anymore. My brain is going to explode.”

Aiden hesitates and then nods. He looks like he wants to say something, but I’m grateful when he remains silent. If he asks me how I’m feeling, I’m pretty sure I’ll burst into tears. I’m not much of a crier, but it does happen on occasion—usually when I’m overwhelmed or embarrassed. Like my body takes emotional overload and siphons it off in the form of tears.

I drag myself up both flights of stairs, big and small, emerging into the loft. It’s little more than a landing with a door. The bedroom on the other side of that door is actually nice, though. I settled in earlier, getting all my bedding in place and my clothes in the closet, tucking away the box with my mother’s few remaining possessions. The sloped ceiling is painted white, coming to the peak in the center of the room, right over the bed. There’s a skylight on one side, too; I’m going to have to get used to not having curtains blocking out the light in the mornings, but I love being able to look up and see the sky.

I close the bedroom door behind me, my feet shuffling across the hardwood floor as I head to my bed. I let myself fall straight forward, my body sinking into my fluffy white comforter and my face smooshing up against my pillow. I force myself to relax until I’m melting into my bed like butter in a pan.

I should brush my teeth and my hair. I should put on pajamas. I should turn off the light. But I don’t do any of those things. I just close my eyes and wait for sleep to take me.

* * *

When I come downstairsthe next morning, Aiden is already awake and seated in the same chair he sat in last night. If it weren’t for the fact that he’s wearing different clothes, I might think he hadn’t moved at all. I silently thank the inventor of flannel pajama pants and white t-shirts for his or her impeccable service to our nation before tearing my eyes away. I think Aiden probably would not appreciate being stared at.

So my gaze jumps instead to the little corner he occupies. I was too distracted last night to notice details, but now I take them all in; the bookshelf, the stack of books, the reading glasses. I drift toward that bookshelf, eyeing the contents curiously; there’s row after row of classics, most of them with creased spines and blunted corners. There’s a small statuette, too, a bust of some kind; upon closer inspection, I see that it’s Shakespeare. I shake my head, amused, before looking down at Aiden to see what he’s reading.

Hamlet. The play. He’s just…reading it. At seven-thirty on a Saturday morning.

I have no words.

“I know I’m devastatingly good-looking, but please stop staring at me,” he says flatly without looking up, and I jump.

“I wasn’t staring at you.”

I was. I totally was.

Then, in an attempt to change the subject, I say, “You realize you look like dark academia personified?”

“I don’t know what that means,” he says, his voice musing. He turns the page and continues to read.

“Tweed blazers and stacks of books and a bust of Shakespeare,” I say. “All you need is a little skull and a typewriter—” But I break off when Aiden looks at me for the first time this morning. My eyes widen. “Stop it,” I say. “Do you have a skull and a typewriter around here somewhere?”

“My sister gave me a skull,” he mutters as a faint flush works its way into his cheeks. “It’s not real.”

Well, this is a delightful development. I smile, bouncing on the balls of my feet. “I should hope not,” I say. “Can I see it? Please?” I add when he hesitates.

He sighs and points to the door right next to the bookcase. “In there,” he says, going back to his book. “On the desk.”

I barge into the bedroom and catch only a glimpse of the decor—navy walls; gray bedspread; simple, functional furniture—before finding the desk. Sure enough, sitting next to the lamp is a life-sized human skull.

“He’s so cute!” I call over my shoulder, my smile widening. “Or is it a she?” I bend over, addressing the skull. “Are you a girl skull?”

“I haven’t really thought about it,” Aiden says, and I turn around to find him in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, one finger keeping his place in his book.

“You have to name it, Aiden!” I say. “It needs a name! Something moody and brooding like you.”

He frowns. “I’m not moody and brooding.”

My snort of laughter is unladylike. “Of course you are.” I waltz up to him, pressing my finger into the little v-shaped crease between his brows. “Does that hurt?”

“Does what hurt?” he says, swatting my hand away.

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