Page 23 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder

“Oh, I don’t think I need to wear a dress,” I say. “I’m not planning on actually dancing or anything—”

“Nonsense,” she says, and again I’m taken aback by how much older she seems now that she’s shaking that finger at me. “If you’re going to the dance, you need to wear a dress. Aiden’s dressing up, aren’t you, Aiden?”

“Only because they’re making me,” he says. “I’m getting out of here before I get wrangled into any more nonsense. Caroline, feel free to leave any time.”

“Where are you going?” she says, watching him blankly as he moves in long strides to the front door, where he grabs his keys from the little hook on the wall.

“Food bank,” he says without looking back. “I have a shift. I’ll be back in time to leave at six, Juniper. If you’re not here, I’m going without you. You, on the other hand”—he jabs one finger in his sister’s direction—“I would greatly prefer that you werenothere when I return home.”

“I’ll be here,” I say, watching him go.

“I’ll leave,” Caroline says, looking grouchy, which only serves to highlight how similar she and her brother are in appearance. I give her a polite goodbye, and then she goes, leaving me alone in the house.

“I didn’t realize he works there,” I murmur to myself as I trail back to the stairs. I’m not surprised, I guess; Aiden has been feeding the hungry since we first encountered each other. It’s strange, though, imagining him working someplace I used to frequent as a teenager. Like two separate parts of my world, colliding without my permission.

I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts. I need to go write a murder mystery—or rather, I need to go researchhowto write a murder mystery, since romance isn’t working out.

But slowly, absently, my hand slides around my torso and to the base of my spine—until I feel the thin, raised scar that’s the only remainder of the first time I met Aiden Milano.

TWENTY-ONE YEARS AGO

JUNIPER, 9; AIDEN, 14

I’m hungry.

These days it feels like I’m always hungry. It feels like I’m always hungry, and also like there’s never enough food. Mama says I’m a black hole, guzzling down everything we have on account of the growth spurt I’m going through. Except I think she might be wrong about the growth spurt, because I’m still short and scrawny like I’ve always been.

Maybe I just need to eat more.

I ease out of my bedroom door, listening with my ears wide open so I’ll be able to hear if Mama wakes. The sun’s well past up, but Mama works nights and sleeps a lot during the day. She doesn’t like it when I wake her up, so I try to be sneaky quiet as I tiptoe down the hall. I stick my head around the corner and peek into the TV room; sure enough, there she is, asleep on the couch with a couple bottles next to her. She says that’s her medicine, but I’ve never noticed it making her any better.

Mostly it just makes her fall asleep.

She doesn’t wake up as easy when she’s been drinking her medicine, though, so I stop tiptoeing and start walking regular instead. I check the refrigerator; we ate the last of the eggs last night. There’s some cheese that’s turning fuzzy greenish-blue and a gallon of milk, plus some flour and sugar and stale crackers in the cabinet. Nothing good for me to munch on.

My stomach twists with hunger.

So I hunt around for some socks, because it’s cold outside, but I can’t find any. I just grab my shoes and wrestle them on my feet, doing my best to tie them. I’m still practicing, but I can get the bunny ears pretty well, and then I just tie the bunny ears in a knot. My jammie pants are warm enough to go outside, because they’re made of a soft, fuzzy material, but my jammie shirt has short sleeves, so I put my coat on. I shove my hair out of my face and pat it down before heading out the front door.

There’s a bite to the wind that cuts right through my jammies, and I walk a little faster. The hole in the toe of my left shoe lets in the cold, but at least my right shoe is fine. I shuffle along, pulling my coat tighter around me and moving as quickly as possible. I have a long way to go still.

It feels like I walk forever, but in real life I think it’s more like twenty or thirty minutes—that’s how long one episode of my favorite cartoon lasts, so I can tell pretty good. My nose starts to sniff delicious smells a full minute before I reach the alley behind the shops on Main Street, and by the time I’m actually there, my mouth is watering. I pass the giant mural on the wall of the alleyway, following that delicious smell until I reach the back entrance of Grind and Brew. I’ve never been inside, but I’ve been back here enough times to know that they always have yummy foods.

Ialsoknow that they get rid of stale breads every morning—only the breads they get rid of are never actually that stale. Sometimes they have a few mold spots, but that’s easy to work around. Mostly it’s perfectly good stuff.

I eye the dumpster, trying to figure out how to get up there. Usually there are boxes stacked next to it, but today there’s only one. Will it be tall enough for me to climb in?

I pull off my coat and set it carefully on the ground in a spot that doesn’t look too dirty. I don’t want it to get yucky in the trash. Then I clamber up on the box next to the dumpster. I have to jump as high as I can, but I manage to catch the edge of the dumpster with my fingertips, and from there I’m able to climb up. I fall over the side and into the rubbish with anoomph,my nose wrinkling.

This is always the worst part: the trashy smells. At least the cold keeps the flies away, for the most part. A few of them buzz here and there, but it’s not near as bad as it is in the summer.

I do my best to stand up and then look around, searching for the blue bag that Grind and Brew usually uses to get rid of their old breads. When I don’t spot any blue, I bend over and start digging.

Soon I’m waist-deep in stinky garbage, pulling bags aside as I try not to stumble. I burrow in a little further, trying to breathe through my mouth.

I’m just reaching for a blue bag that looks promising when I lose my balance and fall backward. I land on my bum, but I barely notice—I’m too distracted by a sharp pain that slices my lower back. I cry out, tears springing to my eyes as the spot continues to throb.

It takes a bit of wiggling to maneuver myself off my bum and onto my knees, but I manage all right. I whimper as I reach around and touch the place I got scraped, poking it gently. My whimpers turn to cries as my fingers come away slick and red.

---