Page 3 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder

“Okay, sorry, that one isn’t your fault,” I say, letting my head drop onto the table. I roll my eyes as the noise in the coffee shop gradually returns to a normal level, ignoring the snickering sounds I hear coming from the tables around us.

What, like they’ve never been a hot mess in public? Like they’ve never been set up on a blind date with their own brother? Geez.

I groan, my mind racing and my stomach twisting as I listen to Ned direct his awkward apologies to somewhere around the back of my head.

“You don’t even look like siblings,” he keeps saying, as though that will fix everything.

He’s wrong. We totally look like siblings. But I don’t have it in me to argue. “We have different dads,” I say instead with my forehead still resting on the table. I ignore the familiar twinge that comes up whenever I think about the mystery man who gave me half of my DNA.

I don’t need to know who my father is. I really don’t. And I can’t think about that right now, anyway.

I have to get out of here. I have to leave this coffee shop, this town, preferably this state.This Bean is no longer an object at rest.

She is in motion, and she is moving—stat.

* * *

Autumn Grove,Idaho, is a little bitty town tucked just to the west of the Tetons, nestled right up against the Wyoming border. Despite the misleading name, there’s very little by way of actualautumnin Autumn Grove; at most it sees a month and a half of crunchy leaves and brisk days before the first freeze hits. Then everything dies all at once, and the trees are left bare and skeletal, scratching at the low-hanging clouds like nails snagging fabric.

It’s been approximately six years, four months, and ten days since I was last here—not that I’m counting—but as of today, this is my new home. It seems the leaves on the trees are well into their fall cycle now, yellows and oranges and blood reds all shimmering in the crisp wind. This is how I remember the town I grew up in; chilly, overcast, and just on the precipice of winter.

The drive down Center feels strange knowing that I won’t be turning left at the third light anymore. I put my childhood home up for sale not twenty-four hours after my mother passed from a heart attack six years ago. Call me callous; you’re probably right. I’m not bothered. That home holds no happy memories for me. I don’t want it in my possession.

My new home, on the other hand, will be wonderful! I tell myself this over and over again as I drive, mostly to convince myself it’s true, and that everything will be fine. My hands clench tighter on the steering wheel—white knuckles, chipped black nail polish—as I swallow. Then I flick the turn signal and turn from Center onto Main. Behind me a little sedan makes the same turn, riding my tail, and I glare at it in the rearview mirror before returning my gaze to my surroundings. Main Street hasn’t changed much. I’m not sure any of Autumn Grove has.

I posted on the Autumn Grove community forum two weeks ago, the day after the Blind Date Incident, asking if anyone knew of available housing. It took several days, but a nice lady finally responded to my post with a listing—a loft bedroom in a house in the suburbs. The price was reasonable, the home looked nice, and she said the roommate was low-key. I told her my preferred move-in date, she responded that it would be available then, and that was that; she sent me the paperwork a few hours later. We set up a meeting through the forum—something you could never safely do in a big city, by the way—and here I am, making my way there, trying not to be nervous.

To distract myself, I call Roland.

“Ew, Juniper,” he says when he answers. “Every time your picture pops up on my phone I feel like barfing all over again.”

“It wasn’t my fault!” I tell him for the millionth time.

“I know,” Roland grumbles. “Doesn’t change the fact that I can feel my lunch turning over in my stomach.”

“Did you find someplace to stay?” I say instead of replying, because it feels prudent to change the subject.

“Eh,” Roland says. “Not really. I think I’m just gonna go stay with my dad for a while until I figure out my next steps.”

Roland is about five years younger than me. He and I share a mother, but we have different fathers. However, while I was conceived from a one night stand that my mother barely remembered—her words, not mine—she was actually semi-dating Lance when she got pregnant again. As a result, Roland grew up with his father in the next town over, though they gave him my mother’s last name; meanwhile, I don’t even know who my dad was.

My mom had visitation rights, though, so I got to see Roland sometimes on weekends. It was always a bright spot. He was the cutest baby, with these fat cheeks and thigh rolls and dimples where his knuckles should have been. I, on the other hand, was less cute. Not many baby pictures of me exist, but I’ve seen the ones that do. I look skinny, bordering on underfed, with a similar air of discontent to the one my eighteen-year-old mother gives off in those same photos.

“What about you?” Roland says, pulling me from my thoughts. “You sure you want to live in Autumn Grove again?”

“Truthfully, no,” I say. “I’m not sure. But I’m doing it anyway.” I’m not sure how to explain it to Roland. I’m not even sure how to explain it to myself. But there’s something inside me that wants to conquer this town—not in a Genghis Khan kind of way, but in an overcoming-the-past kind of way.

“And when do you move in?” Roland says.

“I’m meeting my new roommate soon,” I say after glancing at the dashboard to check the time.“And I—sorry, hang on. This car is still tailgating me—stop it!” I say, looking in the rearview mirror at the sedan behind me.

The sedan does not stop it. I roll my eyes.

“I’m back,” I say.

Roland hums thoughtfully. “No one is going to be a better roommate than me”—I snort—“but let me know how that goes,” he says. “What about the writing thing? Are you really gonna change genres?”

“Meh,” I say. It’s something I’ve been debating over the past few weeks or so. With characters that keep taking over and murdering each other, how am I supposed to continue writing romance? I’m not sure I’m that great at it anyway. I’ve got a large folder of rejection emails and marginal indie sales; I’m barely making enough to pay my bills, much less save for the future, though I know I’m lucky to even be making that much. “It’s a very real possibility.”

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