Page 50 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder

Aiden nods.

“Someone has her phone,” I say, dazed. “I figured, but…”

“Yes,” he says, looking grim. “However.” He holds up a finger. “Garrity did admit that it’s suspicious, because apparently he’s checked with some of her friends, and they haven’t heard from her. He also says she hasn’t been active on social media or the town forum. So he told Sandra’s mom to tell her to come home now. He says he’s keeping in touch with her mom, and he’s working on finding someone who can analyze if the photos being sent are photoshopped or not.”

“They have to be, right?” I say. “Unless—” I break off, swallowing. “ItwasSandy we saw, right?”

“It was,” Aiden says firmly. “I truly think it was.”

“That’s creepy.” I shiver, rubbing my hands up and down my arms. “That’s so creepy, Aiden. I hate this. I hate it.” We both do.

Which is why, several days later, Aiden and I visit Rocco Astor at his home. It’s all we can think to do.

According to Aiden, Rocco’s brother Lionel lives somewhere in the Heights, a sprawling but only sparsely populated neighborhood in the wealthiest pocket of Autumn Grove. When I was growing up, it was almost legendary in status; very few kids from school lived there, but theirs were the parties you always wanted to be invited to. Now, Aiden says, it’s mostly retirees who live there—people who’ve come back to Autumn Grove and settled in, well after their own kids grew up and left home.

Where Lionel lives in the Heights, though, Rocco does not. He lives out of the way a bit, on a parcel of land on the outskirts of town.

“So he knows we’re coming, right?” I say now, turning to Aiden. We’re in his car, which is much cleaner and safer than mine.

“I texted him an hour ago,” Aiden says with a nod. He’s calm, cool, collected—everything I wish I were right now, and everything that I’m not. My palms are so sweaty that I keep having to wipe them on my jeans, and my insides are jittery with anxious anticipation.

But I can’t help it. Unlike Aiden, I don’t know Rocco. He’s not my friend. All I know is that he might be able to tell me about his brother—a friend of my mother’s. Possibly even my father.

“Okay, so remember,” I say, once again shifting in my seat so that I’m facing Aiden more fully. “We’re not telling him about the body. We’re not even mentioning Sandy. Okay?” I’ve taken to calling herSandy, even though her name wasSandrain the yearbook. It seems like that’s the name she went by, and respecting that is one of the very few things I can do for her now.

“Just like the last ten times you told me this,” Aiden says, sparing me a glance, “I agree. I will not mention Sandy. You need to chill.”

“I know,” I say as I press down on my bouncing knees. “I’m sorry. I’m trying.”

“Try harder,” he advises. “Rocco isn’t stupid. He’s going to ask questions if you’re acting weird.”

“Yeah,” I say. I force myself to take several deep breaths, and that does help some—although it also means I get a few good whiffs of whatever cologne Aiden uses, something subtle and woodsy. He seems to have forgotten all about the freak moment of mutual attraction in the kitchen the other night, but I haven’t; for some reason the image of his white-knuckled grip on the table is burned into my retinas.

I’m pretty sure that’s how Aiden would hold onto any lover or girlfriend he had.

“Why are you rolling down the window?” he says five seconds later.

“Just feeling a little warm,” I say, fanning myself with my hand. “I need to get some air.”

“You’re feeling warm?” he says, casting his eyes skeptically over my outfit—jeans and a vintage t-shirt. “You’re wearing short sleeves.”

I am, and his skepticism is valid. The autumn breeze is brisk; the air is crisp despite the clear, sunny skies.

Despite his protests, though, I leave the window open until we’ve pulled off the main road and headed down a gravel side road. We wind through countryside for a few minutes before a two-story house comes into view, one made of warm tan brick. There’s a wooden shed out back, plus a coop and a tractor. He’s doing the country living thing, it looks like. It’s not for me, but I respect it—I can’t begin to imagine how hard it is.

Even though Aiden is the one who’s friends with Rocco, he told me before we came that he was adopting ahands-offapproach to this meeting. When I asked him what that meant, he just said, “Interrogating people isn’t in my wheelhouse. You do it.” So it’s to that end that I’m the one who leads the way across Rocco’s overgrown yard, and I’m the one who knocks on the front door when we reach it.

He answers after only a moment of waiting.

“Welcome,” he says. He smiles, his white teeth gleaming against his sun-darkened skin. Then he gestures to the yard behind us, to the overgrowth and the random rake cast aside at the base of a large tree. “Sorry about the mess.”

“No judgment here,” I say cheerfully. “We once had a rose bush growing up that became so overgrown the HOA fined my mom and me.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder at the unruly grass. “This is nothing.”

Rocco laughs. “That must have been quite some rose bush,” he says to Aiden and me. “Come in.”

I watch him carefully as we step inside and follow him to a simple, no-frills living room. He’s handsome, I realize with a start as he gestures for us to sit. Tall, fit, thick hair, and clear blue eyes—a total silver fox.

Wait. Is he considered a silver fox if only a tiny bit of his hair around the temples has turned silver? Or is he just a regular fox? He’s in his forties, I think, but so are Oscar Isaac, John Krasinski, and Tom Hiddleston. Older men have plenty going for them.

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