Page 61 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder

And yet, incredibly, it also seems to have been inevitable.

I swing my head around to look at the closed door—behind which I can now hear Juniper swearing, by the way. I stare at that door as though I can see through it, considering the woman on the other side.

How tightly wound are our fates, and we didn’t even know it? How joined are our lives? I am who I am partly because of her. And she is who she is partly because of who I became after knowing her.

And again her words come, a distant echo in my memory:Is this fate? Do you think this is our second chance?

I don’t believe in fate.

But I do believe in Juniper.

I believe in that woman’s ability to make waves wherever she goes, to force people to grow around her, their own lives changing as they make room for her.

My gaze jumps back to the sticky note on her desk—the one that proclaims her desire to live a quiet, happy life.

I don’t know that a quiet life is in the cards for Juniper Bean. She is the stone in the stream that the water must rush around. And those people, whether they want to be or not, are history-makers. Any time your presence causes people to change, you’re making history. Sometimes small history, sometimes grand—always worth paying attention to.

I sigh, sinking back onto the bed and running my hand through my hair. I place the photo of young Juniper back where I found it. Then I pick up my book and spend the next ten minutes reading the same page seventeen times in a row.

When the lock finally clicks and I hear Juniper’s cry of excitement, I get up and open the door.

I look her dead in the eye and say, “You don’t need to keep all that food under your desk. You’ll attract ants.” I pause at the rapid blush that climbs her cheeks, her look of triumph dying. “As long as you live in this house,” I finally go on, “I promise I will not let you go hungry. Okay?”

It’s not much of a vow; it shouldn’t feel as momentous as it does. But the gravity settles on my shoulders all the same—not stifling but grounding, like the comfort that comes from lying under a weighted blanket. I give her one last nod before making my exit.

The last thing I see is a pair of blue, surprise-filled eyes—the same eyes I first saw twenty-something years ago, peeking at me from over the edge of a garbage-filled dumpster.

16

IN WHICH JUNIPER MEETS THE WORLD’S MOST GLORIOUS ABS

Iam completely, totally,utterlystuck, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt this helpless.

I didn’t mean for things to turn out like this. But I keep hitting dead ends at every turn. The days keep ticking by with no news. Garrity has to coordinate with someone in Boise to analyze the photos Sandy is supposedly sending, and I still haven’t heard back from Matilda with any information about Thomas Freese, the man who was romantically involved with my mother and then bizarrely committed suicide.

I feel like I’m going insane with how helpless this whole situation makes me feel, and I wanted to dosomething.

So I did.

“Aiden,” I shout, trying to keep the panic at bay.

It’s fine. This is fine. Everything will be fine.

He’ll help me.

“Aiden!” I shout again, louder this time, and definitely edging intoscreechterritory. I can feel my breath coming in short, sharp bursts, causing my chest to hurt, and—oh, no. Is this a heart attack? Am I having a heart attack? “Aiden!”

When I hear the thundering of feet coming down the stairs, my body buzzes with relief. Or maybe it buzzes because I’m losing sensory input; I’m not sure. Whatever the case, I do feel relief, and I am buzzing—an unpleasant tingling feeling that starts in my hands and feet and moves gradually up my limbs.

“Help,” I croak pathetically. “Help me, please. In here.” The tiled floor and walls of the bathroom cause my words to echo slightly, bouncing back, mocking me like mean kids on the playground.

A second later, I hear a tentative knock at the door. “What are you going on about?” Aiden says from the other side, sounding grumpy. “I’m trying to grade papers.”

“Help me,” I say again.

“I’m not coming in there. What you do in the bathroom is your own business. I don’t need to see that—”

“Get in here and help!” I shout. The panic is starting to overwhelm me again, the pain around my middle becoming more and more unbearable by the second. “It’s not locked. Open the door and come help me!”

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