Page 64 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder

I’m laying groundwork for clues. I’m setting up suspects. My detective is finding little snippets of proof exactly where I want her to find them. So what’s wrong? Why does it feel like there’s something missing?

* * *

When I knockon Aiden’s bedroom door a couple hours later, it’s with a shaking fist and excuses on my tongue.

My mind is a free-for-all right now. It’s nuts in there. There’s too much going on, and I can’t keep track of any of it. Sandra von Meller, and my mother, and Gus and the Betties and Lionel Astor and Thomas Freese and my murder novel andAiden,Aiden’s hands holding me in that white-knuckled grip—

“Hey,” I call, banging a little louder. “Can I come in?”

I hear footsteps, and then a second later Aiden’s voice floats toward me from inside the room. “Why do you want to come in?” he says, the words muffled. I think he’s standing right on the other side of the door.

“I want to ask you something,” I say. There’s a bite of impatience in my words, but that’s okay; maybe it will cover up how nervous I am. “Come on, let me in. I feel stupid talking to the door.”

“You probably look pretty silly, too.”

I roll my eyes, mostly because he’s correct. And he called me reckless earlier, but he’s clearly the opposite—he’s being careful now, going so far as to keep this physical barrier between us.

Was he right? Was it a reckless promise to make, that I would kiss him if he didn’t let go of me?

It’s possible.

I’d even say probable.

But I meant it. And I’d say it again. When it comes to my heart, I’m a seize the day kind of girl.

And I was ready tocarpethatdiem.

I’m just lifting my hand to knock again when the door swings open, and I jump, startled. The man whose day I was ready to seize is standing there, looking thoroughly unimpressed as he stares down at me.

Elegance!I demand of myself, straightening my back so I’m not slouching.Poise! Never let him know he makes you nervous.

“Hi,” I say, shouldering past him and barging into the room.

“By all means, come in,” he says in a dry voice.

“You got to poke around in my room,” I say as I waltz over to his desk. “Still grading papers?”

“Trying to,” he says as he strolls toward me, his hands tucked in his pockets. “Someone keeps interrupting me.”

“Sad,” I say with not an ounce of sadness.

“Yes,” he says. “I can tell you’re really torn up about it.” Then he cocks one inquisitive brow at me. “What do you want, Juniper?”

“I want my brain to stop hurting,” I say. “Everything that’s been happening is buzzing around in there. Like flies. Like a million puzzle pieces from a million different puzzles have spilled, and now I’m trying to put them back in the right boxes. Like…” I trail off, biting my lip as I stare absently at the papers on his desk. “Like everything I know is floating, hovering just above my head, and I have to grab all those thoughts before they drift away, lost in the wind.”

I turn to him, opening my mouth to speak again, but I freeze at the expression on his face—some sort of interested amusement.

“What?” I say. I abandon his desk and begin wandering aimlessly around the room, taking in details. I point at his face as I walk. “What are you doing?”

He shrugs as he sits on the edge of his bed. “Just waiting,” he says, his eyes following me with interest.

I blink at him. “For what?”

He continues to watch me, still looking intrigued. “To see what you’ll say next.”

I snort, trying to avoid blushing through sheer force of will. Does that even work? Is that a thing? I should look it up. It might be a useful skill to have. “I’m just rambling,” I say, drifting toward a large chest of drawers. I pull the top drawer open, peeking inside—shirts. I close that drawer and move on to the next one—socks, all folded neatly, mostly argyle.

I bet he has one row in his closet dedicated solely to tweed blazers.

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