Page 84 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder

Rocco heaves a sigh. “I don’t know,” he mutters, running his hand over his hair again. “I don’t want to believe he would stoop this low. But he’s a son of a—ah.” He shoots me a self-conscious glance. “He’s a power-hungry scumbag, and he’s surrounded by power-hungry scumbags. So if you’re messing around with him”—he’s back to looking severe now, and I half expect him to start wagging his finger at me—“you just cut it out and leave it alone, all right?”

I garble out something nondescript under my breath, and I can’t help noticing that Aiden doesn’t reply at all. It seems neither of us want to promise him we’ll walk away.

What about Cam Verido?a little voice in my brain asks.Where is he in all this? And what about the incident Gus mentioned? How much do we really know about those two?

Not much. I can admit that. And it’s a thought that has my insides squirming with discomfort. I think back to the rest of the people on our Murder Board too before deciding to erase the Betties later. There’s no way a few small-town teachers would be involved in something like this, right?

When Rocco finally leaves, Aiden and I go back inside, although we make a quick detour to the dumpster first. Aiden holds the chicken-blood welcome mat pinched between two fingers, his arm extended as far away from his body as it will go, while I follow behind with a look of disgust on my face. I do feel better once the mat is safely at home in its trash heap, though, mingling with the company of old banana peels and grease-stained pizza boxes.

“Don’t you need to go to work?” I say once we’ve returned indoors. Aiden stands at the kitchen sink, scrubbing his hands with dish soap and a sponge. He’s using the bristly green side, not the softer yellow side, which makes me think he feels more violated by this ordeal than he’s letting on.

“I’ll go.” Short, to the point, quiet. But then he looks over his shoulder at me. “Will you be okay here by yourself?”

It’s a good question, and I don’t know if I have an answer. Will I be okay? Yes. I will emerge from the end of this day in one piece. But will I feel comfortable here alone, knowing that someone out there knows where I live and likes to play ding-dong-ditch with dead chickens?

No.

“I’ll be fine,” I say, smiling at him.

He pauses, like he doesn’t quite believe me, and then grunts, turning his attention back to his hands. I don’t even think they got any chicken blood on them, but I don’t blame him. I’m going to do the same when I take a shower. Scrub the top layer of skin off my body, watch it swirl down the drain, convince myself that the only sound I’m hearing is the thundering of the water as it beats against the glass.

“Why did you cry earlier?” He shuts the water off, shaking his hands over the sink before grabbing a towel from the counter and patting them dry. They’re the same red as my skin when I’ve been in a hot tub for too long.

“I just remembered something,” I say, keeping my voice light. “A bad memory. I’m fine.”

Aiden’s eyes fix on me for one long moment. I lie to him with my smile until finally he nods and heads to his bedroom, leaving me alone.

I don’t bother washing my hands at the sink. I just rush to the bathroom and strip immediately, kicking my clothes over to the corner of the tiled floor. I’ll wash them and then decide if I’m keeping them. Like Aiden’s hands, they didn’t get any blood on them, but they still feel irredeemably dirty right now.

Then I bolt into the shower like I’m the side character in a B horror film searching for the most obvious hiding spot she can find. You hide in the shower, you’re going to die, Side Character, but that never stops you. The shower is my salvation, though, and I turn the water all the way up to scalding, darting in and out of its path until I’m used to the temperature. Then I immerse myself as completely as possible, grabbing my citrus shampoo and squeezing out way more than I actually need.

Lather, rinse, repeat; lather, rinse, repeat; lather, rinse, repeat.

And as the water rains down, cleansing everything it touches, I tell myself I’m crying because I have soap in my eye.

* * *

When I emergefrom the bathroom thirty minutes later, I’m a woman on a mission.

Once my shower tears subsided, I started getting really, really angry. I’ve worked hard for my entire adult life to provide a safe space for myself—my home. It’s something I didn’t have as a child, so safety is priceless to me now.

And someone has come and trampled it under their stupid, stinky, chicken-wielding feet.

I am not okay with that. And I refuse to live in fear.

I stomp my way into my room and get dressed, pulling out clothing at random and wrestling it over my sticky, shower-damp skin. Then I march back downstairs with my phone in hand and make a call.

“Matilda,” I say when she picks up. “How’s it going?”

“Oh, hi!” she says, her voice cheerful. “It’s going well. How are you?”

“I’m fine,” I say. Like the contestants on every reality show ever, I’m not here to make friends, so I get right down to business. “I was actually calling to see if you’ve found anything about Thomas Freese.”

“As a matter of fact, I have. I was going to call you tonight,” she says, her voice suddenly lower. “Hang on.”

I listen to a series of shuffles and clatters and clanks until finally she returns.

“Okay. Juniper,” she says, a whispering, out-of-breath sound that makes me wonder if she’s lowering her voice on purpose. “Is this guy really your dad?”

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