Page 89 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder

Her eyes are glazed as she stares vaguely at my pants, her thoughts clearly a million miles away—with Lionel, maybe, or Tommy Freese or Cam Verido.

“My mom,” she whispers, the words cracking. “Shedidlie to me. Probably to protect me, just like Tonya said. No child wants to know that she’s a product of—of—”

“Regardless of who your father was,” I say, “your mother loved you.” It’s a rash thing to say, maybe, but something tells me it’s true.

“I know she did,” Juniper says. “She wasn’t a good mom, though.”

“I know.”

She sniffles as a few more tears leak out of the corners of her eyes. I watch their path, a salty trickle over the bridge of her nose and down her cheeks, melting into the pillow. “That’s probably why she drank so much.”

I don’t say anything. I think she’s probably right.

“I talked to Matilda today.”

“Did you?” I say, surprised. “About Thomas Freese?”

“Mm-hmm. He committed suicide a week after my mom died, saying that he felt too guilty about the love of his life dying before he could make amends for the terrible things he’d done to her.”

My eyes narrow as I digest that. “So…”

“So”—she takes a deep breath—“what I think happened is that Tommy heard my mom died and felt guilty because he’d assaulted her,orhe found out what one of his friends did and they killed him.”

A chill settles over my skin. “Which do you think it was?”

A grim smile pulls at her lips. “Are you sure you want to hear? It’s far-fetched. An extrapolation of what we know mixed with intuition and guesswork.”

“Tell me.”

Her shoulders twitch in what I think is a little shrug. “I think my mom finally figured out who my father was. I think she told Thomas. And then I think whoever did that killed both of them.”

I blink, stunned. “Didn’t your mom die of a heart attack?”

Another little shrug. “Supposedly. There would be ways for someone to do that to her, though.”

That’s true. We sit in silence as my mind reels, working through possibilities and implications and loose ends.

I wish I had something to say, but I’m searching and searching and coming up blank. Nothing in my years of school prepared me for what to say to her right now.

“Aiden,” she says, so quietly I barely hear.

“Yeah.”

Another sniffle, and then three little words: “My heart hurts.”

So does mine.

But I sigh heavily. “I know.” I reach out without thinking to stroke the top of her head, but I freeze when my fingers are inches away. I debate for only a second before giving in and closing the distance. Sometimes it’s best to follow your instincts, especially in situations that are as emotionally sensitive as this.

So I stroke her hair lightly, feeling the softness, the warmth. “Let yourself grieve,” I say. “It might take some time.”

She nods. Then she speaks again. “Aiden.”

“Hmm.”

“Do you keep food in the fourth drawer for me?”

A hint of a smile touches my lips. “If I say no?”

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