Page 94 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder

“I wasn’t going to say that,” he says, his voice quiet.

I blink. “What were you going to say? The last time you took me to a dance…”

His sigh sends a burst of static down the line. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Are you sure?” I say.

“Yeah.”

“Well, if you take me with you this time, I’ll buy us matching earrings.”

“Tempting,” he says, and I take it as a good sign that I can hear the smile in his voice.

I sigh. “All right, I need to get going. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Yep,” he says, and then he hangs up.

I toss the phone away from me and close my eyes, forcing myself to take a few deep breaths. Logically, pretty much any emotion from me would make sense right now. I’m in the middle of learning terrible truths about myself and my parents and my past. I still see Sandy’s dead body when I close my eyes. There’s no emotional reaction that wouldn’t makesomesort of sense in this situation.

But my frustration and disappointment are still sharp and biting in my chest, welling up from who knows where and for who knows what reason.

Usually when I’m feeling off, I look forward to yoga—endorphins and all that. Today, though, I dress sluggishly, dragging my leggings up my legs and getting tangled in my sports bra for longer than a grown woman should be tangled in any sort of clothing.

Although…

I perk up a little at the thought that occurs to me. I could take another run at Gus. Figure out what “incident” stopped Sandy from coming to yoga.

I can hear the more mature part of my mind telling me to slow down, to stop hunting for new information when I’m struggling to process the things I already know. But the other part of me, the louder part, is grasping at straws in the dark, trying to make sense of everything that’s happening. To find reasons and logic in the things that keep me awake at night.

Because maybe, if I can figure the scary things out, they won’t be so scary anymore.

When I arrive at the studio, I’m pleased to see that Gus is smiling his usual too-happy smile. He chats here and there with class members in between classes, disappearing into his office every now and then. This should bode well for my possibly invasive questions later.

Right? A good mood should mean it’s easier to get him to talk. I just need to try to be subtle. I bite my lip, thinking as I watch him moving around. It might also be time to fill him in just a little bit on what’s going on. That will help him realize that I’m really not being nosy; I just need to know.

I do take a few minutes to eye his muscles nervously, though. Those babies could do some serious damage if he decided to pick me up and chuck me down the staircase or something. I smile as Matilda’s words come to mind—that my blind date “probably couldn’t bench press three hundred pounds, but he could for sure bench pressyou.”

Gus could bench press three hundred pounds, and me, and the whole bench—all at once.

I keep an eye on him for the remainder of the afternoon. Partly it’s to stay apprised of his mood; partly it’s because if I let myself sink into my thoughts, I’ll inevitably end up stewing over all the troubling things that have been happening lately. So I choose to stare at my unsuspecting boss instead, like a weirdo, while going through the motions of my classes. I wait halfheartedly for the endorphins to show up, but—and maybe it’s just the state I’m in—they’re conspicuously absent.

When the last class lets out and the studio is filled with the bustle of sweaty yogis rolling up mats and chugging from water bottles, I begin solidifying my approach. I smile and wave to everyone who leaves, my mind barely engaged with the interactions, my eyes once more lingering on my boss. His mood hasn’t changed; he still seems happy and cheerful as per usual, that perma-smile plastered firmly in place.

It doesn’t take long for the studio to empty until it’s just the two of us again, and that’s when I approach Gus.

“Hey,” I say to him, gathering my fleeing courage like a cowgirl with a lasso, reining it in and forcing it to stick around. It’s time to do this. “I wanted to talk to you. Do you have a minute?”

“Sure,” he says. It’s hard to tell exactly how he feels about this request, because while his eyes seem curious, his mouth is still smiling. So…maybe pleasantly curious? Happily curious? Or maybe he’s not happy but it just takes a few seconds for the smile to fade?

He looks around awkwardly for a second before gesturing to his office. “Come in, I guess.”

“Oh,” I say, holding up one hand. “It’s not official or anything. I really just—well. I wanted to talk to you about Sandra. Sandra von Meller.”

Gus’s posture shifts so minimally I almost don’t notice, but it reminds me of a cat when its ears swivel toward you and its entire body freezes. Alert, wary, paying attention to see what happens next.

“Gus,” I say, sighing when I see the slight stiffening of his shoulders. “Please. I really need to know about the incident with Sandra. Something—she’s—I think something happened to her.” I swallow, following my instinct to tell him at least part of the truth. “She’s missing,” I say. “So if you know anything that could help, anything at all…” I turn my pleading eyes to him. I’m not normally someone who begs, but I’m willing to right now.

Gus just looks at me for a moment, his eyes narrowed, his mouth tight. “What do you mean, she’s missing?”

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