Page 96 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder

The car that was following me.

I search that memory more frantically, playing desperately through every detail I can conjure. The car followed me down Main and to Grind and Brew, and I thought I saw it when I left Namaste that day, too. It was white, I remember, so it could have been Sandra’s, especially since I know she was following Aiden later.

The people in that car were wearing some kind of obnoxious pink, but was it that same fuchsia? Was that them—Sandy and her mystery man? But if she was dating a teacher on the downlow, why would they be in public together?

Although…they were in a car. They might have assumed that would be safe, especially if they were just stopping by.

I turn around as I hear the sharp blast of a whistle. There are students down below, probably the cross country team—some of them are sitting in the grass, stretching; others are jogging around the track. A couple more are standing by the goal post, chatting.

Those things aren’t what catch my attention, though. What catches my attention is the number of vivid fuchsia shirts I see; several t-shirts and two long-sleeved shirts. My gaze darts more intently over the scene below.

And then a chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the brisk breeze and everything to do with the cross country coach, who I’ve just spotted.

He’s standing at the edge of the track with a clipboard in hand, the other hand on his hip. Dark hair, graying at the temples. Charismatic smile. A bright fuchsia hoodie.

A man who knew my mother and her friends.

A man who I know to have the same clear blue eyes as the brother he so loathes.

The same eyes, in fact, that I see when I look in the mirror.

I swallow my scream as the man in question looks up suddenly, waving when he spots me. I force my trembling body to respond, lifting my hand and waving in response.

Rocco Astor smiles.

23

IN WHICH AIDEN FINALLY CAVES

I’m just about to leave my office when my phone rings. It’s been a long day, mostly because the image of Juniper asleep in my bed keeps popping into my mind at the most inconvenient times—not an angelic sight, but more like the troll beneath the bridge, her mouth gaping open, emitting a faint snore that likely came from how congested she was after all that crying. Her hair was a messy shock of pink spread all over my pillow. There was nothing particularly beautiful about the visual.

And yet I’m still thinking of it eight hours later. I’m still half wishing that I could return home and find her in the exact same spot.

I shake my head, trying to banish the image. It’s tempting to ignore my ringing phone so I can leave faster, but I answer anyway, primarily to distract myself.

“Hello,” I say, wedging the phone in between my shoulder and my ear so I can finish getting my papers into my bag.

“Hi.” The voice is familiar but only just; I pause, waiting for the caller to go on. “This is Gus Flanders, from Namaste?”

“Oh,” I say, frowning. “Hello.”

“Hi,” he says again. “Uh, I called because I was concerned about Juniper.”

My hand freezes in the process of shoving a book in my bag. “What do you mean? Concerned how?”

Gus sighs. “She rushed out of here a bit ago after—after—we had a conversation that I think upset her—”

“What did you do to upset her?” I say, abandoning my bag. I let it fall to my desktop before straightening up and holding my phone in my hand.

“I didn’tdoanything,” Gus says. There’s an affronted note to his voice, so I rein in my quick temper.

“Sorry,” I say, forcing myself to breathe. “Just tell me what happened, please. Why are you concerned?”

Another sigh. “She was asking me about someone who used to come to the studio—”

“Sandra von Meller,” I cut in as my pulse trips. I start pacing the length of my small office.

There’s a brief silence, and then Gus says, “Yes. I guess you’re aware of all that—”

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