Page 97 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder

“I am,” I say impatiently, still pacing. “Go on.”

“I told her that Sandy was seeing someone. An older guy; a teacher, I think. And then Juniper started talking to herself about fuchsia sweatshirts and ran out and—”

“Hold on,” I say. I’ve frozen in place, two steps away from my office door. “She was seeing ateacher?”

“I think so,” Gus says. “So I told Juniper that and she started muttering to herself—she sounded unhinged, really—and then she ran out before I could stop her. I’ve been trying to get a hold of her, but she isn’t answering.”

Crap.Crap.

I fling my office door open and begin sprinting down the deserted hallway. “Tell me exactly what Juniper was saying.” If she was thinking about a teacher, would she have come here? Just barged on over without a plan? What was she going to do—ask everyone she could find if they were sleeping with their students?

“She said something about fuchsia sweatshirts. Fuchsia hoodies.”

“Fuchsia hoodies,” I repeat as I turn a sharp corner and continue on my path to the front entrance. I rack my brain. Does that mean anything to me? Sandy was wearing a pinkish-purplish hoodie in one of the pictures her mom showed us; would that be considered fuchsia? I guess I’m not entirely clear on what fuchsia looks like. And what about magenta; are they the same?

“What else?” I say, because this is getting me nowhere. My feet echo against the tile as I shoot across the foyer before bursting out of the front doors. I need to check the parking lot; I need to know if Juniper is here. Her yellow clunker will be easy enough to spot.

“Nothing else,” Gus says, sounding regretful. “That was it.”

“Thanks,” I say, my voice breathless and distracted. I hang up without saying goodbye, craning my neck this way and that as I search for Juniper’s car.

The parking lot in front of the school is about half-full, but there’s not a single yellow car to be found. The air I’m dragging into my lungs is knife-sharp and painful, but I don’t slow down. I hurtle down the length of the building, red brick a blur in the corner of my vision, and then turn the corner, emerging into the back lot. This is the only other place she could have parked; if she’s here, I’ll know.

This lot is emptier, dotted with a few generic sedans. Red, silver, white, black, black, dark green—

Yellow.

There it is.

A yellow VW Beetle, bumper tilted askew, patched with duct tape.

It takes me an impressive six seconds to reach the car on the other side of the lot. I lean down and look through the windows, checking to make sure she’s not there, but it’s empty. There’s nothing inside that gives me any hints or clues, either; no scraps of paper with her exact location, no conveniently placed pictures of the culprit. I stand up straight again, pushing my hand through my hair and looking around while I catch my breath. Rocco and the cross country team are down at the bottom of the hill, running the track that circles the football field. I can ask him later if he knows anything about Sandra or any teacher she might have been hooking up with; right now I just need to find Juniper. So even though I’m still breathing hard, even though the autumn air is harsh in the back of my throat, I turn around and begin running again, toward the school this time.

The halls are mostly empty; students have long since left, except for those who are doing clubs or practices. I slow down as I pass open doors, not bothering to be inconspicuous as I stick my head in each classroom. But look as I might, I can’t find Juniper, and ugly pictures are beginning to form in my mind’s eye.

Juniper charging recklessly to accuse someone in person—some massive, faceless figure that overpowers her with ease.

Juniper unconscious, bleeding, or worse.

Juniper on the floor of the forest by Solomon the Spud—

“Stop it,” I hiss to myself as I continue to hunt through every hallway I come across. “Juststop it—”

But I freeze in my tracks, tripping over my own feet and stumbling to a halt as I pass by the large library window. I blink my eyes rapidly, trying to confirm what I see, before spinning on my heel and bolting to the entrance.

The librarian isn’t at her usual desk, which I’m beyond grateful for. I speed past the shelves, row after row, before the lone figure I saw through the window becomes visible once more.

It’s her.It’s her.

The most powerful sense of relief floods through me, a rush that leaves me lightheaded and struggling for breath. And maybe it’s notjustrelief; it’s something more potent. A contradicting tangle of frustration and solace, the desire to shout and the desire to hold her close.

She’s crouched down, or maybe sitting—I can’t quite tell through the stacks—but I recognize the strips of her that I can see. I recognize the flash of bubblegum pink and the blur of yellow that’s most likely her favorite yoga tank.

Less familiar to me is her posture, though; as I round the last row of shelves separating us, I see finally that she’s seated on the same step stool I used last time we were here together. Her head is bowed, her shoulders slumped in defeat.

A spark of something hot ignites deep in my chest as I stride toward her. Juniper is not a woman who should ever look so crushed.

“What are you doing here?” The words burst out of me well before I’ve reached her, but I don’t stop moving. I continue my approach until I’m standing right in front of where she’s perched on the step stool, looking up at me, her chin set defiantly even as her eyes flash. The corners of her lips curl down ever so slightly, andcrap, I want to kiss them.

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