Page 105 of Heidi Lucy Loses Her Mind

“Anyway,” he says, shaking his head a little. “What’s up?”

“Just thinking about Carmina,” I say with a sigh. “And trying to figure out what she meant,pickandlock.”

“Mmm,” he hums. “I still don’t know about that one. All I know is…” He trails off, looking out the window with an almost wistful expression.

“What?” I say.

“All I know is that I’d like to go to the farmer’s market with you this weekend, and I’d like to not have to think about murder while we’re there,” he says quietly. Then he turns his eyes back to me. “It’s taking over my life and my thoughts, and I don’t like it.” He tilts his head. “Want to go to the farmer’s market with me this weekend?”

I smile faintly. “Yeah,” I say. “I do.”

“Can we try not to worry about all this while we’re there?” he goes on. “Even just for a little bit?”

I nod, swallowing down the sudden knot in my throat.

Because I know what he means. These days Carmina is most of what I think about. Which is to be expected, of course—she died recently, right in front of us. But it does become draining, living in those shadows.

And I find myself wondering if this wave of tiredness that washes over me will ever really go away.

“Go ahead and get some work done,” I tell him, standing up and patting his leg. Now doesn’t seem like the time to brainstorm what Carmina’s last words meant. I think we both need some normalcy.

So I spend the rest of my day as normally as I can; I help out in the kitchen, I shelve books, I chat mindlessly with Gemma, Mel, and Calvin. I sneak peeks at Soren—myboyfriend—and I soak up the sun that’s spilling through the display windows.

It’s nice. Refreshing.

But it also feels insincere. Like I’m pretending everything is okay when it isn’t. And maybe I would feel okay about putting Carmina’s murder on the back burner if there were other people mourning her passing.

But…I’m not sure there are. And it feels wrong, somehow, to set aside her death just because it’s not convenient for what I’m feeling.

I don’t know that I owe Carmina Hildegarde anything. But I started this journey; I need to see it through to the end. So even though I spend the day doing normal, mundane things…when I go to bed that night, I let myself return to Carmina. I stare at the ceiling and try to lasso my racing thoughts, all of which are jumbled and confused and oddly emotional.

I squeeze my eyes shut, blinking a few times, but it doesn’t stop the sting of tears.

And I can’t believe this. I can’t believe there are tears in my eyes because I feel bad for Carmina Hildegarde—the woman who was so insufferable in life.

But…it’s sosad.And really, shouldn’t someone mourn her? Shouldn’tsomeonecare that she’s gone?

Maybe I can be that person.

So I let myself cry for the old woman I barely knew. I let myself remember everything I know about her, about the life she was living before she died. The shirt inside out in the photo at her funeral; the callous son and daughter-in-law; the picture of her husband under her pillow and his picture in her locket.

She was so lonely.

And I freeze, then, in the process of wiping my eyes, my hands hovering over my cheeks. There’s something nagging at my mind, something I can’t place—those last thoughts play eerily in my thoughts, sending up flags.

But why?

His picture in her locket.

His picture in her locket.

I sit up in bed, my teary eyes widening. “Picture,” I breathe into my quiet, dark bedroom. “Locket. Pick. Lock.” I feel around blindly in the dark for the switch to my lamp and then turn it on; the light floods the room, and I wince.

But I don’t wait for my eyes to adjust. I grab my phone and then, disregarding the time stamp that tells me it’s the middle of the night, I call Soren.

It takes him four rings to answer, which feels like way too long when I’m practically dancing out of my skin.

“Soren,” I say when I hear his groggy, half-audiblehello.“Wake up.”

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