Page 48 of Heidi Lucy Loses Her Mind

“We can come back if we need to,” I say, thinking. I keep my voice low as I go on. “I will say…Phil does not act like someone whose mother just died.”

“No,” Heidi agrees. “He was very weird. Did you get that vibe?”

“A little bit,” I say. “He seemed totally normal. That was what was weird to me. Elsie, too.”

“Yes,” she says. “Exactly.” Then she looks over at me. “Do you think anyone ever calls him Phildegarde?”

I smile.

11

FROM THE LIFE OF CARMINA HILDEGARDE

AUGUST 5

Carmina Hildegarde sat in her room, on her bed, and listened to her son and his wife argue.

People seemed to think that since she was old, Carmina’s faculties weren’t fully intact. But she was as sharp as she’d always been, and her hearing was just as good. So the angry tirades, the complaints, the grumbling about her presence in the house—she heard them all.

“She’syourmother—you need to help me clean up this mess!” Elsie’s voice was low, barely audible, but Carmina could understand fine. She pictured her daughter-in-law gesturing to the messy kitchen counter with one petite, fine-boned hand. Then she imagined her son wrinkling his nose at the mess of dirty dishes she’d left in the sink after an afternoon of cooking and baking.

“You know I don’t have time to do a bunch of cleaning,” his voice replied, more loudly than Elsie’s had been. “I have three calls I need to make and a report to finalize before the weekend.”

“Fine,” Elsie snapped, and for the tiniest moment, Carmina felt sorry for the girl. “Fine. Go do your work. I’ll clean it all up.”

Carmina considered going down to help. But, she thought as she stretched, she was so very tired.

Perhaps she would jot down some thoughts in her journal and then lie down for a little nap instead.

12

IN WHICH HEIDI SAMPLES SALTED CARAMEL

The sun is shining, the breeze is cool, and Carmina Hildegarde’s son and daughter-in-law are very odd. These three things I know with absolute certainty.

Why don’t Phil and Elsie Hildegarde seem at all sad about Carmina’s passing?

Soren and I are still standing by his car, talking in low voices, and it’s a struggle not to look back over my shoulder at the townhome every two seconds. My skin is prickling like someone’s watching us, and I have no idea if I’m imagining things. I pull my hair up off my neck, using the hair tie around my wrist to wrangle it into a ponytail. Then I rub the back of my neck a few times, trying to get rid of that creeping sensation. My brain is running rampant with visions of people peeking at us from behind their curtains.

I glance at Soren, but his blue eyes are fixed on where my hand is massaging my neck, and my mind jumps back to what he said before we came here.

He thinks we might kiss in the future.

And judging by how he’s looking at me—and how suddenly warm it makes me feel—I can maybe see why he thinks that.

I’m not saying it’s going to happen. I can’t imagine myself actually kissing Soren. He’s my favorite author. My feelings for him are those of a major (closeted) fangirl: unconditional support with zero expectations of reciprocation.

And yet…

I also have to admit that over the past few years, I’ve come to know the real Soren, too. Not the author S. Mackenzie, but theman. The snarky, playful one who looks like a caveman half the time and refuses to change—but the one who also washed my hair with impossibly gentle hands, who agreed to help me investigate Carmina with zero hesitation.

He’s the one I called before I hit my head. And I didn’t understand why until I was holding that envelope of cash in my hand the other night, pulling up his number before I even realized what I was doing.

With Soren I am safe.

With S. Mackenzie I’m a rabid fangirl who would buy his grocery list and frame it on my wall.

But with Soren the man…I’m just safe, and comfortable, and secure.

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