Page 135 of Not That Ridiculous

Which had a phone number listed on the shitty little website I had going.

But—

“Technically, your bedroom is the body disposal site,” Jasper corrected me. “It’s not a crime scene unless there was a crime committed there, and if it’s the same deal as at Ray’s, then…” He broke off and sucked in a breath. “Was it a doll?” he asked. “Oh my god. What was it? What was it dressed as? Not another clown? Adam willdie. He fainted when Ray’s dad dug up the clown in Ray’s garden. You have to tell me.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to. Ask Liam.”

“Just tell me if it was a doll. Like, a mummy in a little outfit. It was, wasn’t it? Oh my god. The plot thickens. Was it? Blink if it was.”

“I blink regularly. If you want to take it as confirmation that yes, it was a human doll, that’s on you.” I blinked.

“Aha! I knew it!” He squinted. “Wait. Was that confirmation?”

I blinked again.

“Yes!” Jasper said. “Yes? I’m assuming yes if you don’t contradict me.”

“Assume away.”

There was a long silence, then he gave a cute little whine. “Charlie. I’m confused.”

I suppressed my smile. “Ask Liam.”

“That man is a vault. He won’t tell me anything.”

“It’s part of his job description not to.”

Jasper heaved a sigh of disappointment.

A couple of regulars came in. “You’re up,” I told him.

He beamed at me, and I couldn’t help but laugh. God, he was enthusiastic.

“I have wanted to do this for years,” he said, and hurried over to take the orders. “Can’t believe you’re finally letting me!”

I noticed that we were getting low on croissants, which were always in higher demand at the weekends, so I left him to it and ducked into the back to get a refill.

Jasper finished with the customers and came to watch me restock the pastry case. He was as fascinated as if he was sitting in on a particularly interesting brain surgery.

I set the tongs down and straightened, checking around to see if anything else needed doing.

Soft jazz music played over the speakers. The air was warm and scented with coffee. People were eating, talking, drinking. Outside, it was raining lightly. I felt the tension in my shoulders ease. Work stressed me out, but not this part of it.

This part, I loved.

I loved providing people with a friendly, welcoming place to hang out and take a moment in their busy lives. I loved the warm, cosy lights and the way that the greyer and more miserable it got outside, the cosier it got in here.

I leaned a hip against the counter and turned to Jasper, only to find him on his phone.

I reached over and took it out of his hand. “I have one rule for my baristas. Stay off your goddamn phone unless you’re on a break.”

“Pretty sure you’ve got more than one rule,” Jasper said and went to take his phone back.

I whipped it out of his reach. “Fair enough, I’ve got a couple more. Don’t drop the cups, and always check the use-by date on the milk carton.”

“I haven’t dropped a cup yet,” he said, snagging first my wrist and then his phone.

“I give you to the end of the day. You should know, I have a three-strike policy. Three cups and you’re fired.”

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