“We’ll keep looking, Jo,” Sam said, his hand briefly touching her arm. “We won’t give up.”
Jo nodded, grateful for the support. But the dread gnawed at her. The Webster case, Garvin’s murder, Marnie’s lies, Convale’s money—everything felt tangled, pieces of a larger puzzle she couldn’t see.
“One thing at a time,” Mick said, reading her thoughts. “We’ll start with Marnie and Convale. See where it leads.”
Jo managed a nod, feeling a flicker of relief. “Thanks for helping.”
They sat in silence, finishing their drinks, each lost in thought. The flickering light from a candle on the bar cast long shadows over them, blurring edges, hinting at secrets hidden in White Rock’s past.
Jo’s instincts told her one thing—nothing here was ever simple, and with every step they took, something darker loomed.
CHAPTER NINE
Bridget poured hot water over a tea bag, the steam curling into the small kitchen. The scent of chamomile filled the air, soothing, but her fingers froze on the handle as she heard the crunch of gravel. Jo’s truck had pulled up, and a familiar prickle of worry stirred in Bridget’s chest. She grabbed a second mug, dropped in another tea bag, and went to the door.
Through the window, she saw Jo crouched by the steps, hunched shoulders barely visible in the evening light. Bridget’s stomach tightened. Jo looked worn, her tired eyes focused on Pickles, the orange tabby who’d made himself part of their porch. Usually wary of anyone getting too close, Pickles leaned into Jo’s hand as if sensing her weariness.
“Hey,” Bridget said softly, stepping out with two steaming mugs.
Jo glanced up, a tired smile on her face. “Hey, sis.”
Bridget set the mugs on the railing and crouched down beside her, reaching out to stroke the cat’s back. “Would you look at that,” she murmured, stroking the tabby’s soft fur. “Guess he’s warming up to us.”
Jo nodded, her hand slowing. “Yeah, maybe he’ll even come inside one of these days.”
“At least he’s got the porch,” Bridget said, offering Jo her tea.
Jo took the mug, her face tightening as she blew on the tea. “Bridge, we need to talk about the cottage.”
A chill went through Bridget that had nothing to do with the temperature. “What about it?”
“Garvin’s kids are flying in tomorrow. With him gone…” Jo trailed off, glancing at the cat curled up at her feet.
Bridget’s throat felt dry. “They might not want to sell to us.”
Jo nodded, her gaze drifting. “We don’t know what they’ll decide.”
Bridget gripped her mug, fighting to steady her thoughts. This place had become her sanctuary, her first real taste of stability in years. The thought of losing it, of being uprooted again, left her feelinguntethered. She gestured to Pickles. “And him? If we have to leave…”
Jo reached over, squeezing her arm. “Hey, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We’ll figure it out.”
Bridget forced herself to nod, swallowing against the knot in her throat.You just got settled here. Don’t let it slip away.
She shivered as a gust of icy wind swept through the trees, rustling the last of the fallen leaves across the gravel. She tugged her sweater tighter, glancing at Jo. “Let’s head inside before we freeze.”
Jo nodded, giving Pickles one final pet, then led the way. They stepped into the cottage, a cozy warmth washing over them. Though she’d only recently moved in, the place already felt like home to Bridget. Jo’s “cottage chic” style filled every corner: thrifted knickknacks, well-loved furniture, and stacks of books. Jo had spent years scouring yard sales, picking out pieces with the same care she put into everything.
Bridget took it all in, grateful for the warmth and familiarity. The glow of a table lamp cast a soft light over the overstuffed couch, the polished wood floor, and the shelves lined with a mix of Jo’s true-crime novels and her own well-worn self-help guides.
In the corner, their goldfish, Finn, swam up to the side of his aquarium, seemingly undisturbed by thechill they’d left behind. Outside, the soft trickling of the stream running through the woods added to the cottage’s peaceful hum. Bridget set her mug down, taking in the small details that made the place feel whole.
Jo moved to Finn’s aquarium, sprinkling in a flake of food. The goldfish darted up, snapping it in an instant.
“At least someone’s happy to see me,” she muttered, a faint smile crossing her face.
Bridget leaned against the doorframe, studying her sister’s face. “Any leads on Garvin?”
Jo’s smile faded. “Not yet. But it was violent, Bridge. Someone killed him, and I can’t shake the feeling it’s tied to this property.”