“What’s she making tonight?” Sam asked.
“That pasta thing with the garlic cream sauce.” Jo’s smile widened. “Pickles is probably going crazy with the smell.”
Kevin grinned. “Your sister’s gonna make me gain twenty pounds.”
Sam felt himself relax slightly. Some things, at least, were normal.
Mick chuckled. “That sister of yours could open a restaurant.”
“Don’t tell her that. She’ll try.” Jo finished her drink and stood. “I should go. Can’t let her down.”
Sam watched her go, noting the way her hand brushed her pocket again. Whatever she wasn’t telling him, she’d share when she was ready. They didn’t keep secrets from each other.
Sam’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out, reading the text.
Wyatt:Mom’s doing better. Car’s fine now too. See you in the morning.
The words felt careful. Too careful. But maybe he was reading into things. Long day, body in the woods—everything felt heavier than it should.
Kevin drained the last of his beer and stood, stretching. “I should head out, too. Got an early start tomorrow.”
“Night, Kevin,” Sam said.
“See you in the morning.” Kevin grabbed his jacket and headed for the doors, leaving Sam and Mick alone at the table.
The colored light from the stained glass shifted as the sun dropped lower, casting deeper shadows across the old church floor. Sam took another sip of his beer, letting the quiet settle around them.
“Long day,” Mick observed.
“Yeah.” Sam set his bottle down, turning it slowly between his hands. “And tomorrow’s not looking any easier.”
Mick was quiet for a moment, then signaled Bernadette for another round. “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”
Sam nodded, but his thoughts had already drifted—to the body in the woods, to Jo’s hand in her pocket, to Wyatt’s carefully worded text.
Tomorrow would bring what it brought.
For now, he’d finish his beer and head home to Lucy.
CHAPTER NINE
Jo hipped the cottage door shut behind her, grocery bag swinging from one hand. The place smelled like a damn bakery—butter, vanilla, something caramelized. Every available surface in the kitchen had been colonized by baked goods. Cookies, muffins, at least three cakes.
“Bridge?” She wedged the milk onto the only clear corner of counter. “Where exactly are you planning to put this?”
“Living room!” Bridget’s voice floated back. “And I see you eyeing those lemon bars. Don’t.”
Jo hung her jacket by the door. Something crinkled in the pocket—she pulled out a folded wad of bills and exhaled through her nose.
A soft thump made her turn. Their orange striped cat, Pickles, had claimed his spot on the edge of Finn’s tank again, batting at the glass with one lazy paw. The fish drifted past, unbothered. This had been going on for weeks.
“Down.”
The cat didn’t even twitch.
“He’s obsessed,” Bridget said, padding into the kitchen. Her hair was tied back, flour still streaked across her shirt. She looked solid. Grounded. The haunted edge that used to followher around had dulled to almost nothing. “I think he gave up on the actual hunt. Now it’s just... his thing.”
Jo scooped up Pickles. He went boneless immediately, like he’d forgotten what a spine was for.