“Remember when we couldn’t get him inside at all?” Bridget scratched behind his ears. “Now look at him. Total house cat.”
“Yeah, well.” Jo set the cat down, holding up the cash. “Explain.”
Bridget didn’t flinch. “I have a real job. I can help with bills.”
“We’ve been through this.”
“Jo.” Bridget’s voice stayed even. “I’m not the same person. I don’t need saving anymore. I’m stable. I’ve got references. No weird notes. No one following me. It’s been months.”
Jo watched Pickles return to his post, tail twitching. Bridget looked so steady. So sure.
“I know,” Jo said. “And I’m proud of you. But you don’t owe me rent just for existing here.”
“Maybe I want to contribute because it feels good. Not because I have to.”
Jo studied her sister. The darkness that used to cling to her was gone. Replaced by something steadier. Stronger.
“Fine,” Jo said. “Groceries. We’ll split those.”
Bridget grinned. “Deal. Want a cookie?”
“You made enough to feed half the county.”
“That’s the plan. New recipes.” Bridget moved to the counter, sorting through containers. “How’d your day go?”
Jo accepted a cookie—crisp edges, soft middle, still warm. “The usual. Body dumped in the woods.”
Bridget set down the measuring cup. “Another one?”
“Yeah.”
“For such a quiet New England town, we sure have a lot of murders. Who was it?”
“Don’t know yet. M.E. is still working.”
Bridget’s smile softened after a beat. “You want to talk about it?”
Jo watched Pickles take another swipe at the tank. “Not really. You good? With me bringing this stuff home?”
“I’m fine, Jo. Really.” Bridget pulled out more baking supplies. “Whatever was in my past... I think it’s actually staying there this time.”
The words landed. Jo wanted to believe them.
The cottage was warm. Pickles had abandoned the tank for a patch of evening sun. The place smelled like safety.
“Alright,” Bridget said, already measuring out flour. “You know what splitting groceries means, right?”
“What?”
“You can’t complain about my egg budget anymore.”
Jo laughed. “The hell I can’t.”
Bridget threw a dish towel at her head. “Go change. Dinner’s almost ready.”
Twenty minutes later, Jo came back in jeans and a soft tee, hair down. The kitchen had transformed. Bridget had cleared the baking chaos to one side, and now the stove held a large pot of boiling water and a pan with something creamy and garlic-heavy bubbling away.
“Smells incredible,” Jo said, leaning against the counter.