Chapter 12
Solving murders is exhausting, but being a mom to a ten-month-old is a different kind of battlefield—and tonight I get to experience both at the same time, which feels less like multitasking and more like a cosmic joke.
Once the lobster boil finishes up, Emmie and I walk back to my cottage in the dark with our feet dragging through sand that’s still warm from the heat.
The air smells like saltwater and leftover barbecue smoke from someone’s early Fourth of July cookout, and there are red, white, and blue solar lights staked along the path like a patriotic runway.
“I’m too tired to function,” Emmie says.
“Same.”
“Like, genuinely too tired. I might fall asleep standing up.”
“I’ll catch you if you do.”
“You’re too tired to catch me.”
“Fair point.”
The cottage windows are glowing warm and yellow up ahead, and I can see shadows moving inside. Jasper and Leo seem to have survived. This is a good sign.
I push open the door and immediately understand why they survived.
Pizza boxes. Everywhere. At least four different kinds scattered across the coffee table, the kitchen counter, one balanced precariously on the arm of the couch. Chinese takeout containers are doing their best to fill in the gaps—lo mein, fried rice, what might be an entire gallon of wonton soup.
And in the middle of the floor, illuminated by the glow of the television, are Ella and Elliot in matching star-spangled pajamas, absolutely mesmerized by a blue cartoon dog.
And that blue dog happens to be the patron saint of exhausted parents everywhere.
Jasper is sprawled on the couch looking like he’s been through his own kind of battle.
Leo is sitting on the floor next to the kids, and both men look up when we walk in with expressions that suggest relief and mild trauma in equal measure.
“They’ve been like this for twenty minutes,” Jasper says. “It’s the longest peace we’ve had all day.”
“That blue dog on TV is a parenting miracle,” Leo adds. “I’m building a shrine.”
Ella sits with one hand gripping her toes, completely focused on the screen. Every time the cartoon dog does something, she claps. It’s automatic. Rhythmic. And vaguely unsettling in its intensity.
Elliot is more interactive, pointing at the TV and babbling commentary that sounds very important even though none of it is actual words. But I get the feeling they will be soon enough.
“Did they eat?” Emmie asks.
“They had pasta,” Leo says. “And peas. And some mango. And then Elliot threw a handful of peas at the wall, so we decided dinner was over.”
“There are peas on the wall?” I ask, amused and horrified all at once.
“There were,” Leo says. “I cleaned them. Mostly.”
The door behind us opens and all five pets file in from whatever beach adventure they’ve been on. Gatsby first, then Cinnamon, then Biscuit Gravy, Fish, and Sherlock bringing up the rear. They’re sandy and damp and look extremely pleased with themselves.
The babies notice immediately.
Ella shrieks, and yet Elliot shrieks louder. Both of them start clapping and laughing and making sounds that are half joy, half air raid siren.
The small ones have lost all control, Fish notes, flicking sand off her paws like it personally offended her. Their volume is approaching criminal levels, but I’m willing to overlook it this once. Bizzy, please see that it doesn’t happen again.
“I’ll do my best,” I mutter.
This is the best welcome I’ve ever received, Biscuit Gravy announces. I’m a hero. I’m beloved. I’m the bearer of face licking.
And he gets right to it.
Ella lunges for Fish’s tail. Elliot tries to grab Sherlock’s ear. Gatsby backs up nervously while Cinnamon just flops down and accepts her fate as a baby jungle gym.
They’re screaming. Why are they screaming? Is this good screaming? Gatsby asks, genuinely worried.
You’d think they were used to it by now.
It’s good screaming, Sherlock assures him. Probably. Plus, I see a pizza crust under the couch so that should make up for it.
And then Elliot stands up.
“What?” I gasp.
He’s holding onto the couch, his chubby little hands gripping the cushion, and he’s staring at Cinnamon with a focus usually reserved for hostile takeovers.
“Leo,” Emmie says quietly. “Leo, he’s standing.”
“I see him,” Leo says the words without moving his lips.
Elliot lets go of the couch.
Takes one step.
Then another.
Then falls directly into Cinnamon’s fluffy golden side, laughing the entire time.
Emmie bursts into tears.
Leo has his phone out, taking approximately a thousand photos in rapid succession. Jasper scrambles for his phone to record video, and I’m tearing up because apparently I’m emotionally compromised by a one-year-old taking two steps before face-planting into a dog.
Did Elliot just dance a jig? Sherlock asks. Is that new?
I helped! Cinnamon gives a sharp bark. I was his emotional support fallback cushion! He couldn’t have landed so soft without me!
“Did you see that?” Emmie’s crying and laughing at the same time. “Did everyone see that?”
“We saw,” I say, wiping my eyes.
“His first steps!”
“Technically, his first two steps,” Leo corrects, still taking pictures.
Elliot is already trying again, pulling himself up on Cinnamon, who’s lying there looking extremely proud of her contribution to this developmental milestone.
Jasper appears with sparkling water and actual glasses, which feels fancy until he says, “Champagne budget, sparkling water reality.”
“I’ll take it,” Emmie says.
He pours for everyone, and we gather in a loose circle around the babies and the pets and the general chaos.
“To Elliot’s first steps,” Leo says, raising his glass.
“To Cinnamon’s emotional support cushion,” I add. “May we all fall on something soft if we need it.”
Jasper hands me a plate of cold sesame chicken and I realize I’m starving. Emmie’s already grabbed a slice of pizza. We settle onto the couch while the babies go back to their TV trance, now using various pets as pillows.
“So,” Leo says, and there’s a glint in his eye that means trouble. “Detective Wilder, how did it go tonight?”
“I wasn’t there,” Jasper says.
“I’m talking to the head detective in the case.” Leo gestures at me with a spring roll.
Jasper looks mock-offended. “I’m literally a homicide detective.”
“Yes,” Emmie says. “But Bizzy’s the one who gets lobster thrown at her while interrogating suspects.”
“That’s what happened,” I concede.
I take a bite of chicken and try to figure out where to begin. “Let’s just say the lobster boil was educational.”
“Educational how?” Jasper asks.
“I learned that Mackenzie’s friends think wearing a bib is beneath them. Right up until butter starts flying, and then it’s every woman for herself.”
Emmie laughs. “Someone’s manicure broke and you would have thought she’d been shot. The gasp that echoed across that beach could be heard in Texas.”
“Blaire tried to eat lobster in heels,” I add. “Actual heels. On a beach. While cracking shellfish. And, well, she accomplished the feat. So kudos to her.”
“These are the women who vacation in the Hamptons and think they’re roughing it,” Emmie says. “One of them asked if the corn was organic.”
Leo’s grinning. “What did you say?”
“I said it was corn and that she was organic so it was probably okay.”
We all share a good laugh, and it feels good. Normal. Like maybe we’re not actually investigating a murder and just living regular lives where the biggest crisis is whether the produce is organic.
“So what’s your next move?” Jasper asks, and his tone shifts just enough that I know he’s not joking anymore.
“I have nothing planned.”
He gives me a flat stare that could get nuclear codes out of the president.
“You’re meeting with someone tomorrow, aren’t you.” Jasper’s not asking.
I hesitate just long enough that everyone notices.
“Sloane offered to give me a quote on the sunroom,” I say with far too much excitement. “I’ve never been more anxious to part with my money.”
“The sunroom you’ve been wanting for a year,” Jasper says, breaking out into a genuine smile.
“That’s the one.”
“And she can start when?”
“After the Fourth.”
His eyebrows go up. “Seriously? That fast?”
“That’s what she said. She mentioned they’re booked through September but she could squeeze us in. I guess maybe something fell through.”
“Sounds like you’ve got an in with the right people.” Jasper pulls me closer. “You’ve been wanting that sunroom forever. If she can actually deliver, that’s fantastic.”
“Really?”
“Really. Just get references first. Check out her previous work. Standard stuff.”
“I will. I promise.”
Emmie grabs another slice of pizza. “What’s the vision? Tell me everything.”
I light up because I can’t help it. “Floor-to-ceiling windows, French doors to the gardens, built-in window seats, heated floors—”
“Heated floors?” Leo whistles. “Fancy.”
“Historic properties require specialists,” I say. “And Sloane knows what she’s doing. She mentioned they just finished a project for the Hendersons in Rolling Oaks.”
“That’s the Victorian with the conservatory,” Emmie says. “I’ve seen pictures. And it is gorgeous.”
We’re quiet for a moment, just eating and watching the babies sleep and pretending like everything is normal and nobody has ever dropped dead at the inn.
Jasper sighs. “I need you both to be careful this week.”
Emmie and I look up.
“These women are dangerous,” Leo adds, quickly sobering up himself. “One of them is a killer. And if she’s willing to stab someone in the back to keep them quiet—”
“She won’t hesitate to do it again,” Jasper finishes.
The temperature in the room drops about ten degrees.
“We’re being careful,” I say.
“I know you are,” he says, pulling me close. “But I need you to keep your heads on a swivel. Don’t go anywhere alone. Don’t let anyone corner you. And if something feels wrong—”
“We get out,” Emmie says quietly.
“You get out,” Leo confirms. “No investigating. No confronting. You leave and you call us.”
“We will,” I promise.
Jasper looks at me with those gray eyes that see everything. “I mean it, Bizzy. I know you’re good at this. I know you can take care of yourself. But someone already died this week, and I’m not losing you to some entitled psychopath with a designer handbag and a grudge.”
“You won’t.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
He holds my gaze for another beat, then nods and lands a kiss to my lips. “I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
I close my eyes for just a second, breathing in the smell of pizza and ocean air and summer nights that feel like they might last forever even though I know they won’t.
Somewhere on this beach, a killer thinks they’re safe. I’m about to prove them very, very wrong.