Chapter 9
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 follow her 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.
“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.
“Garlic cream sauce. And before you ask, yes, I used the entire bulb.” Bridget stirred the sauce, then tasted it from the spoon. Her face did that thing it always did when she was adjusting flavors—brow furrowed, head tilted. She added a pinch of salt and stirred again.
Jo grabbed two plates from the cabinet. “Need help?”
“Can you drain the pasta in a minute? I’m trying not to break the sauce.”
“Sure.”
Pickles appeared from nowhere, winding between Jo’s legs and meowing plaintively at the stove.
“He knows,” Bridget said, grinning. “He always knows when it’s pasta night.”
“Because you always give him a taste.”
“A tiny taste.”
The water boiled hard. Bridget nodded, and Jo dumped the pasta into the colander in the sink, steam rising in a cloud. The smell of cooked rigatoni mixed with the garlic and cream.
Bridget tossed the drained pasta into the pan with the sauce, coating every piece. She plated it quickly, adding a sprinkle of parmesan and fresh cracked pepper.
They sat at the small kitchen table, Pickles hovering nearby like a tiny, furry vulture.
Jo twirled pasta onto her fork and took a bite. Creamy, garlicky, perfectly seasoned. “Wow.”
“Good?”
“Yeah it is.”
They ate in comfortable silence for a while, Pickles finally giving up and curling up on the chair between them, his head resting on the table’s edge like he was waiting for someone to crack.
“This is really good,” Jo said, because it was.
“Thanks.” Bridget’s smile was genuine. Unguarded. “I’ve been working on the sauce for weeks. Couldn’t get the balance right until today.”
Jo watched her sister across the table—flour still in her hair, relaxed, happy.
“Save me leftovers,” Jo said. “I’ll probably need them tomorrow.”
Bridget smirked. “Only if you admit my egg budget is justified.”
“Never.”
“Then no leftovers.”
“You’re the worst.”
“And yet, you love me.”
Jo shook her head, but she was smiling. Yeah. She did.
Pickles stretched, yawned, then hopped down to investigate Finn’s tank again. The fish swam lazy circles, completely unimpressed.
Outside, the evening settled in. Quiet. Peaceful.
For tonight, this was enough.