Chapter 2
Silas
Crowds aren't my thing. Too much noise layered on top of noise.
Children shrieking with joy or tantrum, vendors calling out their wares, music from competing speakers creating a discordant mess that makes my teeth ache.
After enough years in the service, in places where sound could mean the difference between safe and compromised, I learned to prefer the quiet.
Wide-open woods. The steady rhythm of a river running over rocks.
Wind moving through pine trees. The pop and crackle of a fire.
But here I am, walking through the Maple Ridge Fall Festival like I belong, like this is something I do. Like I'm the kind of person who shows up to community events and mingles and makes small talk about the weather and whether this year's apple crop is better than last year's.
I don't belong here. I know it. Anyone looking at me knows it.
The only reason I even came was because I heard Cassiopeia Sinclair would be here signing books. Not that I’d ever admit that to anyone.
She's sitting behind her booth, arranging stacks of paperbacks like each one is something precious that needs to be handled with care.
Her banner flutters in the October breeze—purple and cream, her name in elegant script.
Pumpkins from the orchard are lined up around the table, real ones that still have bits of stem and field dirt clinging to them.
She's smiling to herself, that soft little expression she gets when she's lost in her own world.
I've seen that smile before, though always from a distance. Across the street when I'm in town for supplies. Through the window of the coffee shop when I stop in for beans. Once, memorably, at the library when I was returning books and she was there for some kind of author event.
Cassie Sinclair is...different. Bright in a way that has nothing to do with volume or flash.
Dreamy. Like she's got one foot here in Maple Ridge and the other somewhere up in the clouds, in whatever story she's currently building inside her head. She’s lived in the shadow of her older brother, Orion, the flashy football star, her whole life.
But in my eyes? Cassie is the star.
And I've been too damn captivated by her for my own good for longer than I want to admit.
I stop at the edge of her booth, suddenly aware that I don't have a plan beyond "show up and see her." I clear my throat, the sound rougher than I intend. "How much for a copy?"
Her head snaps up, eyes going wide. Green with flecks of gold, sharp enough to pin me to the spot. For a moment, she just stares at me, and I wonder if I've made a mistake coming here.
"Oh. Hi." She fumbles with the stack in front of her, nearly knocking over a small display of bookmarks. "Uh, fifteen dollars. But I’ll autograph it for you for free. Perk of the festival."
I pick up Corn Maze Conspiracy, running my thumb over the cover.
My copy at home is already dog-eared, spine creased from reading it twice.
Once when it first came out, and once this past spring when I needed something familiar to pull me out of a rough patch.
This one—this pristine copy in my hands—is supposed to be my excuse for being here.
"It's for my mom," I lie, setting it on the table between us. "Birthday gift."
"Yeah?" She looks genuinely pleased. "That's sweet. Does she enjoy cozy mysteries?”
"She, uh—" I clear my throat. "It’s her favorite genre.”
Cassie’s face lights up. “Wonderful! What does she like best about them?”
The question catches me off guard. I wasn't expecting to have to defend my—erm, her—taste in books. "The setting, I think. She likes to read about small towns where everyone knows everyone. At least, they think they do.”
"But someone's secretly a murderer."
"Exactly.”
Cassie laughs, reaching for her pen. "Your mom sounds like my kind of reader. What's her name?"
I hesitate a beat too long, caught between truth and the lie I'm committing to. Then I mutter, "Margot. With a T." My mom's name. She's never touched a mystery novel in her life. She's strictly a romance reader, especially liking the ones with shirtless dudes on the cover.
Cassie pulls the book toward her, flips it open to the title page, and scrawls something across it in looping, cheerful handwriting. I watch her hand move, the way she bites her lower lip in concentration, the small smile that plays at the corners of her mouth.
Then she slides the book back toward me, and her smile shifts into something more conspiratorial. She leans forward slightly, lowering her voice like she's about to tell me a secret.
"Tell her I'm plotting a new one," she says.
"Something set at a campground. I’m thinking there will be a sticky situation involving a melted marshmallow and a deadly bonfire secret.
I haven't worked out all the details yet. But I could use some advice from someone who actually knows how to build a campfire. I like to get the little details right in my books.”
The words are out of my mouth before I can think them through, before I can talk myself out of it. "Come by my place. I'll show you."
Her head tilts, surprise flickering across her face, chased by something that might be interest. "Really?"
I shrug, trying to play it casual even as my pulse kicks up a notch. "If you want it to sound real, yeah. I can show you how to build a proper fire, the right way to roast marshmallows, whatever else you need for your book."
For a moment, she just studies me, like she's trying to figure out if I'm serious or if this is some elaborate setup. Her eyes search my face, looking for something. I don't know what. Then slowly, her expression transforms into a smile that's bright enough to make me forget where I am.
"Okay," she says. "Yeah. When?"
"Tomorrow evening? Around six?"
"Perfect." She's already pulling out her phone, opening a notes app. "I'll need your address.”
I rattle off the directions, watching her type them in, and realize what I've just done. Invited Cassiopeia Sinclair to my cabin. To my space. The place I've kept separate from the rest of Maple Ridge, from everyone.
And somehow, I don't regret it at all.