Chapter 11 Noah
NOAH
Ipark in front of Lottie and Everett’s house—their house, not our house, even though every cell in my body still wants to claim it—with three large pizzas from Mangias balanced on the passenger seat and my golden retriever Toby panting happily in the back.
The house is massive. Two stories of what I can only describe as Everett’s overachiever aesthetic—all clean lines and expensive windows and a porch that wraps around three sides.
My cabin across the street looks like a garden shed in comparison, but I prefer it that way.
Less space to rattle around in. Less room to think about what I don’t have.
Or who I don’t have.
Toby bounds out of the truck the second I open the door, his golden fur catching the last rays of evening sun.
He knows where we’re going. He definitely knows who’s waiting inside.
He loves Lottie and the kids as much as I do, which is saying something considering I’m fairly certain I’d throw myself in front of a moving train for any of them without thinking twice.
The front door swings open before I knock.
“Daddy!” Lyla Nell barrels into my legs with the force of a tiny, adorable linebacker.
“Hey, baby girl.” I scoop her up, and she immediately grabs my face with both hands.
“You got pizza!” Her dark pigtails bounce as she squirms in my arms. “I hungry!”
“Then it’s a good thing I brought three,” I tell her, kissing her forehead.
She’s got my eyes. My dimples. My hair. She looks so much like me, it’s still surreal sometimes, except she’s got Lottie’s coloring and about ten times more personality than both of us combined.
Inside, the house smells like home—vanilla, baby powder, and something distinctly Lottie that I can’t quite name but would recognize anywhere.
Pancake and Waffles, the fluffy white Himalayan brothers, are sprawled across the back of the couch like furry throw pillows. They barely acknowledge my entrance, too focused on watching Toby with a feline disdain that suggests they’re plotting his demise.
Toby wags his tail obliviously and immediately starts sniffing around for a hint of food on the floor.
The twins are in their playpen—Ozzy gnawing on a rubber giraffe, Corbin staring at the ceiling like he’s solving complex mathematical equations in his head. That kid’s definitely Everett’s son. Even his baby expressions look judicial.
Carlotta is stuffed into an armchair, still wearing what appears to be lime Jell-O in her hair, chatting animatedly with what appears to be no one.
And I’m betting it’s someone. Percy, to be exact.
I can’t see him, but I know he’s there. Lottie has mentioned him about fifteen times today via text, each message progressively more exasperated.
“Pizza delivery,” I announce, setting the boxes on the coffee table.
Carlotta descends like a locust swarm.
Everett appears from the kitchen, still in his work shirt but with the sleeves rolled up, and grabs two slices immediately. Lottie emerges from the kitchen as well, and she’s still dressed like a 1950s housewife.
A very attractive 1950s housewife.
Geez. I’d go back in time with her any day.
The powder blue dress hugs her in ways that make my brain temporarily short-circuit, and I have to actively remind myself that she’s married to Everett and I’m just the guy who brings pizza, solves crimes, and happens to be desperately in love with her.
Same old, same old.
“How’s Evie?” I ask, grabbing my own slice and settling onto the couch.
“It’s finals week,” Lottie says, sitting between Everett and me in a way that feels both natural and like torture. “We’ve been sending her encouraging texts all week. I think she’s doing okay, though she threatened to block us if we send one more motivational meme.”
Evie would be Everly Baxter, one of Everett’s long-lost daughters that we tracked down a few years back. Everett seems to be having a run on long-lost daughters coming out of the woodwork as of late.
“She threatened to block us?” Everett looks mildly amused. “That’s fair. Your last one was questionable.”
Lottie clucks her tongue. “It was inspirational!”
He offers her a pointed look. “It was a cat hanging from a tree branch that said, ‘Hang in there, baby.’”
“Exactly. Inspirational.”
I bite back a smile. “She’ll do great. She’s got brains and Everett’s ability to intimidate people into submission through sheer force of will.”
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me,” Everett says.
“Don’t get used to it.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a moment, the TV playing some home renovation show that none of us are actually watching. Lyla Nell is playing with Toby, Pancake, and Waffles—though playing is a generous term. She’s more ordering them around like tiny furry subordinates.
“So,” I say casually, taking another bite. “How was your day, Lottie?”
“Fine,” she says too quickly. “Unconventional. Boring, really.”
Something in my gut cinches, and I set down my pizza. “Lottie, you spoke to a suspect, didn’t you?”
She tosses her hand in the air, nearly launching her slice across the room. “What gave it away?”
Everett gestures to her outfit with his pizza. “The fact that you’re dressed like a hot housewife straight out of the fifties had something to do with it.”
Lottie’s entire face lights up. “You think I’m hot?”
“Sexy thinks you’re hot no matter what you’re wearing,” Carlotta calls from her chair, still apparently conversing with the invisible peacock. “Come to think of it, the less you’re wearing, the hotter you are.”
Everett nods solemnly. “I don’t disagree.”
“Lottie, who did you speak to?” I ask, ignoring both Everett and Carlotta.
Everett frowns twice as hard. “And who watched the kids?”
Lottie gasps, her hand flying to her chest. “Funny you should mention it—Lyla Nell went to preschool today!”
My eyebrows shoot up. “She what?”
“It was just a trial run! Sort of like the one she did a few months back. Lainey took her. I wasn’t planning on it, but Mom bailed on babysitting, and Lainey basically kidnapped her straight from the bakery.”
I turn to Lyla Nell, who’s now sitting cross-legged on the floor with Toby’s head in her lap. “How’d you like school, sweetheart?”
Her face takes on a serious expression. “I like it. But the other kids—they didn’t listen very good.”
“Didn’t listen well,” Lottie corrects softly.
“That’s what I says! They didn’t listen! So I had to tell them what to do.” She pats Toby’s head with the authority of a tiny dictator. “Just like I tell Toby and Pancake and Waffles.”
Pancake chooses this moment to swat at Waffles, who retaliates by tackling him off the couch. They tumble to the floor in a ball of white fluff and indignant yowling.
“Boys,” Lottie reprimands without an ounce of menace behind it.
“See?” Lyla Nell says, like this proves her point. “They don’t listen to Lottie either.”
I blink. “Did she just call you Lottie?”
“She’s been doing it all day.” She groans. “I don’t know where she got the idea, but she won’t stop.”
“Dat’s your name!” Lyla Nell chirps proudly. “Hi, Lottie!”
“See?” Lottie says helplessly.
Carlotta waves a hand. “But that is your name, Lot. And frankly, it’s better than some of the other things she could be calling you.”
“Like what?” I ask warily.
Carlotta grins in a way that makes me immediately regret it. “Booby McMilk Bar. The Dairy Queen of Honey Hollow. Or—my personal favorite—Madam Two-Tap.”
“Booby Milk Bar!” Lyla Nell says cheerfully. She notices something on the coffee table, a blue velvet box, and reaches for it. “Ooh, what’s this?”
Everett leans forward. “Whose is that?”
“It belongs to Midge Thornbury,” Lottie says, watching as Lyla Nell opens it. “She left it behind at the community center after we chatted.”
I pick up my pizza again. “So that’s who you spoke with.”
Lottie gasps as if I’ve just accused her of high treason. “I was trying not to mention it.”
Lyla Nell pulls out five smooth, round rocks from the box. They’re polished, almost white with a hint of gray-blue, about the size of large walnuts.
“Is that all that was in there?” Lottie takes the box, peering inside. She shakes her head, looking disappointed. “I was sort of hoping it contained her secret recipe for her infamous day-glow banana pudding.”
Lyla Nell tosses one of the rocks to Toby, who catches it in his mouth and immediately looks confused about what he’s supposed to do with it.
“Lot,” Carlotta says from her chair. “I believe you’re the one with the infamous killer banana pudding.”
“That’s a detail I’d rather not remember.
” Lottie waves her off. “Anyway, Midge is interesting. She’s a professional homemaker, lifestyle blogger—has like eighty-five thousand followers—and she’s the Daughters’ beloved hospitality coordinator.
She organizes all the potlucks, coordinates casserole chains, the whole domestic goddess nine lives.
Plus, her banana pudding has won eighteen consecutive bake-offs. ”
“Eighteen?” Everett’s eyebrows rise. “That’s suspicious.”
“Or she’s just really good at banana pudding,” Lottie says. “She also recently published a cookbook that became a regional bestseller.”
“So she’s successful, well-liked, and has no obvious motive,” I say, already making mental notes. “What did she tell you?”
“She pointed to Dolly Hatchett.” Lottie gives us the ultra-brief rundown—Vivienne’s public humiliation of Dolly, the viral video, the threat in the parking lot.
I pull out my laptop from my bag. “Makes sense. Could be a motive for murder or it could be a red herring.” I glance at Everett. “Speaking of which, I did some digging on my other case.”
Everett nods, his expression shifting to something darker as we both dive into the rock-throwing incident.
I’ve compiled a full report—official vandalism charges filed, complete with photos of Lottie’s cracked windshield, statements from both of us, and a detailed background check on the Pickens family that makes my blood pressure spike every time I look at it.