Chapter Twenty
After she and Claire finished up at the coffee shop, Sam headed back home.
She stood in her kitchen, staring at nothing in particular.
Margaret hadn’t been a good person in a lot of ways.
But she hadn’t deserved what had happened to her.
She felt terrible for Claire, too. She hoped she’d somehow find the confidence to keep going and submit her story to another publisher.
She should update her notebook and review her suspect list. She needed to think through everything she’d learned.
Instead, she opened her pantry.
Arlo, who’d been napping in a patch of sunlight, lifted his head with interest.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Sam told him. “I’m not stress-eating. I’m stress-organizing.”
She pulled out her label maker, the one Nora had given her for Christmas with a note that said, “I know you, dear” and surveyed the chaos before her.
The pantry had been bothering her for weeks. Items shoved wherever they fit. Spices in no particular order. Cans facing random directions. Her Type-A soul had been quietly screaming about it, but there’d always been something else that needed to be done.
Like solve murders.
But right now, she needed something she could actually control. She pulled everything out, creating organized piles on the kitchen counter. Baking supplies, canned goods, pastas and grains, snacks. Spices alphabetized, because of course they would be.
Arlo wandered over to supervise, sniffing at a can of green beans that had rolled off the counter and toward his water bowl.
“That’s a vegetable, buddy. You won’t like it.”
She wiped down the pantry shelves, measured the spaces, and started creating labels. Each one that she pressed into place felt like a small victory.
Sam was so in the zone that she jumped when her phone rang. It was Nora.
“I hope you’re relaxing,” said Nora briskly.
Sam hesitated.
“You’re organizing things, aren’t you?”
“Guilty as charged,” admitted Sam. “But that’s something that’s relaxing to me. And I’m about to have a bowl of your soup.”
“Good girl,” said Nora. “Although I’m not totally sure about organizing being relaxing. Try to put your feet up before your date. You know your man doesn’t care if your pantry is alphabetized.”
“How do you know I have a date?”
Nora sniffed. “I know everything. Have fun.”
And with that, the omniscient Nora hung up.
Sam shook her head, smiling despite everything. She finished the pantry, stepped back, and felt something in her chest unclench slightly. Everything had a place. Everything was labeled. And at least in this one small area, chaos had been vanquished in a minor way.
That evening, Sam had changed outfits three times before Arlo had given her a look that clearly communicated just pick something already. She’d settled on dark jeans and a soft blue sweater that Olivia once said brought out her eyes.
The doorbell rang at exactly six o’clock. Punctual. She appreciated that.
Aiden stood on her porch holding a bottle of wine and wearing a slightly nervous smile that made her heart do some complicated acrobatics. He’d traded his usual teacher wear for dark slacks and a charcoal button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.” She stepped back to let him in. “You didn’t have to bring wine.”
“I wanted to.” He handed her the bottle, which was a nice Pinot Noir, not the cheap grocery store kind. “And I should probably confess that Nora ambushed me at the store and offered very firm opinions about what I should buy.”
Sam laughed. “Of course she did. You realize she’s going to interrogate you about this later.”
“I’m counting on it. I need someone to tell me if I’m doing this right.”
Sam took his arm. “You’re doing fine so far.”
Arlo appeared, immediately asking for some love. Aiden crouched down to greet him properly. He produced a dog treat from his pocket like a magician.
“You came prepared.”
“I’ve learned.” He stood, his eyes meeting hers with warmth that made her suddenly hyperaware of how close they were standing. “So, an actual date night. No interruptions. No murders to discuss.”
“Well, about that.”
He grinned at her. “Maybe we can have just the one night where we’re not detectives?”
Sam smiled back at him. “It’s a deal.”
They drove to a small Italian place on the edge of town.
It was the kind of restaurant Sam had passed a hundred times but never tried.
The inside had white tablecloths, soft lighting, and the smell of garlic and fresh bread that made her stomach growl despite the nerves she had.
She reminded herself it was just Aiden. But she wanted everything to go well.
“I’ve been wanting to bring you here,” Aiden said as they were seated at a corner table. “It’s family-owned. The grandmother still makes the pasta by hand every morning.”
“How did you find this place?”
Aiden said, “One of the cops I was working with years ago couldn’t believe I was just eating sandwiches or cereal for supper every night.
” He held up his hand, laughing. “I promise I don’t do that anymore.
This was when I was still young and dumb.
Anyway, he apparently thought I needed an intervention.
He told me about this place. I’d come once a week for takeout.
It was good food that didn’t break the bank. And I’ve been coming here ever since.”
“Someone decided to intervene in your eating habits? That’s very Sunset Ridge.”
“It is.” He opened the menu.
“What do you recommend?”
“Everything. But if you like seafood, the linguine with clams is incredible. If you want something heartier, the osso buco.” He paused. “Or we could get a few dishes and share? Fair warning, though, that I’m terrible about sharing dessert.”
“Noted.” She closed her menu. “Let’s share. I want to try everything.”
They ordered linguine, osso buco, and a Caesar salad to start. Aiden ordered a wine that made the waiter nod approvingly.
“So,” Aiden said once they were alone again. “Tell me something that has nothing to do with book clubs or suspicious deaths.”
Sam thought while she tore off a piece of the warm bread that had appeared. “I’m thinking about getting Arlo into therapy dog certification.”
“Really?”
“Ginny mentioned it at agility. Apparently, he has the temperament for it. He’s calm, loves people, and doesn’t get reactive.” She buttered her bread. “I thought we could volunteer at the senior center. Or maybe the library for reading programs.”
“That’s perfect for him. And for you.” Aiden took a sip of water. “You like helping people.”
“Is that a nice way of saying I’m nosy?”
“It’s the accurate way of saying you care.” His expression turned serious. “There’s a difference in being nosy and being invested. You’re definitely the latter.”
“Even when it gets me mixed up in murder investigations?”
“Even then.” He reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers. “Though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t worry.”
The waiter arrived with their salad and wine, giving Sam a moment to process. When they were alone again, she met Aiden’s eyes.
“Worry about what?”
“About you being in danger. About you being the last person to talk to Gerald before someone killed him. About you asking questions that make a murderer nervous.” He traced patterns on the tablecloth with his finger.
“I know you’re going to keep investigating.
I’m not asking you to stop. I’m just asking you to be careful. And to let me help when I can.”
Sam said ruefully. “I’m not great at asking for help.”
“I know.” He smiled. “But I’m pretty good at offering it anyway.”
Their entrees arrived. The pasta was fragrant with white wine and garlic, the osso buco was falling off the bone. They sampled both dishes.
“This is incredible,” Sam said after her first bite of the linguine.
“Right?” Aiden looked pleased. “That’s the grandmother’s recipe. She won’t share it with anyone. Her son’s been trying to get it out of her for twenty years.”
They ate and talked, the conversation flowing easily from teaching stories to books to Sam’s complicated relationship with her parents.
“They weren’t neglectful,” Sam said, twirling pasta on her fork. “Just distracted. They were very passionate about their work. Both of them were artists. But they were less passionate about things like parent-teacher conferences and regular meals.”
“Is that why you’re so organized now?”
“Probably,” said Sam. “Someone had to make sure we had groceries and that bills got paid. I was making lists by age seven. They were color-coded by nine.”
“Is it your way of keeping chaos at bay?”
Sam paused, her fork halfway to her mouth. “That’s surprisingly insightful.”
“Former detective. We’re trained to notice patterns.” He reached across the table, his hand covering hers. “But you know what else I’ve noticed? You’re happiest when you’re helping people, not just organizing things. It seems to be your purpose.”
“When did you get so good at reading me?” asked Sam.
“I’ve been paying attention.” His thumb traced circles on the back of her hand. “Someone had to.”
The simple honesty made her chest tighten. She turned her hand over, lacing her fingers through. “Thank you,” she said quietly.”
“For what?”
“For being patient. For not pushing. For bringing me here and understanding.”
“Sam.” His voice was soft. “That’s just being here for you. That’s what this is.”
They finished dinner and ordered the tiramisu despite Aiden’s warning about not sharing dessert (they shared it anyway). Then they lingered over some coffee until the restaurant began to empty around them.
“I should probably get you home,” Aiden said reluctantly. “Even though I don’t want to.”
“I don’t want you to, either.”
They drove back through the quiet streets of Sunset Ridge. In the neighborhood, they passed Nora’s house on the way. It was all lit up from the outside and inside. “She’s probably watching from her window right now,” said Sam wryly.
“Definitely.”
When they pulled up to Sam’s house, she could see Arlo’s face pressed against the window, tail wagging.
“Can I walk you to your door?”
“I’d like that,” said Sam.
They stood on her porch, the night air cool but not uncomfortable. Through the window, Arlo had started doing his welcome-home dance.
“I had a really good time tonight,” Sam said.
“Me too.” Aiden’s hand came up to cup her cheek. “Can we do this again? Soon? Maybe without the cloud of double homicide hanging over us?”
“I’d like that. Though, given my track record, I can’t promise no dead bodies.”
“Fair enough.” He smiled, then gently kissed her. Soft and sweet and full of promise.
When they broke apart, both slightly breathless, Sam leaned her forehead against his. “You should probably go before Nora comes over to investigate.”
“Probably.” But he didn’t move. “Sam? Please be careful tomorrow when you’re investigating. I’ll be back at school, of course, but call me if anything feels off.”
“Promise.”
He kissed her once more, then stepped back reluctantly. She watched him walk to his car, waiting until he’d pulled away before going inside. Arlo greeted her with enthusiastic snuffles and circles.
Her phone buzzed immediately with a text.
It was Nora, naturally. He’s a keeper. Don’t mess this up.
Sam smiled, texting back: Good night, Nora.
Lock your door. Murderer still out there.
Already done.
She got ready for bed and fell asleep thinking not about suspects and motives, but about Aiden’s smile and the way his hand felt in hers.