Hmmm.
She frowned, eyeing a message sent earlier that morning from Lise Utendorf. Aka Sadie Brazen, a good friend and one of Molly’s most prolific authors.
The email’s subject:Bad news from Harlot’s Bay.
After leaving Maryland two decades ago, Molly hadn’t bothered writing or calling anyone there. With one exception. But her closest friendship in Harlot’s Bay had disintegrated before her first winter break at UCLA, and then she was too busy with school and work to keep up with casual acquaintances.
Even after she’d begun narrating Lise’s books, she hadn’t known the identity of the woman behind Sadie Brazen. Until one day when they’d hopped on a Zoom call to discuss a particularly challenging scene and... there she was. Lise Utendorf. The shy, sweet girl Molly had worked with on the literary magazine back at Harlot’s Bay High.
Small world. Big coincidence.
Lise had become a good friend, but they hadn’t talked much about their shared past, probably because Molly didn’t welcome reminders of that period of her life. Harlot’s Bay had been the one place she’d semi-attempted to make a real home, find a real community, as a kid. And that home had been ripped from her under unpleasant circumstances, even before her fraught friendship with Karl had cracked irretrievably. Remembering all of that didn’t precisely spark joy.
So Molly avoided discussing Harlot’s Bay, and Lise had respected that unspoken boundary. If she now felt obligated to share news from there, whatever happened must’ve been big—and not simply bad.Terrible.
With trepidation tightening Molly’s neck muscles once more, she opened the message.
Molly, I wasn’t sure whether to write you about this. As far as I know, you’re not in contact with anyone from Harlot’s Bay but me, so maybe you won’t care. But I thought you should hear it from me, just in case. If only because you two were close for a while.
Karl Dean was murdered. His obituary ran in yesterday’sHarlot’s Herald.
Molly gasped in horror and curled in on herself, covering her mouth with one shaking hand. Her eyes instantly grew wet, and the words blurred in front of her.
The obit said he was killed by a mysterious enemy while camping—
Even through her tears and shock, that struck her as odd. Nature had inconvenienced and infuriated Karl, to the point where she’d once seen him address an offending tulip as “you purple-petaled motherfucker.” His hatred of Mother Nature was the entire reason he’d enjoyed mowing. To him, it was a sort of ritual homicide.
Back then, infeasible threats had been Karl’s raison d’être, and explaining their impracticality to him had been hers. And many of those threats had been issued against flora and fauna, so... yeah. Karl “if that fucking branch snags my fucking sleeve one more fucking time, I will personally throttle that fucking tree with my bare fucking hands until its rings become a solid fuckingline” Dean wouldn’t camp. Not under any circumstances.
Although maybe he’d changed over the last two decades. Or maybe a wife or girlfriend or boyfriend or whoever had draggedhim outdoors, because he might not be a natural camper, but hewasa secret softie. When she’d known him, he’d mowed his elderly neighbors’ lawns without asking for money, even though his family was large and not especially wealthy. And when he’d seen her tutoring Ned in chemistry during homeroom, he’d grumpily helped, even though the other kid had once cheated off of him.
Karl was gone. She couldn’t believe it.
Her chest ached. Her head throbbed. Her eyes burned.
Her heart hurt.
—and even more bizarrely, there was speculation about possible cannibalism. Involving muffins. That part was a bit unclear, apart from theSoylent Greenreferences.
What. The. Hell.
Lise had sent a link to the obituary. After clicking, Molly tried her best to comprehend the words, but reading through tears wasn’t easy. Dimly, she registered the too-brief account of his life. The bakery he’d bought and turned into a cornerstone of his community. The list of his surviving family, which didn’t mention a spouse or children.
After the standard obituary elements, the reporter delved into the mysterious and violent circumstances of his death before offering an assurance to her readers:
TheHarlot’s Heraldwill continue to investigate threats made and received by Dean, as well as the identity of any possible enemies in the greater Harlot’s Bay region and the possibility of a coverup by local authorities, who stubbornly deny that a heinous crime even occurred in our community. We will also verify the ingredients contained within muffins originating from Grounds and Grains. Ifanyone knows more about Dean’s murder and/or the possible involvement of criminal gangs attempting to sell the newest street drug, Special K, to our youths, please contact the paper without delay.
Molly checked the reporter’s byline.
Sylvia Plude. Even back in Molly’s high school days, that woman had been—to put it politely—somewhat seasoned in years. Maybe she’d become hard of hearing and somehow misunderstood the situation?
Because Karl couldn’t truly be gone. Not so soon. Not like that.
Quickly, her unsteady fingers fumbling over her smartphone’s screen, she texted Lise.Are you certain the obit is plausible? Because it sounds utterly bizarre.
Less than a minute later, Molly’s cell dinged.
Been holed up on deadline, so I’m not sure about all the details, but I do know his bakery was closed for a week. No warning or explanation. First time that’s ever happened. Sorry, Molly. Wish I could give you better news.♥ ♥ ♥
