Penny’s charge wasn’t just to guard the estate. It was to guard what’s left of Milly’s hope. And maybe help her find the rest of the song.
Dinner is the same as last night: leftover pizza reheated on mismatched plates in the kitchen. Milly jokes about adding oregano and parmesan to dress it up a little. I eat in silence, but the corner of her mouth lifts when I take a second slice. We clean up, she heads upstairs with Pumpernickel, and I settle into the downstairs room with my ledger. By the time Milly goes to bed, I’ve already balanced the books and made a new file labeled Observations.
The next morning, the smell of scorched coffee hits me before I even cross the threshold.
In the kitchen, Milly is elbow-deep in a battle with the coffeemaker. Water dribbles across the counter. The machine groans like it’s dying. She mutters under her breath, hair slipping out of its knot as she wrestles with the filter basket.
“I read somewhere ranch coffee is supposed to be strong enough to stand on its own,” she says, not looking up. “This one prefers to drown.”
I step beside her, nudge the filter into place, and flick the switch. The coffeemaker starts to drip.
She stares at the machine, then at me. “Show-off.”
I don’t answer, but the corner of her mouth curls, and the kitchen feels warmer for it.
We sit across from each other at the old wooden table, waiting for the coffee to brew. Our mugs wait beside us like empty promises. Hers says “Careful, I’m a Vet” in bold paint; mine is plain white porcelain, a faint chip along the rim. The machine gurgles in the background, steam rising. When it’s finally ready, she pours with theatrical reverence, sliding my mug across to me as though this is a sacred ritual.
She cradles hers with both hands after her first sip, sighing like the world has finally tilted back into place. “What’s it like,” she asks, “handling a place this size? All those numbers. Don’t they blur together after a while?”
Numbers don’t blur. They slide into place, neat and tidy. “Not if you know what to look for,” I say.
She squints at me over the rim of her mug. “That’s cryptic.”
I don’t elaborate. She rolls her eyes, but her smile lingers.
Silence stretches, broken only by the steady drip of the coffeemaker finishing its work. She sets her mug down, her fingers trailing the rim as if stalling for time.
“I hardly remember Aunt Penny,” she says finally. “Mom and she… had a falling out before I could remember. After that, it was birthday cards in purple ink once a year. Glitter everywhere. Like she was trying to make up for—” She stops. Shrugs. Forces a brightness back into her voice. “I guess she didn’t want me either, for a long while.”
She said the words lightly, but there was more between the lines. She tries to hide it well, but not fast enough.
Her eyes flick toward the window, toward the pasture where Sherlock struts like a general, tail high. “Anyway. Today’s agenda: figure out why Inspector keeps sneaking into my sock drawer.”
She laughs at her own line, light, practiced. But I can still hear the crack beneath it.
I take a sip of coffee that’s stronger than regulation jet fuel. Her brew is uneven and messy—but not bad.
She’s not fragile. But she is unguarded. And unguarded things are easy to break.
After breakfast, Milly disappears into the yard again, notebook clutched to her chest like it’s her lifeline and battle plan. Through the window, I watch her crouch to write something down while Sherlock circles her like a satellite, the chickens weaving in and out of orbit.
I return to the study. Papers wait in ordered stacks, my laptop humming quietly. On the desk is a flyer Browne must have included from Sue Carter with the estate documents, cream-colored, hand-lettered:
Welcome Social – Friday Evening
Pie Contest. Barn Dance. Newcomers Introduced.Neighbors listed as “helping hosts”: Sue Carter, Sarah Baldwin, Carl Simmons.
A perfect opportunity for introductions and surveillance.
I sketch the barn layout in my notebook, marking vantage points and exits. Crowd control, sight lines, weak spots near the side doors. Old instincts, old training, repurposed for small-town festivity. It feels absurd and necessary.
Names to note:
– Sue Carter: Town matriarch, influential. If someone sneezes, she knows before they finish.
– Sarah Baldwin: Librarian. Book clubs can be more dangerous than boardrooms when it comes to gossip.
– Carl Simmons: Hardware store. The man who knows where everyone was when the storm took out power.
