“I don’t want your help.I don’t want anyone’s help.”
My hand closed on the doorknob.
“Piper, wait.”
I paused, looking back at him over my shoulder.
“If you change your mind,” he said, “let me know.”
“I think I’d like to be alone for a little while,” I replied.“Figure some stuff out.”
He checked his watch.“I’ve got to get to the antique store anyway.My dad’ll be looking for me.”He hesitated.“You have a cell phone?”
Suspicion and amusement wrestled inside me.“Yeah.Why?”
He climbed the steps, closing the distance between us until I had to tilt my chin up.“Let me give you my number.”
Smooth.I had to give him that.
I dug my phone out of my bag and handed it over.His fingers brushed mine as he took it, and the brief, accidental touch sent a spark racing up my arm straight toward my chest.
He typed, then glanced up at me.“Hold on.”
A second later, my phone buzzed in his hand.
He passed the phone back.“There.Fair’s fair.”
Something warm and unexpected settled in my chest.
“If you need anything, call,” he said.“Anytime.Day or night.”
He held my gaze a heartbeat longer, then he headed for the truck.
I watched him climb in and drive away, dust kicking up behind his tires, the house and its secrets looming at my back.
Somewhere beneath the grief and the anger and the knot of fear over the wordmurder, something small and treacherous fluttered low in my stomach—an ember of attraction I absolutely did not have time for.
Chapter Three
Itorethroughthehouse like I was looking for a secret level in a video game.
The letter had blown everything open.My death is not an accident.Find who killed me.It looped in my head as I checked drawers, cabinets, under cushions.Nothing.No hidden folders.No conveniently labeled “Murder File.”
When the walls started to feel too close, I gave up on the search and headed for the back door.The orange tabby—Willow, according to Owen—trotted at my heels like a tiny, judgmental shadow.
The greenhouse waited at the edge of the yard, just as I remembered it.A glass-walled, sun-soaked sanctuary.As a kid, it had been my castle, my spaceship, my secret portal to anywhere but Hickory Hollow.
I paused at the door, stroking Willow’s head.“Here goes nothing,” I murmured, and stepped inside.
Humidity wrapped around me like a warm, damp blanket.The air smelled of earth and chlorophyll, green and alive.Rows of plants lined the tables—daisies, daffodils, tulips, and dozens of things I couldn’t name.Hanging baskets cascaded color from above.On the workbench, a pair of mud-stained gardening gloves lay exactly where Alice had left them, as if she’d stepped out for a minute.
I swallowed hard.
It looked like time had simply… stopped.
I ran my fingers over the edge of the workbench, a memory rising sharp and clear—Alice’s hands in the soil, dark crescents under her nails, bright eyes dancing as she talked about bulbs that slept until the world was ready for them.
You’ve worked hard for this.Don’t let anyone in this town make you feel bad for leaving, Piper.
