Page 63 of The Worst Possible Plan

There it was. I knew it. The universe had simply been building suspense. Of course it had. It couldn’t possibly let me enjoy an uneventful morning. That would’ve set a dangerous precedent.

Helen reached me slightly out of breath, one hand still pressed against the clipboard like it might somehow contain better news if she squeezed hard enough.

“Sophie.”

“Helen?”

“We’ve got a problem,” she wheezed.

I took a deep breath, braced myself, and asked, “What happened?”

“The headlining band.”

My stomach dropped. Not metaphorically either. I’m fairly certain several internal organs briefly changed floors. “What about them?”

Helen looked around before lowering her voice, although not nearly enough considering half a dozen people nearby had already started pretending not to listen. “They’re not coming.”

For one second, everything around me seemed to disappear—the music, the laughter, the crowd. Even the smell of burgers and hot dogs faded into the background as my brain locked on to exactly three horrifying words.

They’re. Not. Coming.

Amazing how such a tiny statement could instantly shave ten years off a person’s life expectancy.

I shook away my brain fog. “What do you mean they’re not coming?”

“I just got off the phone with their manager.” Helen pressed a hand against her forehead. “Their van broke down almost two hours away. Tow truck’s on its way, but they won’t make it here today.”

I stared at her. “You can’t be serious?”

She dropped her hand and glared at me. “Of course I’m serious! They’ve canceled.”

They’ve canceled.

My heart hammered in my ears.

“What are we going to do?” whispered Helen. For the first time since I’d known her, she didn’t sound like the woman who’d organized yearly successful festivals. She sounded scared. And her face paled. Oh yeah. Panic pale.

Been there. Done that.

A lot.

I didn’t have an answer. My brain, which had spent the last forty-eight hours enthusiastically inventing imaginary disasters, had decided that a real one was far too much responsibility.

Out of the corner of my eye, movement caught my attention.

Across the square, Sheriff Walker looked up from where he’d been talking with one of his deputies.

Our eyes met—again. He frowned at whatever he saw on my face, which was probably a constipated look.

He didn’t rush over. Thank god. Because that would have been embarrassing.

I took one slow breath. Come on. Think. Panicking wasn’t a strategy. It was a terrible hobby I’d become alarmingly good at.

Think.

Somewhere in the back of my mind… Something clicked.

Music. The little pub with my friend Sasha. Two weeks ago. The band…