Page 31 of Where the Music Grows

“How much more?”

The number he gives makes my knees weak. I lean against the wall to steady myself.

“I’ve already paid you—”

“And I’ve done considerable work.” His tone hardens. “Finding someone who doesn’t want to be found takes resources, Miss Parker.”

“I don’t have that right now,” I whisper.

“Then I suggest you find it.” A pause. “Unless you’ve changed your mind about locating him?”

The question hangs between us.

“No,” I say finally. “I haven’t changed my mind.”

“Very well. I’ll expect payment by Friday.”

The line goes dead before I can respond.

Friday. Three days to come up with money I don’t have. Now, I have to choose between paying my car payment or paying my lawyer.

Chapter Eleven

Jinnie

Max purrs against my chest as sunlight spills through the blinds. My hand goes to his neck, scratching behind his ear. These moments were few and far between. It was peaceful and I didn’t have to jump out of bed and rush off to work. Day off. No alarm. No flour in my hair. Just me, my coffee, and the quiet hum of the countryside.

I stretch and carefully move Max off me. I walk to the kitchen with Max rubbing around my ankles in anticipation of breakfast. The tiny house is perfect—just big enough for me and small enough to feel like a sanctuary. The main house looms across the yard, smoke curling from the chimney. Mom’s probably already baking bread, Dad tending to the garden.

My tiny house is positioned on the property line between my parents’ and Aunt Aggie’s. It’s our little family compound. Yes, I would love to have my own place and get out from under my parents’ wing, but that isn’t in the cards right now.

And it’s not like they bother me much. The property is big enough that all of us have our own space. And I do love it here. I love the beauty, but I crave more. My parents will never really understand my need to be around more people. I don’t know if I crave the city life, but I want more than a pine tree for a neighbor.

I dump food in Max’s bowl and put on my shoes.

One of the benefits to living close to my parents was the free breakfast on my days off. It was kind of our tradition.

“Knock, knock,” I call, pushing open the screen door.

Mom turns from the stove, her silver-streaked braid swinging. “There’s my girl.”

Dad looks up from his crossword at the kitchen table. “Sleep well?”

“Like a rock.” I kiss Mom’s cheek and steal a slice of apple from the cutting board. “Need help?”

“Always.” She hands me a knife.

We fall into our usual rhythm—me chopping fruit, Mom stirring the oatmeal, Dad humming off-key to the radio. The kitchen is warm, familiar. The opposite of the bakery’s controlled chaos.

“Grab the bowls, will you?” Mom asks.

Oatmeal is the usual breakfast fare. Not the instant kind. The fresh fruit usually comes from the garden and orchard on the property.

I carry the bowls to the table, along with spoons and the raw honey from one of my parents’ friends. Mom brings the pot of oatmeal to the table while I collect the tray of fresh fruit.

I swirl honey into my oatmeal. “Lisa mentioned something weird yesterday. Said there’s some guy playing guitar at Aggie’s bar.”

Mom and Dad exchange a glance.