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“Oh, look at that,” Ginny said, coming up behind her and admiring the dress, turning it inside out. “You just don’t see workmanship like that anymore. I’ll put these over on the table with the antiques, then. I’ve got to get the next shift working if we’re going to get through this mountain.”

“What about this?” Cam held up the sheaf.

“A bunch of old papers? It’s enough of a mess around here. Just throw those away in the bin,” Ginny answered over her shoulder as she headed toward a small group at the sign-in table. “Please! And thanks for volunteering, Cam!”

Cam closed the makeshift book. There was no way this strange but charming collection of recipes was going into the trash. She tucked it under her arm and called to Parsley. The two of them walked back to Birdie’s together while Cam turned her imagination to the cookbook’s author, A. Poulson. Had she lived here in Silver Cove? Had she walked these very streets? Was she even a she? Cam had assumed the dress and apron belonged to the author, but maybe they didn’t. Though the air was cold, Cam felt strangely warm, almost as if the book itself was emanating heat.

At home, Cam found a note from Birdie saying she was having dinner with Marcus, and Cam was relieved to have the kitchen to herself. She poured a glass of wine and eagerly opened the pages. Her stomach was still growling, and when she came to a recipe for parsnip soup (“Just the thing for a cold night when you’re alone”), she stopped. She had a bag of the root vegetables in the pantry, and the idea of a hearty, creamy soup with a slice of toasted bread sounded divine. Cam left the book on the dining table, not wanting to risk setting it on the counter as she cooked, the way she usually did with cookbooks, in case she dripped or spilled something.

Cam loved reading recipes for the way they made you feel as though you were cooking with a friend, someone who was standing shoulder to shoulder with you, helping you make something delicious. And even though Cam’s own recipes were designed to be foolproof and straightforward, she admired A. Poulson’s unusual voice and funny instructions. She followed the directions to “sizzle onions in a hot pan with lard until they jump as if they’re doing the Charleston” and to “stir until your elbow feels a little wobbly,” and then let the soup simmer “while you go pour yourself a little brandy from the decanter because no one is looking.” She didn’t have lard, but she substituted butter. And she even did the part with the brandy, pouring herself a little splash from the bottle in Birdie’s cupboard.

Something about the recipe inspired her to flip on the portable speaker and pull up an old jazz tune from her music app. Cam’s mood had improved a hundred percent, and as she tapped her toes and sipped her brandy, she felt positively relaxed and content. She couldn’t say the same for Parsley, though, who ran around the kitchen making little yips.

“Settle down, silly boy.” Cam patted his head soothingly.

A moment later, she thought she might need to take her own advice. As she tasted the soup in the pot and stirred in a pinch of salt, Cam heard a strange sound. At first, she thought it might be the music, so she turned it off. But it came again. Cam narrowed her eyes, looking around for the source. Could it be another squirrel? She wasn’t sure she had the energy to deal with that again. But it didn’t sound like an animal. It was a raspy, high-pitched sound. Almost like a woman’s whisper, only she couldn’t quite make out words.

Cam listened, and there it was again, a sound that seemed nearby and yet still muffled. She checked the door and peered out the window, but there was nothing there. She felt for her phone, ready to dial 911 if she had to. She tried telling herself to be sensible. This was Silver Cove, after all, not the city. The odds of a crazed murderer prowling around Birdie’s house were about as good as winning the billion-dollar lottery—which, come to think of it, would come in pretty handy.

Cam shuddered and then snapped the music back on again, giving the volume a boost. It must be something Ian was doing to the house. Maybe a draft? She’d talk to him in the morning. Or it could be trees whipping around outside.

She pulled her cardigan closer and sat down to enjoy the soup, which was as warm and comforting as a hug. The parsnips had a nutty quality, and their starchy texture gave the dish a creamy feel even though the recipe didn’t call for a drop of cream. Cam raised a glass toward the cookbook in a toast to the author. “Nice work here, A. Poulson, whoever you are,” she said aloud.

Just then, one of Birdie’s teacups fell off the shelf and shattered. Parsley whimpered.

“Don’t worry, Pars,” she said, as much for herself as the dog. “It’s just this old house. It’ll be fixed soon.”

Cam swept the shards into the trash and quickly finished her meal. She was suddenly exhausted and more than a little wary. “Time for bed, sweetie,” she announced.

Parsley was close at her heels as she mounted the stairs.

The next morning, Cam felt groggy. The dreams she couldn’t quite remember from the night before seemed to tug on her as she dressed. She pulled on her usual pair of jeans and an old wool sweater, but as she went to scrape her hair into the topknot she always wore, she suddenly put down the elastic and let her thick brown hair hang around her shoulders. In the kitchen, she poured two cups of black coffee and went outside to where Ian was working.

“Morning,” she called out from behind him, not wanting to startle a man surrounded by lethally sharp blades.

He turned and broke into a grin that warmed Cam more than even the steaming mugs in her hands. “Hey there, Cam. Nice to see you.”

She held out the cup, forgetting for a second why she had approached him before gathering her thoughts again. “Coffee? It’s black, but there’s cream and sugar if you like.”

“Perfect as is,” he said, reaching for the mug. “Just getting settled here. I’ve set up most of my tools in the barn here, and I can lock it at night with a padlock, if that’s okay with you.”

“Fine, fine,” she said. “I, um, didn’t see your truck this morning. I wasn’t sure you had come back.”

“I told you, you can count on me,” he said. “I’m not slacking off.”

“I didn’t mean…” Cam trailed off. She hadn’t meant to question his work ethic. She was just making conversation.

“Of course you didn’t,” he said, looking amused.

Cam got the feeling that he found her type A tendencies funny.

“I actually commuted to work this morning by boat.” He motioned down to the harbor below. “I’ve got a little johnboat with an outboard. Doesn’t go very fast, but I thought I’d cast for catfish on my way in.”

“Mmm, catfish,” Cam said. Her favorite. Pan fried with a juicy lemon squeezed over it. “Catch any?”

“Nope,” he answered. “Guess it wasn’t my lucky day.” His eyes lingered on her in a way that unnerved Cam.

“I wanted to ask you about a strange noise I heard last night,” she said. “I was in the kitchen, and I heard this sound. It was kind of like a whisper, or maybe a whistle. I thought it might be a draft somewhere?”