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He studies my face for a moment. “What?”

I smile. “Nothing’s wrong.”

The fine weave above his eyes tightens slightly; he’s clearly unconvinced.

“It’s something good,” I add.

That satisfies him for approximately two seconds. “What?”

I laugh softly. “You’ve really embraced being nosy.”

“You taught me questions.”

“I created a monster.”

His face goes completely still, and I groan before he can say anything.

“Sorry. That was a figure of speech.”

The humor leaves his face, and when he speaks, he sounds more earnest than offended. “I’m not a monster.”

“No, you’re not.” I touch his chest lightly, careful of the repair. “You’re an extremely persistent Wicker Man who asks too many questions before I’ve had coffee.”

“Coffee helps?”

“Immensely.”

My phone is on the nightstand where I dropped it yesterday. The screen lights when I pick it up, and the wall of notifications makes me consider putting it right back down.

Locke leans slightly to see. “Shannon?”

“Who else?”

“How many?”

“Fourteen texts.”

“That is a lot?”

“For anyone else, yes.”

I open the thread. The first message arrived less than twenty minutes after we left the festival. It’s a photograph of Blair beside the bear, one hand on her hip, studying the crowd like she’s taking attendance.

After that comes a photograph of Tom replacing one of the ropes around the platform, then Janet holding a paper plate, Laura sitting in one of the folding chairs that apparently did belong to us after all, and finally the bear at sunset surrounded by people.

Locke takes the phone carefully when I hand it to him and swipes through the photographs one by one. His attention lingers on the bear. In the next picture, two children are standing beneath one of its enormous paws while another sits on a father’s shoulders, pointing up at the face. Locke studies it.

“They like it.”

“They really do.”

His gaze stays on the photograph, and a few of the small shoots at his temples lift. He swipes again. The next photograph is Shannon holding up a sheet of paper covered in writing. I take the phone back and read the next text out loud.

“Your boyfriend has a problem.”

“What problem?” Locke asks.

I read the list aloud. “Pair of owls. Two trellises. A rabbit for the Kendrick girls. A garden arch. A willow moon gate. Mrs. Calhoun wants to talk about a Christmas window display for her store.”