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You invited the wolf into your home, Donni.
And he’s got a goddamn knife.
“I guess.” She rubbed at her neck in agitation. “How long are you staying in California?”
“That’s up to you.” He watched the water heat up. “It occurred to me that you’re all alone in this place. People in town know it, too. People who might want revenge against my father. You know someone actually told me that you being here all by yourself leaves you open for anything.”
Her fingers tightened on the box in her hands. “Who said that?”
“Someone who won’t be saying it any longer.” He tipped a box of macaroni noodles into the boiling water. “Don’t look at me like that. I told you I wouldn’t hurt you. And if you really believe I could, why the hell would you let me in?”
Because I’m an idiot who’s hung up on the past, apparently.
She sighed. “If you really don’t want to be my enemy, clean up the kitchen when you’re done. And do what you want with the car. I don’t care. It’ll probably be lumped off with the estate, anyway.”
Rafe winked at her, handling the knife a little too expertly for her liking. “It’ll be like I was never here,” he promised solemnly, before going back to chopping up innocent vegetables.
???????
His words haunted her, though, as she drove to The Old Veranda. She’d refused his offer of pasta salad, the smells of oil and kalamata making her feel sick. But now her stomach felt as restless as her thoughts, with the same ravenous edge.I’m good at punishing myself for things that aren’t my fault, she thought.First Johnathan, then Marco—now . . . this.
Although Marco was her fault, wasn’t he?
The two Post-Its seemed to sear through her handbag, reminding her of their presence. She wasn’t sure if they were valuable, but if someone had been willing to burn her late husband’s desk down to destroy the evidence, then maybe they meant more than she thought.
Donni pulled up in front of the café, which was starting to get crowded from the morning rush. Unlike the Morning Glory, which reveled in its own pretentiousness, the Old Veranda was all business. Its saloon-style shopfront dated back to the 19thcentury, but the façade had been remodeled and repainted so many times that it looked like a prop version of its former self. A hay bale had been placed out front as a nod to the season, along with a scattered stack of pumpkins. There was a hand-lettered sign out front advertising pumpkin spice lattes and a carving contest with a $25 gift card as grand prize.
The smell of coffee hung heavily in the air but she experienced an even bigger jolt from the sight of Denise Banner working behind the counter. Elizabeth and Michael’s daughter glanced up as the door opened, her smile disappearing mid-laugh as she locked eyes with the woman whose husband had killed her father.
So much for not getting my latte spat in.
A hush seemed to take over the café. Donni could feel hostile eyes tracking her progress through the door. By the time she got to the order counter, Denise had schooled herself and her arms were folded. “Hi,” she said, in a tone that was far from friendly. “What do you want?”
“Uh, the PSL, I think.” Knowing that wasn’t what the other woman meant, she slid a ten across the counter. Denise sighed and punched in the order, handing her back the change. Guilt made Donni crush the remaining bills into the already-full tip jar, even though it felt like a bribe.
“Thanks. One sec.”
She slipped to the other side of the prep area, speaking in hushed tones with a sullen-looking guy who was built like a bruiser.Like Rafe, she thought absently, frowning as the man nodded to whatever Denise said and then shrugged, before yanking on the nozzle of the espresso machine.
“Monster Mash” was playing on the speakers and Bobby Pickett’s voice was loud enough that Donni had no hope of making out what they were saying.
Denise returned, flicking out the receipt. “Anything else?”
Donni glanced around again. Everyone seemed to be chatting or typing away now, but it still felt like the room had plummeted to icy depths upon her arrival. She lowered her voice as she reached into her purse, fingering the Post-It. “Did my husband come in here within the last few weeks? I think he might have been meeting someone—a man,” she added lamely.
Arms folded once more, Denise said, “Why does it matter?”
“Because ever since he died, I’ve been finding out more and more things about my husband. He’s not the man I thought I’d married. I don’t know who the fuck he is anymore, to be honest. But I’m trying to find out.”
The younger woman stared at her impassively. Perhaps she was thinking about her own parents’ marriage.Or just how she’d like me out of the shop. But just when Donni figured that she was going to be told to go fuck herself, Denise said, “Yeah. He came in. He didn’t tip.”
“Did you see who he was with?”
Denise shot her a look. It was almost pity, but not quite. There was something a little too smug in it. “He was with a guy, yeah. I don’t know who or what for, but it ended in an argument.”
“How do you know it was an argument?”
“Because they were yelling, okay? Harold had to kick them out.” She dropped Donni’s cup on the counter, causing orange froth to spew up from the lid.
