Chapter 4

4

Max is still in bed when I leave in the morning. I swipe one of his band logo hoodies to throw over my dress and pull my hair into the messiest of buns.

Exhausted from a sleepless night, I yawn as I pull my car into the garage of my house.

It’s not my house, exactly. I’m more of a caretaker. When my grandparents retired and took off to explore the US, they asked me to move in. In exchange for free room and board and the use of Grandma’s old vegetable garden for my flowers, I maintain the landscaping and take care of stuff around the house.

They moved their stuff out of the master bedroom for me and stored extra furniture in the basement. They told me to make it my home, and that’s what I’ve done.

The house is on a couple-acre lot, amid other custom homes built in the nineties. At almost three thousand square feet, it’s too big for me, but I love it. The spruces and pines that dot the property are huge and old, and the bushes are mature. I fill the front flower beds and barrels with brightly blooming annuals every spring, just like Grandma did.

Someday, when a bank will actually look at a mortgage application from me, I hope to buy it. (According to the stuffy, balding man I spoke with when I last applied, twenty-eight-year-old, self-employed flower farmers aren’t a reliable investment. Go figure.) But for now, this is enough.

My ancient blue Chevy sits in front, ready to be loaded with this afternoon’s delivery. I don’t necessarily like old trucks, and sometimes it’s a pain in the rear, but it fits that farmhouse vibe and looks good in photo shoots for my social media. That, and I got a good price on the rusted, dented piece of scrap metal when I found it. Max restored it for me in exchange for chocolate chip cookies and homemade meals a few times a week.

I change out of my dress, tossing my broken heels into the trash, and pull on a pair of cutoff jean shorts, a black tank top, and my beat-up sneakers I only use for gardening. Then, just in case a neighbor should come wandering over, I tie a lightweight scarf around my neck. It’ll drive me crazy while I work, but it’s better than flashing the evidence of the worst date of my life to any neighbors who decide to drop by.

I step outside, clippers in hand, breathing in the smells of early summer.

I’ve only deadheaded half a front flower bed when I become lightheaded. I sway when I stand, trying to catch my balance.

I must have stood up too quickly. As I wait for the vertigo to pass, a wave of intense heat passes over me. I drop the clippers onto the ground and then hurry toward the house, feeling like I’m going to throw up.

I only make it as far as the trash cans around the corner.

Once my stomach is empty, I stumble to the side door, sitting in the cool shade of the western wall on the concrete walk. Sweat rolls down my face, and I clutch my stomach, not daring to stand yet.

What’s wrong with me?

My hand rises to my neck. The twin puncture wounds have scabbed over, but they’re still tender. Could Ethan have given me some type of freaky infection?

How does a person bite like that, anyway? Shouldn’t all his front teeth have made a mark?

I shiver, my mind wandering down paths from which it should stay far, far away. Vampires are things of movies and books—they’re not real.

“It was probably the salmon,” I mutter, irritated that such a fussy restaurant would cook something off. They probably had it a few days too long but served it anyway.

Forcing myself up, I push through the door that leads into the mudroom, tossing my gloves on the counter when I pass it. As soon as I walk into the downstairs bathroom, I come to a dead stop and gape at myself in the mirror, my lips parting with shock.

My reflection stares back at me, as red as a lobster.

I press my hands to my cheeks, noting the extreme heat radiating from my skin. It’s a sunburn—the worst I’ve had in my life. But I was outside for less than twenty minutes.

I take several steps back, shaking my head.

It’s impossible.

On the days I’ve forgotten to lather on sunscreen, I turn a little pink if I’m out for several hours. The burn usually morphs into a tan the next day. Something tells me that’s not going to happen this time.

I’m just about to call Olivia and tell her about all the freaky stuff that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours when I remember I left my phone in Ethan’s car.

As I’m trying to decide if I can drive to her house without throwing up again, the doorbell rings.

Irrationally terrified it’s Ethan, I creep through the hall, avoiding all the open windows, and peer through the textured privacy glass in the door. I’m just in time to see a distorted delivery truck roll down the street.

I let out a held breath, chastising myself for being so ridiculous, and open the door. I’m expecting an order of coffee beans from a local roaster in Snowmass Village. They’re expensive, but it’s my one indulgence. Plus, it keeps me out of coffee shops, so I don’t let myself feel too bad about it.

I open the box, waiting for the smell of roasted heaven to waft to me like a warm hug.

But instead of coffee, my cell phone sits in a nest of bubble wrap. There’s a note at the top that reads:

Dearest Piper,

You forgot this in my car last night. I’ve added my contact information, as I imagine you’ll want to speak with me soon. I’ll give you space until then.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Most Devotedly Yours,

Ethan

I’m so freaked out I almost throw the box across the room. How the heck did he get my address? Gingerly, I take the phone from the package, holding it like it’s diseased. Did he really get into my contact info?

Feeling like my privacy’s been violated, I open my contact list, scanning for his name. I don’t have to look long—it’s right there toward the top.

Ethan B.

He didn’t include his last name, email, or address, but his phone number is here.

I’m tempted to delete it, but I might need it for evidence later. That restraining order is looking like a sure thing.

I place the note back in the box and set it on the top shelf of the coat closet.

When I return to the kitchen counter, I stare at the phone. What else did Ethan get into? Did he go through all my pictures? My emails and messages?

As I’m contemplating it with growing dread, my doorbell rings again.

“What the heck is up with today?” I mutter to myself.

Once again worried it’s the wannabe-vampire stalker, I slink to the door, avoiding all the windows while cursing myself for opening them up yesterday morning. I should just leave the house dark and moody.

The last person I expect to see on my front step is a police officer, but lo and behold, there he stands, looking all official.

Mortified, I swing the door open. “My brother called you, didn’t he? I swear I’m fine?—”

“Are you Piper Edwards?”

“Yes, but?—”

“Are you Kevin Nelson’s girlfriend?”

The question startles me, as it has nothing to do with Ethan or our horrifying date. “We broke up.”

“When?”

“Uh…” I shift, suddenly very, very nervous. “Friday. What’s this about?”

“I need you to come down to the station.”

“Why?” I demand.

“This morning, your boyfriend was found dead in his residence.”

I blink at him, unable to process the words. “He…what?”

Looking terribly suspicious, the policeman watches me, his face hard and expressionless, as if he thinks my horror is an act. “According to his phone records, you’re the last person with whom he had contact.”

My stomach rolls again, and I sink to the floor, as close to hyperventilating as I’ve ever been.

Kevin’s dead.

No, it’s not possible.

“What happened?” I press my head into my hands, trying to breathe.

“According to the suicide note, the deceased claims he was so upset by his actions that led to your breakup, he strangled the woman he was with and then shot himself.”

“What?” I exclaim, looking up. “Kevin would never do that.”

“We agree,” the officer says. “Which is why we need you to come in and answer a few questions.”

I stare at him, stupefied, and my pulse skyrockets. “You don’t think… Surely, you don’t suspect that I…” My voice drops to a whisper. “I didn’t kill him!”

“We just need to ask you a few questions.”

I’m a suspect. Oh my freaking heck, they think I killed Kevin.

Kevin’s dead.

Too numb to respond, I push myself to my feet, nearly blacking out when I stand.

“Do I have to ride in the back?” I whisper, glancing at his car and then the houses down the street.

What will the neighbors think?

The man shakes his head. “We’re not arresting you.”

Yet.

He doesn’t have to say it—we both know.

“Can I change first?” I look down at my gardening outfit. Even my legs are burned.

“It would be best if we went now.”

“Can I at least grab my phone? It’s just in the kitchen. You can come with me if you want.”

I’m not sure inviting the man into my house is the best idea, but I don’t want him to think I’m running.

“Go on,” he says, jerking his head.

I hurry into the kitchen and snatch my phone. Before I head out, I send Olivia a quick text.

Piper: A cop is here saying I have to go to the station for questioning. If you don’t hear back from me, please bail me out of jail.

I then stash the phone in my back pocket and follow the man down the drive. He opens the passenger door of his police cruiser, and I scoot inside, wincing as my burned skin touches the warm vinyl seat.

As I look around, I realize I just walked into another movie scenario—this one a crime show. What is up with my life right now?

Every few minutes, an image of lifeless, pale Kevin leaps unbidden into my mind, and my stomach rolls. I don’t know what the officer would do if I threw up in his car, but I don’t think he’d be pleased.

Thankfully, I make it to the station without vomiting, and I follow the man inside.

They lead me into a room for questioning, and I sit in an orange, molded plastic chair. While waiting for them to begin, I surreptitiously rub my sweating hands on my jean shorts.

Suddenly, a horrible thought leaps into my head. What if they arrest me? Are they going to take a mug shot? I look like the victim of a tanning bed accident.

“We’ll begin shortly,” the officer says. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Water?”

“I’ll take water,” I say, my voice shaking with nerves.

He nods and disappears out the door. There’s a mirror across from me, and though I don’t watch many crime dramas, I know how it works. How many people are sitting on the other side?

The officer returns with a paper cup of water and sits across from me. Another man is with him this time, this one a little older.

Which cop is the bad one?

The hysterical thought almost makes me laugh out loud, but looking insane probably won’t do me any favors right now, so I control myself.

The second officer peers down at his clipboard. “You are Piper Edwards, correct?”

I almost tell him we’ve already covered that, but then I decide it’s not in my best interest to sass the cop.

“Yes.”

“What do you do for a living, Piper?”

“I’m a flower farmer.”

Both officers look up, giving me twin incredulous looks.

“I grow flowers. I sell them. It’s a thing.”

Mr. Clipboard shakes his head like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard.

“How long did you and Mr. Nelson date?”

“Just a little over two years.”

“How did you feel when you found out he was cheating on you?”

That seems like a trick question. If I say I was mad, they’ll think I killed him. If I say I wasn’t, they’ll know I’m lying.

“I was upset.”

He nods. “What did you do Friday evening? Be specific.”

“I always have a stand at the Friday Night Farmer’s Market,” I tell him. “I was there from four-thirty until just after nine.”

“Did anyone see you?”

Relief washes over me. “My friend, my brother, dozens of my customers. A bunch of the other vendors, too. Sal, the lady who organizes the whole thing, was there. I talked to her for a few minutes before I left. And after the market, I went to my friend’s house.”

He scratches something else on his clipboard.

“Do you know anyone who might have held a grudge against your boyfriend?”

I wish he’d stop calling Kevin that.

“Not off the top of my head.”

“What about the woman he was with?”

“I never found out who she was. He outed himself with an accidental text message, and I broke up with him right afterward.”

The first cop frowns. “Isn’t that a little hasty?”

Is he seriously judging me right now?

“He’d been acting weird for months,” I say. “I had a good idea that something was going on, but he was careful to cover his tracks.”

“And did you know Mr. Nelson was selling drugs?”

I nearly choke. “I’m sorry, he was what ?”

“We found one hundred twenty-nine grams of cocaine in his residence, along with evidence he’d been dealing.”

“That’s impossible,” I argue. “There’s no way Kevin is a drug dealer!”

Was …not is . Past tense.

I breathe in deeply, trying very hard to keep the water in my stomach.

“We suspect he might have crossed the wrong person,” the second officer says. “Are you sure you know nothing about it?”

This is insane. Kevin worked as an assistant manager at Lilly Lu’s, a local boutique that sells expensive second-hand baby clothes. He was more likely to join a boy band than start selling drugs.

“Kevin was a cheating ba—” I cut myself off and choose my words more carefully. “Bad boyfriend, but he wasn’t involved in any sort of drug deal. I don’t know how that cocaine got in there, but it wasn’t him.”

The man nods, jots something else on his clipboard, and then stands. “So he never tried to sell or give you illegal substances?”

“No!”

He eyes me. “And you’re not on drugs now?”

“NO.”

“Would you be willing to take a urine test?”

“Yes.” I’ll pee in a freaking cup if it will convince them I didn’t murder Kevin and steal his stash.

His stash.

Another wave of nausea hits me, but I choke it back.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Edwards,” the other cop says. “I don’t believe a drug test will be necessary at this time.”

They stand, and I hesitantly rise to my feet. “I’m done?”

“Yes, you’re free to go,” the officer who brought me in says, and then he frowns. “You might want to put something on that burn.”

I’m not in the mood for his helpful advice, but I nod. “I’ll do that.”

Now that I’m pretty sure I’m not going to jail, I take a moment to read his name badge: Officer Kerrington. He’s not hot like cops in romance books, but with short-cut brown hair and brown eyes, he’s good-looking.

“I’d be happy to give you a lift home.” Officer Kerrington smiles for the first time. “If you’d like.”

If I hadn’t had the most ridiculous forty-eight hours of my life, I might flirt a little. But my ex-drug-dealing boyfriend is dead, a wannabe-vampire’s contact info has been planted in my phone, and I’m fried to a crisp.

“I don’t have any other way to get back,” I point out with a sigh, suddenly exhausted. “So sure.”

I follow him back through the station and out to his car.

“So…” he says when we’re on the road, glancing over with a smile. “Flower farming, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Where do you grow them?”

“In my backyard.”

“I was picturing a field or something.”

I shrug, not wanting to have this conversation.

He goes quiet, and then he looks at me again. “You doing okay? I imagine this is a lot to take in.”

“It feels surreal,” I admit. “I’m not sure I’ve wrapped my head around it yet.”

“We’ll do everything we can to find the person who did this,” he says reassuringly. “I promise.”

I nod, not sure what else there is to say.

About twenty minutes later, he pulls into my drive. As I’m getting out, he hands me a contact card. “Call me if you think of anything that might help with the investigation.”

“Okay.”

He flashes me a smile. “You can call me even if you don’t think of something that will help.”

I should probably take it as a major compliment that he’s flirting with me when I look like this, especially when I’m a person of interest in my ex’s suicide case, but I’m still feeling sick, so I’m just trying not to embarrass myself.

“Thanks,” I murmur.

He pulls out of my drive with a friendly wave, and I stumble to the house. After I flop onto the couch, I check my phone and find about fifty texts and twenty missed calls—all from Olivia and Max.

I call Olivia first. “Hey,” I say as soon as she answers. “I have a delivery scheduled for Bluebird Floral today at three. Can you take care of it for me?”

“Seriously?” she huffs. “That’s what you have to say to me after you sent that text?”

“I’m fine. They got my alibi and let me go. I’m supposed to call them if I think of something that might help the investigation.”

“What are they investigating?”

I lean my head against the back of the couch, letting myself feel something for the first time since the officer ended up at my door. Tears sting my eyes, and I don’t try to hold them back this time. “Kevin’s dead. They think someone murdered him.”