Chapter 1

ONE

This time, failure wasn’t an option.

According to his witness, the girl had gone missing twelve hours ago.

“Where did you last see Misty?” Jack Kingston crouched in front of the little blonde girl, age five, named Pearl, who clutched a small plastic piggy bank to her chest.

Around him, the living room had been tossed, blankets and pillows and stuffed animals cluttering the floor. Most of it due to last night’s movie marathon of Moana and Frozen .

In the kitchen, the smell of bacon had woken the beast inside him, the aroma wafting through the small bungalow in a city just outside Des Moines, Iowa.

“We were outside, playing. I went to get frosted crackers that Mommy made, and when I came back, she was gone.” She held out her piggy bank. “Please, Unca Jack, you have to find her.”

He suppressed a smile and glanced up at her mother, Natalie, dressed in baggy sweats and a T-shirt, who held baby Amber on her hip. The four-month-old, her dark hair spiked and wispy, sucked on a passie, leaning into her mother. Natalie tried to hide a smile at Pearl’s plea and raised an eyebrow.

Jack sighed. “I can’t take your money, Pearl.”

“It’s a reward.” She held it out. “Please?”

He nodded, his expression turning serious to match Pearl’s. “Okay. But I have three rules.” He held up his fingers.

“What?” She was so solemn he had to glance at Natalie not to smile.

“One. I don’t make promises.”

“You’ll find her, Unca Jack. I know it.”

He held up two fingers. “I don’t break the law.”

She rolled her eyes.

“And I work alone.”

She stuck out her lower lip.

“Except this time.” He winked. She grinned, then put the piggy bank on the counter.

“Okay, I’m on the hunt. Let’s track Misty down. Can you give me a description?”

“Red hair. She’s wearing a blue dress. One of her feet was chewed off by Snowy.”

“Got it. So she’s got a limp. Shouldn’t have gotten far.” He then scooped up the little white dog sniffing at his feet. “Snowy, I think you’re a prime suspect here.”

The little Havanese poodle licked his chin.

Pearl laughed.

He spotted West in the kitchen behind her, also in sweats and a T-shirt, holding a cup of coffee, shaking his head.

So maybe this overnight hadn’t been a terrible idea. West and his family always managed to ground him.

And it wasn’t a terrible fortification before the Big Reunion.

Darkness, fireworks, and drama awaited four hours north. But it wasn’t like he could phone in his role as a groomsman at the Epic Family Wedding.

“Okay, let’s try this. Does Snowy like to hide things? Bones, or slippers, or toys?—”

“Yeah!” Pearl fisted her little hands, her golden curls bobbing. “She tries to bury them in the sofa!” She scampered over to the saggy green sofa and started to tear off the cushions.

He caught them, set them down, and leaned over her. Spotted a couple uneaten doggie treats, a round chew toy and . . . wait —“Is that my sock?” He picked up a wool sock—the one that had gone missing last night by his bed.

“Misty!” Pearl grabbed up her Barbie doll, its red hair a tuft of tangles. Indeed, the remaining foot bore the mauling of canine teeth, and now—“Snowy chewed off her arm!” She held out the mangled appendage. “Oh, she was my favorite.”

Jack crouched next to her. “She can still be your favorite. Just because someone is hurt doesn’t mean that you can’t still love them. Maybe you love her more because she survived the Great Snowy Attack of ’25.”

Pearl nodded, wiped her cheek. “Okay. Thank you, Unca Jack.”

Aw . He pulled her tight against him, met West’s smile. See, maybe this was still what it was about—the happy endings.

He let her go, and West came in, handed him a cup of coffee. “I’m not sure she can afford the reward. I think there’s nothing but a few buttons in that jar.”

Jack laughed. “Let’s call this one a pro bono. You can pay me in breakfast. It smells amazing.”

“Bacon and eggs. We’re fancy around here.” West headed back into the kitchen, and Jack slid onto a counter stool at a long island in their newly remodeled home. They’d taken out the wall from the galley kitchen, added an island, opened up the dining area.

Natalie had put baby Amber down in a swing, strapped her in, and now slid onto a stool beside him.

“So, Nat, you have good news for me?”

“If you mean another gig, I’m also on the hunt.” Nat shook her head. “But I did manage to talk Sheriff Wade out of pressing charges for obstruction?—”

“Seriously—if they’d listened to me, no one would have gotten hurt.”

“I pointed that out. He’s just grumpy. It’s an election year.”

“Yeah, that’s why he sent SWAT in—sheesh, talk about overkill. I was already in the house, already talking the guy out?—”

“Which brings me to the next point. The family is making noises about suing.”

West set a plate of eggs and bacon in front of him. “More coffee?”

“Could you add some whiskey to it?”

West laughed. “Sorry. Dry house, and since when did you start drinking?”

“Haven’t yet. But I’m considering . . .” He shook his head. “This is why I never got my PI license. There was no binding contract, just me, following leads?—”

“That led to the police raiding a farmhouse thinking the family’s daughter had been kidnapped, only to have her shot, in a coma, her kidnapper dead,” West said, handing Nat a plate too.

“I still believe it was a lovers’ tryst. But the cops took one look at the guy—the much older felon out on parole—and said he’d kidnapped her.” Jack salted his eggs. “Although, for a while, I thought the same thing, so . . .”

Nat took the salt from him. “The sheriff had a press conference talking about the dangers of letting unlicensed, rogue reward seekers try to home in on an investigation. You made social media. Congratulations, Jack, you’re famous again.”

There went his appetite. “Probably a good time to leave Florida.”

Nat gave him a grim nod.

He sighed, his throat tight. “Tansy’s still in a coma?”

“Yeah,” West said. “The family says it’s medically induced, to keep the brain swelling down, but . . .” His hazel-green eyes softened. “You weren’t to blame, Jack.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“I meant it before. And I mean it now.”

Jack looked past him, out the window to where Aggie, his schoolie, sat on the driveway. On her last legs—or wheels, in this case. He’d heard some ticking in the engine on his way through Georgia. Maybe they both were ticking, ready for something different.

Although, Minnesota might not be the right different.

He looked back at West. “I’ve been thinking that it’s time I hang this gig up. Maybe retake the bar.”

West glanced at his wife, back at Jack. “Don’t do that to us, bro. We live vicariously through you and your epic hunts.” He stopped the swing and reached for the baby as she spat her pacifier from her mouth. “Not a lot of excitement here in Iowa.”

Behind him, the dog barked, and Jack glanced over to see Pearl playing tug with him and his chew toy. Baby Amber resucked her passie, watching them with big blue eyes.

Seemed like enough excitement to him.

“Maybe what you need is a partner, though. A Watson to your Sherlock.”

He shook his head. “The last thing I need is to babysit some sidekick.” He glanced at Nat. “So, you hear from Austen? Is she coming to the wedding?”

“She’s your sister. You have to ask me ?”

“Please. I know you two still talk. You have that roomies-forever bond.”

Nat grinned. “Fine. Yes. Last I heard, she was planning on being there. And Steinbeck too.”

“Really? I thought he was on some Caribbean island.”

“It wouldn’t hurt for you to pick up the phone and call your siblings.”

“We talk. We all Zoomed in for Christmas.”

“Your poor mother.”

“She’s busy with the inn. And for the record, I talk to her and Dad once a week.”

Nat held up a hand. “It’s just that the Kingston family dinners are hard to forget.”

“Times change.”

She lifted a shoulder. “I guess.”

The words sank in like arrows, into his soul.

“So just Doyle and Conrad home this year for Christmas?” West said.

“Not even Conrad—the Blue Ox had a game in Toronto.”

A pause, and West glanced at Nat, back at Jack. “So Bront?’s big event will be the first time you’ve all seen each other since?—”

“Yes.” Jack’s mouth tightened.

West nodded.

“And Bront?’s okay with you showing up for her big day?” This from Nat, who’d gotten up to grab Amber from the swing.

“Dad called. It wasn’t optional. I’m in the wedding. And apparently she goes by Boo now.”

“Right, from the TV show.”

He nodded, but he could agree that the entire thing felt weird. Who knew what was going through Bront?’s head? And nobody needed to know about the fist in his gut, tightening with each mile north. “It’s going to be fine. I’m going home, lying low, no drama, no questions, and in five days, I’m gone.” He pointed to West. “And you’d better have a gig for me.”

West pointed at his wife. “She’s the one with instincts.”

“And the Crime Stoppers connection,” Nat said. She stopped the swing and unstrapped the baby. “Mommy’s going to have to scour the reward boards.” She handed the baby to her husband.

“Or maybe some of those cold-case podcasts—they often have rewards for ‘information leading to.’ I was listening to Penny for Your Thoughts on my drive up. She’s still trying to find the ‘masked man’ in the Sarah Livingston case.” He finger quoted the words masked man. So much drama.

That’s probably what hooked him.

“I like that podcast. She’s supposedly going to name her strongest suspect in this week’s drop. She spent the last four months covering the Mike Grizz murder attempt last year. Think he’ll be at the wedding?”

“Mike Grizz? Maybe. He’s a friend of the groom.” He finished his eggs. “I hope this thing isn’t a circus. With all of Oaken’s superstar music buddies . . .” He shook his head.

“You’re really in the wedding?” Nat pulled out a bottle from the fridge, took off the top, and set it in a bottle warmer on the counter. “Wow.”

“I know, right? But it’s why I have to get there early. Apparently, Bront? has a bunch of events lined up for the bridal party. I might have to learn a dance.”

“Please, please, get a video of that,” Nat said.

“I don’t dance.”

“I know.” She laughed. “Except—didn’t you go to prom with one of Bront?’s friends? I thought I remembered West telling me?—”

“No. I definitely did not .” He shook his head. “Harper Malone.”

“Didn’t she ask you to the dance?”

“No. She did not . That was a comment made by my stupid brother Doyle.”

“I’ll never forget the story.” West was laughing.

“Please forget. It’s a chapter I’d like to erase.”

“Why? What was?—”

“She was six years younger than me, that’s what.”

Nat glanced at West. “Clearly, there’s a story.”

“Oh, and it’s good,” her husband said.

“Thanks for that, West.” Jack turned to Nat. “I think I need to hit the road. Thanks for breakfast.”

Nat was laughing. “Don’t be a coward.”

West turned to Nat. “This girl, Harper, showed up at spring break, and Romeo here fell for her completely, not realizing she was?—”

“Still in high school,” Jack said.

“Really?” Nat’s eyes widened.

“Yeah. She was eighteen, but . . .” Jack looked at Nat. “For the record, I didn’t recognize her as Boo’s friend. And I thought she was in college. At least twenty-one.”

“Why didn’t she tell you she was in high school?” Nat asked, checking the bottle. She put it back into the warmer. “What was she thinking?”

“I don’t know. I should have asked, maybe. But the moment I figured it out, I realized she was Pigtails, my little sister’s best friend, and it was . . . bad. So, lesson learned. She’s some big magazine reporter in Nashville now, according to Bront?. Probably, hopefully, she’s forgotten about me.”

“Right.” Nat shook her head. “Nobody forgets Big Jack.”

He gave her a look.

She laughed. “Is she going to be at the wedding?”

He stilled. He hadn’t thought about that possibility.

“Oh, she’s going to be there,” West said. “With your luck.”

“Hey. I found my sock. My luck is still holding.”

Nat walked over, took the baby from West, and handed her to Jack. “Hold a baby. You’ll feel better.”

Maybe . He looked at Amber, who still sucked her passie, her eyes widening. Uh-oh .

She opened her mouth, the passie dropped out, and she wailed.

Right .

Nat laughed. “Okay. Not quite ready for Unca Jack.” She took her back. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I had the same reaction the first time I met him.”

“Hey—”

Nat turned to him. “Really? You’re the only law student who took cold showers and did interval training between study sessions. Not to mention the fasting.”

“It’s supposed to help with mental clarity.”

“As his roommate, I still have PTSD from the lucky socks,” West said.

“Lucky socks are a thing.”

“I did like the Memory Palace trick,” West said. “It helped me hold on to the black-letter law for the bar.”

“See? It’s all about strategy.” Jack got up and grabbed his plate. “Thanks, Nat, for untangling me from the fiasco down in Gainesville.”

She nodded. “Keep your head down. With luck, it’ll be gone by the next news cycle.”

West glanced at him. “You leave the hunt to us. Go home, connect with your family. Try not to blow up Bront?’s wedding.”

Jack rolled his eyes, but his soul burned a little. Right . “Pearl, c’mere and say goodbye to your sad Unca Jack before he faces the firing squad.”

Pearl ran toward him, her arms out. He scooped her up.

“What’s a firing squad?” she asked.

“Nice, Jack,” Nat said, shaking her head.

He made a wry face. Then, “It’s a guy named Steinbeck.” He tousled her hair and grabbed his other sock from Snowy’s mouth. Seriously . He glanced at West, Nat, baby Amber, and Pearl, now climbing onto the stool. “Thanks for the last meal, guys.”

“Try not to die, Jack,” West said. “That would wreck all our fun.”

* * *

She could do this. She. Could. Do this.

All Harper had to do was stay focused and ignore He Who Shall Not Be Remembered.

Harper turned off the highway, toward the road that led to the town of Duck Lake, her gut tightening with each mile. Her manager’s voice, on speakerphone, didn’t help.

“Oaken’s team will never agree. You’ve let your wishes do the talking here, Harper. You need to face reality. You’re not going to land the exclusive on the wedding.”

Maybe. Wishes—or maybe just blind hope—had always gotten her in over her head.

But not this time.

This time, she had an inside edge.

“Trust me. Boo will say yes.”

Harper turned up the heat in her cute little Chevy Sonic. She should have packed better for her drive north. Hopefully her mother hadn’t gotten rid of her winter clothing.

Then again, her mother made her living helping people let go of the past.

“It’s not Boo Kingston I’m worried about,” Clarice said. “It’s her fiancé’s manager, Goldie. You don’t know her like I do.”

Outside, the wind cast snow across ice-crusted fields and into the late-afternoon shadows. Now and again, a red silo pierced the horizon, the rumpled cornfields cordoned off by stands of oak or pine.

Serene. She’d forgotten that, maybe.

She took a sip of her hot cocoa, cooling in the paper cup from Caribou Coffee. “Listen. Boo’s an old friend. We went to all twelve grades together. I’m practically family. She’ll say yes and talk Oaken into it.”

“It won’t matter. Goldie’s probably fielding all the exclusive offers, including People magazine.”

“Boo is not interested in fame, believe me. The last thing she wants is for her wedding to be splashed across a national magazine?—”

“Excuse me, but isn’t that what you’re asking of her? To get the nitty-gritty details of Bront? Kingston and Oaken Fox’s fairy-tale wedding and sell it to Inside Nashvegas or PopMuse ?”

Harper imagined Clarice sitting in her home in Franklin, outside Nashville, in the cute office above her three-car garage, with its vaulted ceilings and pictures of her clients—artists, photographers, and the occasional freelance writer who got in over her head.

“Yes, but . . . I’ll make it . . . authentic . Talk about how they came together during the reality show and how she supported Oaken during the Mike Grizz case, and maybe talk to the family members.”

She drew in a breath at her words. Some of the family members.

Please, please let Jack be off chasing a missing person . . .

“Let the past be a stepping stone, not a stumbling block.” Yeah, thanks, Doctor Malone .

“Fine. I’ll put out feelers and see who bites. But Goldie is still pretty angry about the tell-all piece you did on her client, that singer-actress-whatever-she-is superstar, Bliss.”

“I sent Bliss the copy before I published it. Got the okay.”

“She claims she never read it. That she had no idea you’d gone digging into the death of her mom, and her dad’s history?—”

“That’s what made people love it! It was one of PopMuse ’s best-selling issues last year. Especially after Main Street Blues won the Oscar for best picture.”

“And that’s the only reason that Bliss isn’t pursuing a lawsuit. Goldie negotiated for higher residuals on the article—but we’re back to our roadblock. Goldie. She’s going to be a tiger for Oaken’s privacy.”

“I got this. Trust me. It’s going to be amazing.”

“It better be, because your career might be over if it isn’t. You’ll be writing for the Duck Lake Gazette. ”

“It’s the Duck Lake Currents .”

“Clever.”

“It’s a weekly. And it’s where I started. I’m sure they’d take me back.”

Kidding . The last place she wanted to live was Duck Lake. Too close to the Doc and, well, memories.

“It’ll give you plenty of time to write that novel you’ve been talking about. Maybe fiction is your gig anyway.”

“I don’t write fiction. I write . . . vivid nonfiction. It’s why people love my stories. I bring them into the world I’m describing.” But the idea of writing fiction had lived in her head since PopMuse fired her from their regular staff roster six months ago. Frankly, she’d been working on a romance for years.

Just not one that could ever be published.

“Vivid nonfiction. That’s one way of putting it.” Clarice sighed. “I’d call it overuse of your imagination. One of these days you’re going to go too far, dig too deep, and I’m not going to be able to rescue you.”

“Some people just can’t handle the truth.”

“Funny. How about some people just don’t think every truth needs to be told.”

Harper braked as she hit the outskirts of Duck Lake where the road veered north, toward the lakeside homes.

Here, the forest had thickened, created a whimsical corridor of wintry pine laden with heavy snow. Banks of white piled either side of the road, and as she drove along the shoreline, the scantily clad trees revealed stately homes, most of them standing on the foundations of former cabins and cottages, the getaways of the wealthy from Minneapolis, only an hour to the east.

“Listen,” Clarice said now, maybe realizing defeat. “I know that if anyone can do this, it’s you. You have good instincts, you’re intuitive, and I’ve never met anyone more tenacious. If you want something, you get it.”

Well, not always . . .

“Just don’t get sued.”

“Thanks for that. But yes, we don’t need any high drama. Boo’s had enough scandal. This will be a quiet, poignant piece.”

“Perfect. By the way, is your friend Penelope going to be there? After the ratings on her murder podcast about the attempt on Mike Grizz’s life, I wouldn’t mind talking to her?—”

“I promise to give her your info.”

“I love Penny for Your Thoughts . Do you think she’s going to solve the latest case?”

Harper caught a view of 458 Whispering Pines Drive, the 1960s cottage painted a fresh yellow, probably her mother’s last-summer project. Smoke curled from the stone chimney along the backside of the house.

Beyond the house, the lake stretched out in a pristine, beautiful blanket of white. Of course, near the Duck Lake landing in the distance, the shapes of icehouses created a small city.

But here, near the northern end of the lake, it was all lazy forest, towering birch creaking in the wind, fires in the hearth, and the sense of escape.

If, she supposed, one didn’t look up shore at the King’s Inn.

Escape might be overstated.

“I’m a listener, just like you,” Harper said as she turned into the long drive. “Penny keeps her investigations pretty close. But she’s always wanted to work a cold case, so I think she’s really loving it. And maybe finding closure after Bryce’s death.”

“So sad. How’s her sister?”

“I don’t know. Listen, watch for my email.”

“Have fun dancing at the wedding.”

“Oh, I hope not. I don’t dance.”

“Everybody dances, Harper.”

“Not this girl.” She’d learned that lesson.

Clarice clicked off, laughing.

Harper sat in the cleared driveway in front of the cottage, next to her mother’s green Subaru, her gaze on the cleared path to the house, then on the trail into the forest, still an opening in the trees, between the King’s Inn and the 458 cottage.

She played with her bracelet, running the charm over the chain. Okay. She could do this.

Harper turned off the car, then wrapped her scarf around her neck, grabbed her gloves, and got out.

The wind sheared off the lake and stole her breath, pinched her nose. Who got married in Minnesota in January? Crazy.

But Boo always did like to push the edge. And maybe, with Oaken’s recording and touring schedule, this was the only time they could squeeze in the nuptials.

Harper took a breath, then tromped to the lavender entry door.

Funny that her mother hadn’t repainted it when she’d made over the house. She knocked, then realized that might be silly and pushed open the door. “Mom? It’s me!”

“Up here, Bee!”

She walked into the small entryway, where her mother’s thick orange puffer jacket hung from a hook, along with a bulky knitted scarf and her white SORELs. Shucking off her jacket, Harper hung hers next to it, slid off her UGGs, then padded into the main room.

Stopped. Holy cats —“You gutted the place. Again.”

Instead of a small kitchen with a pass-through to the main area stood a gray granite island and, along the wall, a contrasting new black granite counter with white cabinets. The wood flooring—maybe original, but sanded and re-stained—stretched out to cover the entire room, with the stone fireplace cleaned and rechinked. Orange leather furniture, a number of brightly patterned floor rugs, all overlapping, and new contemporary art hung gallery style on the walls.

Not that Harper really expected her father’s oils to be hanging there, but the massive Picasso-style watercolor moose in turquoise and orange seemed a unique choice.

The stairs leading to the second-floor bedrooms had been opened up, with a hand-turned wood railing and fresh black risers.

“You’ve been holding out on me, Mom. When you said remodel, I thought paint and new carpet. Who knew you were such a DIYer?”

She came up the stairs, expecting to find Dr. Phillipa Malone in her expansive bedroom, maybe sitting at her writing desk or in a lounge chair reading one of the books from the wall-length shelf that held her expansive library on psychology and other mental-health-related topics.

Nope. The master bedroom was empty, and recently redone too. No carpet save the plush white rug, a new king-sized bed, and a small secretary, with a roll top and an antique chair.

“Where are your books?” Harper just stood in the room, wordless.

“I got a Kindle.”

The voice came from behind her, and she turned, found her mother, her messy shoulder-length blonde hair tied back, wearing a pair of—“Are those my track pants from high school?”

Her mother looked down at the paint-stained orange-and-green pants. “They make great paint pants. And I found this shirt in your throwaway pile.” She picked at the white T-shirt—Duck Lake Storm, regional track champions—now dotted with light-blue paint.

“That wasn’t in my throwaway pile.”

Her mother made an O with her mouth. “Sorry.”

Harper held up a hand. Let go and grow. She could almost read the mantra in her mother’s hazel eyes. “It’s fine. But what—wait . . .” She stepped past her, into her room.

Not her room.

No furniture. No pink carpet. The once stenciled walls, some of them inscribed with her poetry quotes, repainted in a gray-blue. “Where’s my desk?”

“Oh—I’m having it stripped and restained.”

She turned. “Mom. That was Dad’s desk. I wrote . . . I mean . . .” She took a breath. “I was hoping to give it to my daughter someday.”

Her mother had put down the painting rag and now came over to her. “Oh, darling. Of course. If you get married and have a daughter, you can definitely have it.” She reached in for a quick hug.

“But . . .” Aw, never mind .

Her mother let her go, smiled at her. “It’s so nice that you stopped by on your way to the inn. What time do the festivities start?”

It took a second for the words to click in. Wait —“Mom. I’m staying here .”

Again, the O. “But I’m having the floors sanded and stained this week. I need to get the painting done first, and the new furniture won’t be here for at least a month.” She made a face. “I suppose you could sleep on the sofa, but I’m taking clients here now, so . . .”

Harper forced a smile. “Okay. I get it. I . . .”

“Can’t you ask Emily if you can stay with them? I mean, you practically lived with them, especially in high school.”

Harper glanced at the inn, visible, of course, from her window, along with the trail. Shoot . “Yeah, I’ll drive over and ask.”

“It is very nice to see you.” Her mother took her hand. “I’ll look at my calendar—I’m sure I can rearrange and we can find a time for lunch. Oh, wait . . . I have that conference this weekend.” She forced a smile and gave Harper’s hand a squeeze. “I’ll text you.”

Right. “Okay, so . . . I’ll pop down to the Kingstons’ and see if they have a room. . .”

Her mother let her hand go. “Say hi to Grover and Emily for me. And of course, Bront?. I can’t believe she’s marrying a celebrity.”

“She goes by Boo now, and she is a celebrity herself, Mom.”

Her mother had gone back to the paint trough, grabbing some rubber gloves. “Oh, please. She’s a reality television persona. That’s vastly different than using your talents, like Oaken Fox. And even he only got there because of his dead sister’s reputation.”

Oh boy . “Okay, Mom. Yes, text me.” She walked over, leaned in, gave her mother a whisper of a kiss, then managed a smile and escaped.

Or maybe . . . escape wasn’t the right word.

She could do this.

She just had to stop wishing for happy endings.