Christmas Daisy

A Daisy Bruce Cozy Novella

Kobo Edition

© Patti Larsen 2023

Find out more about me at

http://www.pattilarsen.com/

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Kobo Edition, License Notes

Kobo Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the vendor and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Chapter One

“You’re not welcome here,” the short, round blonde snaps in my face, lips pinched tightly enough the lines around them make her pucker look like she’s aged at least two decades in a heartbeat. “Leave, now. Or I’m calling the police!”

Um, well now. Not so friendly sounding, is she? Sorry to drop you in the middle of things. I have a bad habit of doing that, as it turns out. Let’s take a step or two back, shall we, and see the rest of the story…

I set aside the last file in the pile with a contented sigh, pushing back from my desk and lifting the armload to my chest as a man’s tenor sings about being home for Christmas over the office sound system. The filing cabinets beckon me to the rear of the quiet office, past empty desks tidied for the holiday season. It’s weird not to see former FBI SSA Elizabeth Michaud with her endless coffee mugs piled around her or ex-Reading Sheriff Jill Wagner hunching across her laptop screen, refusing to accept the fact she really needs glasses. And without the chatter of our office receptionist, Beau Hampshire, coming from the front desk where the plush sofa and cushions wait for pending clients to fill the still air only punctuated by the soft strains of holiday music, I’m feeling a little like it’s the end of the world and I’m the only one left.

A silly sensibility to fall into, really, though it makes me even more excited by the prospect of finishing up the last of my tasks and heading home to load my suitcases into my car and hit the road before the snow arrives. It’s calling for a bit of a blizzard, and while it’s only the 22nd of December, I have no doubt there’s already sufficient fall at home in Reading that a white Christmas is assured. I can’t wait for my best friend, Fiona Fleming, to open the red and white onesies I bought for her beautiful twin girls, the very thought of snuggling Iris and Flora making me sigh in delight.

And yet, being here in Montpelier, joining the team outside the town where I grew up, has been the best decision I could have made for myself. Even if it means I’m missing out on the babies growing up day-to-day.

In the ten minutes it takes me to sort the files into their appropriate alphabetized spaces—while sighing a little over the fact several are out of order and unable to stop myself and my innate tidiness from doing something about it—the Christmas carols pause as the radio host interrupts with local news.

The others would tease me if they were here, call me old-fashioned that I still listen to Montpelier radio instead of taking advantage of the endless stream of songs available via our satellite service. But I’m here by myself, after all, and it’s almost Christmas and nothing makes me feel more like a girl waiting in anticipation for Santa to come calling than the nostalgia that local broadcasts bring.

I’m barely listening, regardless, as I close the bottom drawer of the furthest cabinet, the Yonkers file now safely tucked away until I return on December 27th, my knees cracking—when did that start, anyway?—beneath my A-line skirt, the woman’s youthful and energetic voice finally catching my attention.

“—series of thefts in The Meadow/Pembroke Heights and College Hill areas being reported,” she says. “Montpelier Police are investigating the string of break-ins and recommend residents check their doors and windows are locked and secured. But not too tight,” she laughs. “Santa needs to be able to get down your chimney!”

I’m not sure her script is going to land well. Those sections of the city are some of the wealthiest and I’m positive the residents care less about the fictional (shh, don’t tell the kids!) jolly man in his red suit and more about protecting their property.

“And now, the weather,” she says as I return to my desk, turning off my computer and checking my watch. Almost 5PM. I’m running a little behind. “We’re already feeling the effects of that winter storm heading toward us from across the Canadian border, so bundle up out there! With expected snowfalls of twenty inches overnight, this storm is going to be a doozy if the fifty-mile-per-hour winds with gusts expected over seventy pushing the front over Montpelier don’t ease up a little.” More good news. “I hope you’re not planning to drive anywhere in the next twelve to sixteen hours!”

She’s just full of Christmas cheer, that one. I’m grateful when a new carol starts up, signaling the end of her contribution to my late afternoon as I finally nab my bag and head for the front door, my long, red wool coat waiting patiently for me.

I’m so focused on getting while the getting is good, I’m halfway into my coat before I realize someone is standing outside the doorway, peering in and I squeak in surprise—and a bit of fright—at the sight of the young woman watching me. I flash her an apologetic smile when I realize she’s not some threat lurking and gesture for her to come inside, finishing fastening the sparkly buttons at my throat over the soft faux fur neckband beneath as she hesitantly joins me.

Her dark hair sparkles with snowflakes that rapidly melt, hazel eyes wary and her smooth cheeks pink from the chilly air outside. But despite her obvious youth, there’s an aged feeling to her, as though she’s seen enough out of life that her childhood is a long-gone terrible memory.

That has me pausing and turns my empathy up to full while I continue to smile and finally speak when she doesn’t.

“Daisy Bruce,” I say, offering my hand. She shakes it with some trepidation, bobbing a nod.

“Hi,” she says, voice soft and cracking a little. She clears her throat before going on. “Lia Trevors.” She looks around, hands shoved back into the pockets of her white puffer coat, shuffling her feet in her shaggy boots as moisture pools on the rug there to capture just such a mess. “Are you a private detective?”

I nod immediately, the twinge of anxiety I feel at the delay shoved firmly aside. If I don’t get out to Reading tonight, I’ll leave tomorrow after the storm, no big deal. “Did you need help, Lia?”

She doesn’t say anything, biting her lower lip, like she’s already decided this was a terrible decision. I see it in her face, the moment she chooses to balk and reach out to her even though she’s closed off from me, eyes shuttering, lips a thin line.

“Never mind,” she mutters, spinning and pushing on the door. “It doesn’t matter.”

I watch her go, debating pursuit. She came here for a reason. But I can’t make her tell me what she needs, can I? Why then do I hover there, anxiety now aimed at the young woman I can no longer see through the falling snow, instead of starting my drive home to Reading?

I finally head out into the falling darkness and lock the door behind me, lights on a timer taking care of the interior, the alarm system beeping softly behind the glass. Hopefully, my visitor will return after Christmas and give me a chance to help her after all. Otherwise, there’s not much I can do, is there?

But as I head for my car parked just down the street, I spot the girl lurking, watching me. When Lia realizes I’ve seen her, she bolts, spinning in place and retreating. I really should just head out. Whatever is going on with her isn’t my problem. Except it is because it’s Christmas and my heart tells me she’s in trouble. At the very least, in need. I just can’t let that go.

Refusing to worry about what comes next, I set off at a steady clip on her heels.

***

Chapter Two

I immediately wish I thought ahead and dressed for the weather, though the tights I’m wearing under my skirt are warm enough paired with the tall boots and long coat. Still, the occasional gust of wind under the hem has me shivering and second-guessing my long strides necessary to keep Lia in sight. When she turns a corner up ahead, I slow my pace, about to give up, except when I round that same corner myself, she’s just vanishing from sight up a set of stairs into a three-level brownstone.

It’s not difficult to identify the house as a group home, the sign out front for Next Steps making its purpose obvious. I slip a little on a patch of ice as I pause to look up at the black-painted front door, debating my options before sighing softly at myself. I don’t have options and I know it. I’ve come this far because I’ll worry about Lia the entire drive to Reading, the duration of my stay and all the way back until I’m able to talk to her and find out what she needs with a private investigator.

Fee will tease me, no doubt, about my inability to let things go, but I know what it’s like to feel alone. No, I didn’t experience the foster system myself. But I’m an orphan, both of my parents gone and despite the love and embrace of my best friend’s incredible family (not to mention Fee herself) making me feel like I belong, I know intimately just how vulnerable one can be at this time of year—any time of year—when it seems like there’s no one to turn to.

Now that I have some sense of Lia’s present circumstances, I’m unable to stop my feet from climbing the steps without my express permission.

The warm entry feels dim despite the heavy pendulum light hanging over my head as I enter, the dark carpeting and old wallpaper in a deep plum only adding to the feeling of oppression I’m suddenly surrounded by in the quiet foyer. A broad staircase leads upward to a landing, treads covered with worn carpeting to match the same I stand on, marking the passage of many feet that have left their impressions behind. I note the paint on the banister has been polished away by the same number of hands that have removed minuscule layers over time to match. I’m not surprised by the way the house has a sullen feeling of age and wear, of perhaps decades of service to those whose lives have led them to the care of the state instead of loving families. It’s only as I hesitate on the threshold, the door closing heavily behind me, cutting off the wind and leaving me a little breathless in the dull quiet that I realize there’s not a trace of holiday cheer to be found in the entry.

The sound of a door deeper inside opening and closing pulls me back from the momentary surprise and mingling sadness at the striking absence of anything Christmas in this dour place as a short, roundish woman, her blond bob swinging around her apple cheeks, huffs down the corridor past the staircase toward me. Her tight gray suit pulls at the buttons over her ample chest, threatening to spill out the contents at any second, her heavy lipstick a bit too dark for her pale skin, in my opinion, making her complexion appear sallow. I’m not the sort to judge others by appearances, mind you. I’ve spent my whole life being slotted firmly into a “too pretty to be smart” box—and believed it for far too long—to accept that sort of nonsense about others. Still, there’s a petty disdain to her expression as she looks me up and down, coming to a halt a few feet from me, her chin lifting and lips curling into a sneer that immediately informs me my presence is not appreciated no matter my reason for being.

And now you have the beginning of my story well in hand. Shall we carry on? Because she uses similar words in the next second.

“You’re not welcome here.” Blunt enough, isn’t she, all unknowing of my purpose? A politer soul would at least ask what I wanted instead of showing me the door so perfunctorily. Her lips pinch tightly enough the lines around them make her pucker look like she’d aged at least two decades in a heartbeat. “Leave, now. Or I’m calling the police!”

Her rather excessive reaction to my arrival has me even more concerned for Lia. “I’m here to speak to my client,” I say, dipping into Fee’s rather impressive persona, calling up her utter lack of regard for the opinions of others on instinct. I slide out of my red leather gloves, tucking them in one hand casually as I do so, that ordinary action giving me a steadying activity that I hope comes across as confidence. “And you are?”

She blinks at me, spluttering a moment before responding. “Chelsea Thrice,” she snaps. “Administrator of this facility.” Her defensiveness isn’t helping matters.

“Daisy Bruce,” I say, slipping a card out of my bag, and handing it to her with my trademark dimpled smile in an effort to diffuse her visible antagonism. “Fleming Investigations. I’ll only be a moment. Miss Lia Trevors, please?”

You’d think I’d just told her I was a demon from the pit. She flushes a deep crimson, glancing at my card before trying to hand it back, lips now pinched together, eyes narrowed. “We have no use for a snoop here,” she snarls. “This home is privately run under laws of the state of Vermont, and we are not required to answer any questions.” Um, okay then. “Now, since you’re on private property without permission, I suggest you leave.”

Now, were this even a year ago, I might have done as I’ve been told. But whether it’s the influence of the job and my newfound freedom, the fact that I’m no longer weighted down by the opinions of the past (or perhaps simply out of my concern for the young woman I catch watching from above, peeking over the railing in surprise), I stand my ground. Whatever the reason, I’m less inclined to simply cave these days, though my smile does fade, replaced with a firm expression I’ve practiced in the mirror if only to give myself some assurance that I don’t look silly while trying to be professional.

“I’ll leave,” I say, “when my client assures me that I have the information I need.”

And there we have it, a standoff. Though I’m unsure as to the legal foundation of my refusal or the rules and laws behind me even being in the foyer of the residential care facility, technically uninvited, the administrator appears flustered enough—and has as yet to call the police, yay!—that I stand my ground and wait for the young woman in question to either come talk to me or to send me away. While I know that group homes like this one are typically privately run, as Chelsea Thrice has informed me this one is, her unexpected hostility surprises me enough I’m not about to abandon Lia without a fight.

What will I find here if I dig beneath the surface just a little? I look up at the young woman in question and catch her eyes, hear her meep and duck out of sight again, while I do my best to maintain my confidence in the face of opposition.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Chelsea.” Another woman interrupts, hustling toward us from the same hallway, her dark hair in a messy ponytail, deep brown eyes concerned but a wavering smile appearing for me as she casts a sideways look at the administrator. I’m relaxing a little as the newcomer offers her hand, her casual attire of jeans, sneakers and a flannel shirt as welcoming as her hearty shake and warm gaze. “Randa Ruiz,” she says. “I’m the supervisor for this shift,” she goes on, “and one of the volunteer counselors. You said you’re here for Lia?” She turns without waiting for me to respond, raising her voice to call up the stairs. “Lia! You have a visitor!” Randa returns her attention to me then, beaming a smile and releasing my hand. “Who did you say you were?”

“Daisy Bruce,” I say, giving her a card as well. Randa’s eyes widen as she reads it.

“Well,” she says, and for a moment I’m worried she’s going to change her tune. But when she looks up again, there’s even more warmth on her face and her smile has widened. “A private investigator.”

“An ambulance chaser,” Chelsea pipes in, arms crossing over her chest, glaring at me like I’m about to make off with the good silver. “It’s bad enough no one showed up for work tonight. Now we have to deal with this?” She tsks while Randa shoots her a frustrated look over her shoulder.

“We can handle things until the storm is over,” she says to her boss who doesn’t seem to agree even a little bit.

“If you think I’m staying overnight,” Chelsea hisses back, “you’re deluded.” She meets my eyes with a flare of guilt showing before she stiffens again and shoos me with one hand like I didn’t just hear her plan to abandon the kids she’s responsible for with one worker to take care of all of them.

Not my problem, but certainly cements my decision to double down. “I assure you,” I say, “I’m only here to help Ms. Trevors.” I look up as Lia slowly descends toward me, her head down, her face very red. A young man walks beside her, whispering to her as she slowly approaches, a collection of other kids watching from over the railing. I know enough about the system that a setup like this one has my heart breaking for the watching children of varying ages who whisper among themselves. They should be in homes with families, not grouped together like this, the responsibility of a corporate manager who I’m already disliking immensely. But I’m also aware that in many cases, kids who end up in situations like this one are considered less desirable (whatever that means, they’re kids) and are unsuited to more singular environments.

Troubled kids, they call them. I make out a dozen or so boys and girls, some very young, others also teens as Lia and her friend are, and continue to smile at them all as Lia finally makes it to the bottom step. She’s tucked one hand beneath her other arm, making herself small, her dark hair falling over her face as though she’s hiding from me. Which she obviously is and now I’m uncomfortable because while she’d instigated this, I now feel like an unwelcome stalker.

“Hi,” she says in a tiny voice. “I’m sorry about before.”

“Not at all,” I say, cheerful tone a bit much but a reaction to this odd circumstance I’ve put myself in. “We didn’t get to finish our conversation.”

I note two men have joined us, lurking in the hallway behind the administrator, one of them frowning at me while the other taller one slouches like he’s embarrassed by the entire proceedings, even more so when Chelsea strides toward Lia and grasps her arm, tugging her firmly down to floor level in a physical move that has me stunned. Surely, she doesn’t have the right to lay her hands on a girl in her care?

Before I can say so out loud, the plump blonde snaps at the girl in question. “Do tell us why you think you need a private investigator, Lia.” The young woman stares in mute horror as Chelsea smirks, releasing her as she goes on. “Let me guess,” she says with enough self-righteous contempt I’m stunned at her attitude, “you’re still looking for your father.” She barks a derisive laugh at the teen whose face turns very pale, her head swiveling away from the woman’s verbal attack, Lia’s shoulders slouching further while Chelsea fixes her angry hazel eyes on me. “Don’t tell me you’re feeding into this girl’s delusion that her father is looking for her.”

I’m not a violent person. In fact, even in self-defense class I’m always apologizing when I have to spar with a partner or a teacher. Fee often jokes that she’s the one most likely to require bail money between the two of us and, under normal conditions, she’s right.

These are not normal conditions, however, and I’m only beginning to understand that. Or accept the fact that certain things negate my typical response to cruelty and injustice. Turns out, being a hateful cow to an innocent young woman only hoping for a happy ending is one of them.

But I don’t get a chance to lash out, either physically or verbally. To my surprise, the lurking man whose shame I so clearly viewed as cowardice shocks me as he steps forward and tugs Chelsea away from Lia.

“I’m sure Ms. Bruce means well,” he says, his dark eyes flickering to me, attempt at an apologetic smile one of a man who’s spent his life saying he’s sorry for the actions of someone or another.

“Stay out of this, Mark,” she snaps back.

He retreats a step, hesitant, but he’s replaced by the second man whose attitude isn’t shrinking. If anything, he’s the opposite of the now chastised lurker, black eyes snapping anger.

“Lia has every right to ask questions, Chelsea.” He nods to me, his short, black hair shining in the celling light’s dim illumination. “Peter Lu, Family Services Division.” He returns his attention to the angry administrator who spins on him, dropping her fisted hands to her hips. She hisses a breath as he goes on. “I’m concerned that you seem so opposed to one of the children in our care pursuing an effort to find a parent.” He met my eyes then. “We do prefer to investigate in-house, however.”

It’s pretty clear the two of them have butted heads in the past and that I’m now witnessing simply the latest in their continuing disagreement, the gray-suited administrator practically huffing as she faces down the slim man in the black wool trench coat.

“You know how this will end,” Chelsea splutters finally. “There’s a reason you turned down the request last time. Don’t make me into the bad guy here, Peter.”

Before the FSD agent can respond, someone else does. “But she has new information.” The young man who accompanied Lia down the stairs speaks up, gaining everyone’s attention. I’m sure he’s blushing, though his dark skin hides it for the most part, his lips trembling as he licks them, black eyes darting to the girl and then to the arguing adults. “She has a chance to find her dad. Let her try.”

Before Chelsea can respond, Lia lets out a soft cry and shakes her head.

“I’m sorry,” she wails. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. Just go, please.” That last is aimed at me as, with a grief-laden expression, Lia turns and runs up the steps, avoiding her friend’s attempt to stop her, fleeing as she weeps her regret and hurt until the sound of a door slamming above reverberates in the stillness that’s fallen.

Chelsea Thrice’s smirk of decisive triumph has me returning to thoughts of violence.

“You heard her,” she snaps. “Now get out and don’t come back.”

***

Chapter Three

I stop at the bottom of the steps to make a call I know won’t do me a bit of good, frustrated more than anything by the administrator’s victory than anything and needing someone with a more level head to help me dispel my temper.

BCI Homicide Detective Rowan Mallory answers on the second ring and listens patiently as I rant to him about what I just experienced, my feet carrying me through the gathering snow toward my car even as I debate returning to argue with the horrible woman despite myself.

By the time I’m clicking the button to unlock my driver’s door, I’m calmer and rambling to a stop. I halt at the curb, exhaling a long, shaking breath with the last of my elevated heartrate steadying as Rowan speaks in the silence that falls between us.

“Feel better?” I murmur the affirmative, kicking at a pile of snow with the toe of my boot like a child caught at the end of a tantrum. “I’m sorry, Day,” he says then, the sound of chatter behind him telling me he’s likely in the bullpen at the precinct. I’m suddenly embarrassed by the call. I’m interrupting him at work, laying all of this at the feet of a homicide detective who has much worse things to worry about than listening to me carry on like I did. “I wish I could help.”

“I know, I’m sorry, too.” I make a note to send him a twelve-pack of his favorite craft beer as a real apology because this is ridiculous. “This isn’t your problem. I shouldn’t have called.”

“I’m honored,” he says with genuine affection that has me sagging a little. “Trust me, I much prefer calls like this to that friend of yours letting me know someone’s died.”

I giggle a little as he chuckles on the other end of the line because his interactions with Fee are rather notoriously tied to her penchant for discovering the dead. Our brief amusement releases the last of my tension and I toss my free hand, now just sad for Lia.

“There has to be something I can do,” I say.

“It sounds like that FSD agent might be willing to take action,” Rowan tells me. That sparks a moment of hope, honestly. He’s right, though can I trust Peter Lu to follow through when it’s obvious he hasn’t yet?

Oh, Day. None of your business anymore, sweet girl. I sigh deeply into the falling snow, realizing I’m now going to have a very uncomfortable drive to Reading, and contemplate staying put after all when Rowan goes on.

“Tell me you’re not on the road.” His concern is kind and makes me smile.

“Not yet,” I say. “But I’m heading out now.”

“Penny just called,” he tells me, his medical examiner girlfriend a dear and an excellent match for the enigmatic detective I adore. “I was going to head to Reading myself, but I think I’ll wait it out. There’s talk of pulling plows off the roads.”

“Then I’d better get started,” I say. Time to put this behind me for now.

“Or we could travel together tomorrow.” It sounds like he’d prefer that, but to Rowan’s credit, he doesn’t push me because he’s great like that.

I consider his offer, debating, and am about to reply when I’m interrupted.

“Ms. Bruce?” I turn to find the young man from the group home has approached me and he’s not alone. The sight of Lia Trevors at his side, reluctant or not, has my full attention.

“I have to go,” I say. “Thanks, Rowan.”

“Keep me posted,” he says. About the drive or the case? Because it’s clear to me now that I’m in it whether it’s a good idea or not.

“I’m Caleb Johnson,” the young man says, both hands tucked into his less-than-adequate short coat, his sneakers no match for the snow on the ground. At least he’s wearing mittens and a hat, Lia more appropriately dressed again in her puffer coat for the weather as the pair hover together like I’m going to send them packing. “Lia’s my friend.”

“I got that much,” I say with a smile, tucking my phone away.

“I’m sorry about Ms. Thrice.” Lia blurts that before I can say more. She’s clearly been crying and sniffles as she takes a long breath before speaking again. “She’s so mean!”

I’m not going to agree with her out loud, but I’m grumbling truth internally. “From the sound of things, Mr. Lu has investigated for you before, Lia?”

“A long time ago,” Caleb speaks for her when she doesn’t respond right away. “Lia’s dad was never found after her mom died. From what we know, he never even knew she existed.”

“We haven’t been able to track him down,” Lia says with soft regret, finally pulling herself together enough to speak. “But I’m pretty sure we’ve been looking for the wrong person all along.”

“What makes you say that?” I look up as a wind gust pushes against me, the snow coming down even heavier. “Hang on to that thought,” I say, gesturing at the office door across from my car. I lock it, the alarm beeping as I stride toward the glass entry, using one boot to push away the small pile of snow that has already accumulated at the threshold. I’m unlocking the door as I speak. “Come inside,” I say.

They join me, lurking in the entry while I turn off the security system and nod to Lia to go on. “You were saying?”

Warm now and without the distraction of the storm to pull focus, she takes another long breath before resuming, voice level and hazel eyes earnest.

“Mom never told me his name,” she says. “FSD always went by the one she put on my birth certificate. But Mr. Lu told me they could never find the man Mom named, Cliffton Hobart.” I nod as she glances at Caleb who smiles in return to encourage her, no doubt, because she smiles back, hesitant and small, before finishing with strength returning to her voice. “The investigator gave up because there was no such person attached to my mother or who could be my father.”

“But you now have another name to search?” I’ve clearly drawn the right conclusion because she nods along with Caleb who seems far more excited than she is.

“Anderson Rittles,” she says in a small voice. “I got a box of things from Mom’s hospice nurse. She had cancer.” Lia says it in a way that has me shivering inside for the hurt and lost little girl whose mother passed away from a horrible disease and there was nothing she could do about it. “A year ago.” Lia shrugs because it’s clear she’s come to terms even if my heart is breaking for her. “I was moved to a new foster home, then Next Steps when my foster family decided they couldn’t keep me anymore.” I’m going to cry but she deserves better so I hold back my reaction and hope she can’t see how deeply her story has moved me. She needs a professional right now, not a sobbing stranger. “So, it took a while for the nurse to track me down. I was going through all of Mom’s stuff, and I found a letter.” She reaches into her jacket and hands a small envelope to me. It’s visibly time-worn and has been opened many times, creased and a little yellow, as is the page inside that I unfold with a nod of permission from her. The name on the top left matches the one inside, and the name she’s already given, Anderson Rittles. “She had an affair with him,” Lia says, sounding embarrassed but pushing on. “He was married.” Her nose wrinkles but she shakes her head regardless. “The timing matches up.” I look at the date as she goes on. “Mom broke it off with him when he wouldn’t leave his wife.” She’s judging her mother and hating herself for it. I can hear it in her voice. Of course, she is. Who wants to be angry with their dead parent when there’s nothing they can do about it? I have my own issues with my family, my mother and father and infidelity. So, my compassion is at an all-time high, as is my understanding of her feelings. “I was born eight months after she got this letter.”

A letter, I realize as I skim the contents, confirming that Anderson Rittles was sorry to hurt her but was reconciling with his wife and needed to end their relationship once and for all.

“Did you tell Mr. Lu about this?” I extend the letter toward her after sliding it back into the envelope with the care I’d afford Fee’s infant daughters, as Lia nods, misery on her face.

It’s Caleb who answers, angry and shaking now. “The second she found it,” he says, harsh tone growling. “He said there was no proof Rittles was her dad and that he couldn’t ‘allocate precious resources to a wild-goose chase’.”

So much for his defense of her attempt to find her father. Clearly, he’d only spoken up to cause trouble for Chelsea, not that I blamed him if her attitude with me is her normal way of being.

“I have money.” Caleb seems to take my moment of thought as rejection. He’s suddenly holding out a wad of bills in my direction. I blink in surprise, not just at the abrupt offer, but the sizeable amount he seems to possess. I’m shaking my head immediately as he goes on, desperation in his tone. “Whatever it costs.”

“Keep it,” I say, smiling gently at both of them. “Let me see what I can find out, okay?” I’m not sure if the hope on their faces is a good thing, because this could still end badly, but Lia’s sudden hug has me hopeful too.

“Thank you.” She whispers that before turning and exiting in a rush, Caleb pausing a moment as though with something more to say before he stuffs the offered cash back into his coat pocket and goes after her into the snowy darkness. A gust of wind rattles the envelope in my hand before the door thuds shut on their heels, leaving me alone in the quiet office once again.

I need to leave if I’m going to make it to Reading tonight. Except my coat somehow finds itself hung up at the door as I cross to my computer, turning it back on as I settle into my chair and begin a search that could mean a happy holiday for someone who deserves it.

It takes me less than twenty minutes to find Lia’s father, and only because it turns out he’s changed his last name after a short stint in prison for fraud. That has me wincing, but Anderson Rittles (now Wilson) seems to be on the straight and narrow, his two years behind bars finished over ten years ago, parole complete. He’s divorced from the woman he cheated on with Lia’s mother but has married again, with two young boys and a twenty-something from his first marriage. Not only does he live in Vermont, he’s only a short drive from Montpelier and could be here in a little over an hour if he left now.

Except, the weather, of course. And the fact he doesn’t even know Lia exists from what I can tell. I sit back and exhale, smiling to myself. I have to temper my expectations. There’s a chance he won’t want contact with Lia at all. Or that she’s wrong and he’s not her father. A paternity test will be necessary, of course. Still, this is the best possible outcome, really, the first step in a chance for a happy ending for Lia.

I guess I’m not going home tonight after all. I leave Rowan a text message rather than bothering him at work again, confirming I’m staying put and that I’d love to travel with him as soon as the roads are clear. I’ll have to call Fee when I get home to my apartment. She’ll be disappointed, but I know she’ll understand. First things first, however.

Time to share this information with Lia and let her decide how she wants to proceed.

The snowfall has increased exponentially since I sat down to dig into Lia’s potential father and I have one final moment of hesitation as I realize I could very well not only be stuck in Montpelier but at the office as well if I don’t hurry. I debate calling Next Steps after going home to my place, but I’m fairly certain Chelsea Thrice will block any attempt I make to speak to Lia directly. That has me grimly slogging through knee-deep snow on my way to the residential facility with only dogged determination to sustain me.

It was well past 6PM by the time I dragged myself up the steps to the front door and let myself inside the three-story, the quiet foyer again greeting me with its dull doldrums. But this time no one came to tell me to leave, nor acknowledged my arrival at all.

“Hello?” I blow on my cold, gloved hands as I wait for anyone to come along, finally peeking through the archway entrance of the living room at the sad collection of worn furniture, the silent dining room beyond it, both of which stand empty and dark and devoid of Christmas decorations as much as the entry is.

I am about to go upstairs and legalities be darned when I hear something down the hallway. That encourages me to move past the staircase instead, heading deeper into the quiet house. The sound of voices up ahead and on the left almost keeps me moving, the smell of food suggesting I’m near the kitchen area. But as I stride past one doorway, the glow of colorful lights blinking has me pausing and turning to stare at the unexpected illumination coming from beneath.

Maybe I should knock, but my curiosity has me acting without thinking, my hand turning the old brass knob, pushing inward while the heavy wood entry creaks just a little under my touch. That was the sound that had caught my attention in the first place and lured me in this direction, I’m sure of it. Though it doesn’t matter now, not really, because my reason for suddenly freezing in place takes total control and has me staring in surprise.

Chelsea Thrice won’t be available to yell at me or anyone else for that matter, not anymore. Any attempt she might have made in the future to kick me out of the group home died with her where she sits in her office chair, a string of flickering, happy Christmas lights tied tightly around her bulging neck.

***

Chapter Four

My first instinct, after stifling the need to turn tail and retreat, is to call Rowan Mallory, of course. While I’ve been in the presence of dead bodies before, I’m not Fee Fleming, and nor do I have her rather matter-of-factness when it comes to death. I still get shivers down my spine knowing I’m facing someone’s mortality at their very worst moment.

But, before I can pull myself together and whip out my phone (or spin to exit the room in a rush), someone enters behind me, brushing against me. Which has me jumping and letting out a short squeak of fright (because dead body, hello).

I catch one glimpse of Randa Ruiz’s stunned stare before she inhales sharply and lets out a piercing shriek that’s almost worse than facing off with a corpse. And I thought I didn’t react well to finding a body. Her clear distress triggers my empathy all over again and I’m reaching out to soothe her when she turns her huge, dark eyes on me and points a finger, still emitting that horrific wailing sound that threatens to puncture my eardrums if she doesn’t stop soon.

Which has others rapidly approaching and suddenly the room is flooding with people while I’m forced deeper into the office space and, subsequently, closer to the expired form of Chelsea Thrice, not exactly where I’d like to be at the moment, thank you.

“Randa, what—” The man Chelsea addressed as Mark earlier is the first to make his way into the office, almost bowling me over in the process. His question ends abruptly as his gaze turns to the sight of the administrator slumped behind her desk, the flickering of the flashing Christmas bulbs only making her bulging empty stare and protruding tongue all the more grotesque. “Chelsea!” He tries to lunge for her, only to have the smaller but clearly strong FSD agent grasp him and hold him back. Peter Lu’s tight expression and heavy swallow pairs with the faintly ashen tone of his skin, and while he’s doing a good job at preventing his trembling companion from going near the body, it’s clear to me he’s doing so at the risk of losing his dinner right then and there.

“Mark, you can’t.” Peter glances at me, nods. “The police will need to investigate.”

“But my wife…” Mark trails off, wavering but no longer fighting against Peter who tugs him back, turning the taller man away. I have great respect for the agent’s ability to hold himself together even as I process what Mark called the victim. “This can’t be happening.”

“You killed Chelsea.” Randa’s thin accusation has replaced the wailing screech she’s finally allowed to trickle to nothing, though I would rather she started up that hideous sound again than point fingers like that.

“I found her like this,” I say, rather blurty, to be fair, because I not only wasn’t expecting to stumble on a murder, I’m also unprepared for finding myself as the suspect of choice.

“She was in here alone,” Randa says, addressing the two men. I see Lia and Caleb peeking in the doorway, a slew of kids behind them all whispering and staring, while I splutter and try to defend myself.

“You’re being ridiculous.” Peter shakes his head, frowning at the shaking woman. “What possible reason could Ms. Bruce have to want Chelsea dead?”

Randa flounders while relief gives me the confidence that I need to tap into my best friend again.

“We need to secure this room,” I say with more authority than I’m feeling, though the gathered watchers seem to accept my attempt to take control of the situation.

“I’m calling the police.” Peter is reaching for his own phone before I can inform him that I already have a contact in mind, even as Randa surprises me again by reaching out to stop him.

“You can’t,” she says, voice choking off in a garbled sound even as she seems to realize only then we’re far from alone and that the kids she’s responsible for are watching. She immediately pulls herself together in such a visible display I’m impressed, even more so when she turns her back on the open doorway and lowers her now clear and yet quiet voice. “Please, Mr. Lu, you can’t. Not yet.”

He gapes at her, shaking his head. “We can’t not,” he says, Mark wavering next to him. The newly minted widower doesn’t appear to have any ability in him to argue either way, nor an opinion for that matter, while Randa’s full lips tighten into a thin line.

“We need a plan,” she hisses then. “We have to think of the kids.”

Peter’s frown deepens, though he doesn’t dial just yet. “What are you talking about?”

Randa turns and closes the door, waving off the watching youth, glaring at the FSD agent now while I try to grasp what she’s up to.

“It’s almost Christmas,” she says, meeting my eyes, then Peter’s again. “These kids already have trust and stability issues. You know what will happen next.” She gestures angrily at the dead body without looking at it. Her entire shift in attitude has me wondering if her initial reaction might have been some kind of act because who goes from freaking out to totally composed and thoughtful like that? You bet it puts her at the top of my suspect list. “The moment the police arrive, these kids will be separated and shunted off at the last minute in a system that has no place for them. Where will they go? The company doesn’t have anywhere to send them.” I did a brief peek at Housing Management LLC, the corporation that runs this particular facility, and have to admit she’s probably right. The straight-forward and rather soulless website and capitalist structure of their organization doesn’t exactly suggest they see the kids as anything but a means to an end. “They’ll be in limbo over the holidays, Mr. Lu. At a time when they’re already struggling to find their way.”

How does someone who cares survive in a company like the one she works for? I don’t get to ask.

“There’s nothing we can do about that, Ms. Ruiz,” Peter Lu responds, though his voice is quiet and careful, Mark shuddering next to him, the tall man finally turning toward us and joining the conversation with his attention, or at least appearing to. “I’ll find a solution for you, I promise.” His determination proves he’s another good person in a terrible setup who puts the kids ahead of his job, at least. But logic dictates at times like these, it has to. “It’s murder.”

I glance at Chelsea Thrice and the string of blinking lights around her neck and have to agree.

“We need to find out who killed my wife.” Mark’s dull tone tells me he’s deeply in shock. Either that or he’s a great actor and needs to stay on my radar as well because the spouse is always on the list, right? I’m feeling utterly inadequate for the task and my thumb hovers over Rowan’s number even as I listen to the unfolding conversation.

“Of course, we do,” Randa says to the grief-stricken man, patting his arm, carefully not looking, I note, toward Chelsea’s dead body. The one time her dark eyes do flicker in that direction, I catch her wince and immediate refocus. Maybe her shift in attitude is simply a defense mechanism, a way to protect her mind from dealing with the truth? “But Chelsea would want us to put the kids first.” From the momentary flinch she exhibits, she knows that’s a stretch. Hey, even I know she’s pushing things because the woman I’d only met once wasn’t the type to put anyone ahead of herself.

Uncharitable? Maybe. But true, nonetheless.

Regardless, Randa’s reluctance can’t bypass the facts, and nor can I keep myself from doing what is necessary.

“I’m sorry,” I say, hitting Rowan’s number and raising my phone to my ear. “There’s nothing we can do about it.”

Randa glares at me as the detective answers on the other end of the line and now she really is at the top of my suspect list.

“I have some bad news,” I say, hesitating to inform him suddenly because the last thing I want is to lay this trouble at his feet.

“Tell me you didn’t find a body,” he says with a chuckle.

“Um.” I turn to stare at the slowly bloating face of Chelsea Thrice as the merry holiday light string flashes its dance of joy around her.

“Daisy.” Rowan’s teasing tone is gone completely now. “You found a body.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, hating the faint hint of tears in my voice, the rise of upset and anxiety in my chest that I barely smother.

“Day.” He pauses, his next words calm and level. “The plows were just pulled.” His frustration makes it through while I realize what he’s saying. “I need you to tell me everything.”

I do, filling him in as the others wait and listen. With firm control over my emotions barely keeping me from breaking down, I manage to make it through the entirety of the details I can remember without crying, so that’s a win, isn’t it? And Rowan, bless him, stays very quiet and lets me do what I need to until I stumble to a halt, a little breathless, before speaking again.

“Okay, here’s what you’re going to do.” His practicality and cool commanding tone pulls me in and reinforces my attempt to keep myself from falling to pieces. “Contain the scene and the suspects and stay put. I’m going to do my best to get to you or at least send an officer.” He doesn’t sound so confident about that possibility. “Day, you got this. You’ve been around Fee more than enough to handle this until help arrives. John Fleming wouldn’t have hired you if you weren’t ready.” I’m not going to tell Rowan that I’ve had to push aside fears since day one that Fee’s father only brought me on board because he loves me like a second daughter instead of out of any kind of faith in my abilities to do this job. “I’m here, whatever you need. I’ll walk if I have to.” He’s half a city away. He can’t do that. “Call me if you run into any trouble.” He exhales a long breath. “Daisy?”

“Yes, I’m here,” I whisper. Then clear my throat. “I’ll do my best.”

“Hang in there,” Rowan says. “I’ll call you back in a minute.” He hangs up, leaving me to lower the phone slowly from my ear while the dead woman behind the desk stares at me like she has as much faith in me as I do.

Yikes.

***

Chapter Five

Whether I like it or not, I’m the one in charge and when I turn to face off with the others, I do my best to put up a strong front. Fortunately, none of them seem very held together themselves so when I nod like I’m decisive and everything, they give me their full attention.

“I’m sealing off this crime scene,” I say as if those words don’t sound odd and eerie in my own ears. “Thanks to the weather, we’re on our own until officers can arrive.” I gesture at the door behind them. “I’m going to ask that all of you exit quietly and calmly and gather in the living room where I’ll have questions for each of you.”

That is an instruction too far, at least for Randa, who suddenly balks and shakes her head, arms crossing over her chest. “You don’t have the right to ask us anything.”

Honestly, I’m grateful for her reticence because it triggers my inner doubt to the point that I push back against it. “And yet,” I say, hearing Fee in my voice, “according to BCI Homicide Detective Rowan Mallory, I do.” I let that sink in and while I’m sure she has no idea who my friend is, I’ve pronounced my association with enough chutzpah that she and the others accept what I’ve said as fact.

“This way, Mark.” Peter turns, guiding the taller man toward the door, opening it and allowing him to go first, the FSD agent glancing back at me over his shoulder as they go. I catch his wince as his gaze slips and lands on the body behind me and then the two men are gone, Randa hesitating one more moment before going after them. I listen to the sound of her talking to someone just outside the doorway but put aside whatever it is she’s up to in favor of dealing with the difficulty now facing me.

I consider doing a quick poke about but decide against it. If Rowan had wanted me to actually investigate, he would have said as much. Instead, I’m going to follow his instructions to the letter. Well, at least as far as the body is concerned. Hopefully, he’ll either find a way to get to me or there are officers close enough to the house that can make it before the snow makes traveling impossible. I should be grateful I didn’t head out when I planned, because if the roads are this bad now, I could have ended up stranded halfway to Reading. Small consolation, and hardly lucky, at least not for me, but something to be grateful for, right?

Dear me, my mind is whirling.

I need something to do while I wait. The tension is making me fidget. While Rowan didn’t precisely ask me not to interfere, I can’t just allow this chance to question the suspects go by, considering that any length of time they have gives distance from the shock and thus allows details to slip. Not to mention that the killer’s options have trapped that person with us and put everyone present at risk.

I’d love to be able to hand him what he needs the moment he walks through the door. And yes, you caught me. If I can solve this case before he or his officers arrive, it will be a victory for me, for Fleming Investigations and to prove to myself that I really am good at this job John encouraged me to sign up for.

As I pause, considering at least unplugging the string of lights so that horrifically merry flashing no longer illuminates the corpse with that eerie rainbow glow, my phone rings. I answer it without checking who might be calling and almost crumble in relief when her familiar voice penetrates my moment of distraction.

“Either you’re still in Montpelier and you’re not coming,” Fee says, “or you’re almost here. I hope it’s one or the other, Day.” I can hear the worry in her tone and inhale slowly, so happy it’s her I have to hold back a little sob. “Please tell me you’re not on the road somewhere between here and there in this.”

“Montpelier,” I manage to whisper before clearing my throat. “Fee, I have a problem.” I fill her in, voice still kept low, glancing at the open door the others left through while my best friend and one of the most amazing detectives I’ve ever known hisses softly over the line to the faint sound of a baby crying in the background.

“Day.” She exhales heavily, a door closing somewhere, the weeping child sounds cut off abruptly. “Did you call Mallory?”

“He’s trying to get here, but the roads are snowed in and the plows have stopped, and what if he can’t, Fee?” There’s the panic I’ve been pushing down. Oh, how I equally wish it chose to stay away and am grateful it’s her hearing it. I’m wringing my free hand at my side while I begin to pace back and forth, that same hysteria surging up into my throat, trying to choke me. What is wrong with me? This is far from the first dead body I’ve seen, and I’ve at least peripherally helped Fee solve homicides before, if not directly involved in most cases.

That’s it, though, isn’t it? This is my first solo ride, and it has to be a murder.

“Deep breath, sister.” She waits for me to inhale and exhale before sighing herself. “Day, you’re going to be great. Trust me. Can you trust me?” There’s not a trace of doubt in her voice. How can she be so calm and confident? “Hang on a second, I’m going to call Dr. Aberstock.” That has me perking because why didn’t I think of doing so myself? I hear a click on the line as she leaves the active call, then returns a moment later. “I’m vid calling,” she says. “Hang up, Day.”

A moment later, I’m on the video chat with my best friend and Reading’s elderly ME, Dr. Lloyd Aberstock. He beams a smile at me, his cherub cheeks pink, a lovely red sweater making him look even more like Santa Claus than he normally does. I’ve known the kindly and caring doctor my entire life and trust him as much as I trust Fee, so having him wave and say hello instantly makes me feel better.

“My dear Daisy,” he says. “I understand it’s your turn to start finding random corpses.” He chuckles and shakes his head when I try to protest. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I couldn’t resist.”

Fee eye rolls, her long, auburn hair in a messy bun at the back of her head, a swaddled baby tucked against her as she bobs and rocks the sleeping infant. A patch of dark hair tells me she has Flora, which means when Crew passes the image with another bundle in his arms, the crying child I’d heard has to be Iris. He joins us a moment, offering me a wave of his own, Fee’s gorgeous former FBI/sheriff husband equally impressive in his deductive prowess giving me an apologetic smile.

“You okay there, Day?” Crew nudges Fee who frowns at him. “Did you even ask your best friend if she’s all right?”

“Of course, she is,” Fee says like the idea I might be melting down internally while doing my best to show a brave face isn’t exactly what’s happening right at that moment. “Right, Day?”

I don’t respond, partially because Dr. Aberstock speaks up first.

“Now, Daisy, I’m going to ask you to turn your camera around so I can get a look at the body.” While maybe getting closer to the corpse and receiving instructions to do so might sound like it should make things worse, having definitive action to take actually helps more than he can know. Or maybe he knows exactly what he’s doing, and I’ll hug him so hard when I see him again. Whatever the case, I respond immediately, flipping my camera’s angle and closing the distance to where Chelsea sits, lights still blinking.

“Yikes,” Crew mutters. I can still see them and note with a tiny grin that has me relaxing somewhat that it’s Fee’s turn to jab him in the ribs.

“Would it be all right to unplug the lights, do you think?” I glance at the end of the cord firmly slotted into the socket.

“It is distracting somewhat,” Dr. Aberstock said. “Can you see any tissues around you, Daisy?” I nod and retrieve several from a box on the desk. “Just make sure not to touch the cord with your fingers, dear. You should be fine to pull it loose that way without contaminating evidence.”

I’m ever so grateful when my firm jerking motion stills the endless blinking, though then I’m left with the dead body in a dark room lit only by the light from the hallway. I do my best not to run to the door and flick on the light, but I’m moving fast, you better believe it.

When I return to the body, the bright ceiling light now shining down on the corpse, Dr. Aberstock murmurs a thank you and a kindly, “Hold the camera still, please,” while he has a look, still muttering to himself.

“It’s difficult to tell without an actual examination,” he says at last, “but I’m only seeing signs of strangulation. Can you check her head for any injuries?” I use another few tissues to gently move her head, seeing nothing, laying her limply back against the rest when I’m done. “I would say strangulation is your COD,” he says. “Can you show me her hands?” I do so, noting as I tilt the phone down that several of her fake fingernails are broken, the Frech tips missing. “She has clear signs of defense,” he says, Fee and Crew both murmuring their agreement. “If you can find those tips, Daisy, and secure them in a plastic bag, there will no doubt be DNA from the murderer on them that can be used at trial.”

I crouch and look around, immediately spotting the broken shards of gel nails. “Got them,” I say. “I’ll get a bag from the kitchen.”

“Excellent work, dear,” he says then, that sweetness that is his usual meant to soothe me while I fret. “I know this isn’t your job, I’m sorry to put this on you.” He laughs a little. “It’s not mine either, technically.” He seems to make a decision then. “Don’t touch another thing, Daisy. Let the techs take care of it when they arrive. I understand Detective Mallory has been informed?” I flip the camera back around so he can see my face as I nod. Is he sure? I worry now Dr. Aberstock doesn’t think I can handle myself. Because of course, I do. “Excellent,” the doctor says, appearing unphased and content while anxiety eats away at my insides. “Just make certain the scene is preserved, Daisy. Well done, my dear.”

I’m barely able to mutter thank you as he begs off, hanging up from the call, while Fee and Crew both watch me stand and turn my back on the victim.

“Day,” Fee says, voice now unsure, face compressing in worry. “You’re not okay, are you?”

I stiffen my spine and tighten my jaw against the need to cry and shake my head. “There’s not much more to do,” I say. “I’ll make sure the body isn’t disturbed. I’m alone, so I can’t control the suspects.” That only just occurs to me and has me tsking. I’m letting them talk without me being present even as I stand here. What was I thinking?

“Day.” Crew’s steady voice brings me back from panic again. “You’re one person trying to do a good thing. Someone died. That’s not on you.” I nod, swallowing the stress reaction. He’s right.

“Daisy, listen to me.” I focus on Fee who hands Flora to her husband and takes the screen close to her face, blocking out everything but her green eyes and freckles. “I know what it’s like.” I know she does. “Whatever went down, it has nothing to do with you. They’re lucky to have you there, Daisy Bruce.” I’m not so sure about that but nod anyway. “You’re not a homicide detective. You’re a private investigator. And you’re there to talk to a client, not protect a crime scene.” She turns her head and shushes something Crew tries to say before refocusing on me. “Day, I mean it. I’ve been down this road too many times. Please don’t feel responsible or like you have to take stupid chances like I’ve done in the past.”

“You would, if you were here,” I whisper.

She laughs, shrugs, then sets the screen down and takes a baby from Crew again, snuggling her infant daughter. “Maybe,” she says. “Maybe not anymore.”

“You telling her to be careful is a bit rich.” Crew snorts then shrugs. “Day, be safe. And follow your gut.” Fee tsks at him but he’s not looking at her. “Take no chances. Ask good questions. Be yourself. And if a lead presents, follow it.”

The fact he’s telling me this while she’s arguing the opposite? “Who are you two and what have you done with my friends?”

They laugh at that, the babies waking in tandem as they do. Crew groans and starts bobbing with Iris while Fee exhales heavily.

“Call me the second Mallory gets there,” she says. “Or if you need anything. I mean it, Day. Love you.”

And then she’s gone and I’m lowering my phone to my side, locking eyes with the milky gaze of Chelsea Thrice.

“You’re not my responsibility,” I say, trying it out, not believing it for one second.

She just stares.

***

Chapter Six

I emerge into the hallway, considering finding a plastic bag for the victim’s broken nails after all, when I spot Randa Ruiz attempting to corral the watching and waiting residents back toward the stairs.

“Everyone in their rooms,” she says, raising her voice as she gestures for them to retreat. “Please, no more questions.”

I’d totally missed the conversation, though I was aware it was going on while I did what I needed to do. Clearly, Randa has taken time to try to explain what’s happening to the kids while I was busy with the victim. The fact she’s so patient with them has me feeling guilty that I have her so high on my suspect list, though if I’m going to be honest, her caring and empathy only increases my suspicion since it was obvious Chelsea Thrice didn’t share her employee’s feelings toward the residents.

Most of them reluctantly go up the steps as instructed, though I note that Lia and Caleb both linger at the bottom stair, the young woman’s eyes fixed on me. I’m here for her, after all, and she has to suspect as much. Otherwise, why would I have returned? I lean into Randa who spins to face me and nod back over my shoulder.

“Do you have a key for the office door?” I’d rather not have to sit outside it while I wait for the police to arrive.

She nods and hands me a small silver key on a long ribbon. “Chelsea and I are,” she swallows, “were the only two with copies. I don’t know where hers is.”

In the grasp of the killer? Or I simply overlooked it on her desk. “Thank you,” I say. “The kids are lucky to have you.”

She softens somewhat at my words, as though she’s been expecting an accusation. Guilt could make her wary, naturally, but I find I don’t want her to be the murderer if only to shield the young people she appears to care so much about from more distress.

“All I want is to protect their safety and happiness,” she says.

“Agreed,” I say. “I’m going to lock the door and then join you in the living room, all right?”

She hesitates but doesn’t argue when I turn back and do just that, slipping inside a moment to see if I can locate the victim’s key. And yes, there it is on her desk on its own string of red ribbon, perfect. And while despite Randa’s assurances there are no other copies around, I remind myself what Fee and Crew said, that I am only one person and can only do my best. I lock the door firmly, testing the handle with a soft sigh before squaring my shoulders and heading for the living room.

I find the three adults waiting there for me, Lia and Caleb lingering still in the foyer just past the entry. I pause long enough to whisper to the young woman who brought me here in the first place. “I’ll be along in a bit,” I say. “Can you two go upstairs, please?”

Caleb guides Lia away, but the hope in her eyes has me thinking I’m making the wrong choice, putting the murder suspects ahead of her like this. Still, it’s not like Lia’s father is going to be able to come even if we do get in touch, what with the weather. And I have no clue if he will even want to acknowledge her. While she should be my priority, I’m hesitating mostly because the idea of hurting her all over again has me waffling on what to tell her and whether I should alert her father first just in case.

Funny that dealing with murder is so much easier than a young woman’s broken heart.

I step into the living room where Mark perches on the edge of the sofa cushions, his face in his hands, Randa next to him, gently rubbing his back between his shoulder blades. Peter Lu paces near the front windows, spinning when I appear to confront me.

“What are we supposed to do now?” He’s been thinking over the whole predicament and has come to some conclusion in his own mind that’s pushing him into panic.

“I’ve examined the scene,” I tell them all in my firmest voice, “and consulted via video with a medical examiner and two other investigators.” I wave off Peter’s sharp inhale. “One a former FBI agent,” I add that detail, so he’ll resist arguing with me, grateful when he sags and nods, letting out that breath of protest. While I wish I had more confidence in my abilities, I’m not going to worry about flashing Crew’s credentials if that’s what it takes. “I have Detective Mallory’s word we are top priority,” I say, playing the last card in my deck of reassurances, “and have secured the scene as instructed. So, all we can do now is wait.” I pause long enough to ensure no one is going to speak up and go on. “I need to ask some hard questions of all of you. Please know they’re not intended to accuse anyone.” I’m too soft, I know it, but we’re trapped here together and the last thing I need is to antagonize them. They don’t flinch, Mark even looking up with a small nod, so they had to have been expecting this. And now I wonder if any of them are responsible because there’s not a hint of panic or guilt in any of the three faces. Could my culprit actually be confined to their room upstairs? The thought one of the kids could be the killer makes me so sad I have to suppress the thickening in my throat that idea stirs.

“Ask away,” Randa says then. “We have nothing to hide.” She looks up at Peter who leaves the window to stand in front of the dark fireplace, arms crossed over his chest. He’s shed his long coat, the simple dark wool sweater over a button-up making him look more like a college professor than an FSD agent, dark eyes tired.

“Do what you need to,” he says, his momentary anxiety seemingly under control again.

I didn’t waste another moment, though my queries about where they were during my guesswork at time of death had them all so intertwined and in such close proximity it was impossible to decipher who might have had a free moment to do the deed. I knew that the half hour or so I was gone from the group home during which I exited, was approached by Lia and Caleb, and then did my research before returning here had to be the window, but thirty minutes is an eternity when so many moving parts presented themselves.

“Thank you,” I say, finally waving off their confusing attempt at informing me of their movements, Randa’s doubling back and forgetfulness (if she says, “oh, wait!” one more time I’m going to lose it) combined with Mark’s meandering accounting barely coherent, though Peter seems rather confident in his timing if he can be believed. “Can any of you think of a reason someone might want to hurt Ms. Thrice?”

Their hesitation has Mark spluttering. “Of course not,” he says a bit too aggressively, shooting an angry look at Randa and then Peter. Before he stops and points a finger at the FSD agent. “Wait, you never got along with my wife.” He’s so disoriented and wavering now I’m worried about his mental health while the tall man falters, staring at his own outstretched hand. He slowly drops it to his lap, shaking his head. “Who would want to kill her?”

And he’s going to be of no use whatsoever. Unless this is all an act, something I can’t discount.

“This is ridiculous.” Randa stands abruptly and waves off further questions. “I can’t help you, Ms. Bruce, but I have a dozen kids upstairs who I can help. If you’ll excuse me.” She leaves without seeming to care if I agree with her exit or not and when she goes, Peter grunts and goes with her.

I leave Mark on the sofa, hugging a pillow, and stand alone in the corridor, lost and anxious myself. I have no answers to give Rowan when he arrives. Why does that make my nervousness worse? Because I want to impress him like the silly, ridiculous girl that I am. I owe him nothing. He’s not my boss nor do I answer to him. But his respect? So valuable to me he might as well be John Fleming.

Well, at least I’ve admitted that much to myself. And while Lia’s situation deserves my attention, I’m clearly a slave to proving my worth to someone who I know would be appalled to discover where my mind has brought me.

Daisy Bruce, honestly.

And yet, that’s how I find myself returning to the scene of the crime. I lock the door behind me, sighing softly into the quiet air. There has to be something here I can uncover, some clue that will help me find out who killed Chelsea Thrice.

I just wish her dead face didn’t mock me for my desire to prove myself.

***

Chapter Seven

The last place I want to be is in the presence of a corpse, mind you, so when I spot some folded fabric in a box in the corner—overflowing with more Christmas items and likely the source of the murder weapon—I take advantage of the tablecloth with the happy Santa and elves and reindeer dancing across it and drape it over Chelsea’s staring face. She’s almost worse so adorned, to be honest, and I shiver and swear to myself if she moans or makes a single move, the Ghosts of Christmas Nope can have her because I’m out of there.

For now, I wince as I gently move her chair aside, the casters rolling easily on the hardwood floor, giving me better access to her heavy desk. As I hear the back of her head thunk solidly into the wall (whoops), my hip jiggles the corner of the computer console, waking the mouse and bringing the screen to life.

I glance at the resulting image and forget completely the victim is even there, discovering she’d been in the middle of writing an email when she’d fallen prey to whoever killed her. The contents of which have me frowning and confused.

Dear Mr. Corning,

As requested, I’m supplying you with a copy of the file on hand as confirmation of my suspicions. Can you please confir—

And that was it. Whoever Mr. Corning is, he’s going to be waiting a long time for this message from her. She failed to attach whatever file it was she intended to send, too, so I have no idea what she meant to share. When I hover the mouse over the blinking icon, a timestamp flashes and now I have TOD pinpointed because she never finished, did she?

Not that it helps, not really. Still, having a confirmed time somehow gives me a sense of accomplishment. I rummage through her desktop, the small of my back aching a little from bending over, but there’s not much else to find and though I look for the reason for her correspondence with Mr. Corning, there’s apparently nothing here to have triggered it.

Whatever information she needed confirmed, the reason has died with her. Then again, when I lean away, my gaze falls on a stack of files sitting next to the monitor, a large yellow sticky note with the word THESE affixed to the top one. I flip through them, frowning now over the contents. Six residents of the house, if their paperwork is up to date—including Caleb Johnson, so I assume I’m correct—all fall under whatever curiosity Chelsea Thrice needed satisfied. I only wish she’d been specific because now I’m wondering if perhaps this very stack is the reason for her death.

“What were you looking into?” I glance her way but she’s silent and I’m frankly grateful even if a reply could have solved the case.

I set the files aside, heading toward the bank of filing cabinets, noticing that a painting on the wall above them is askew. Of course, I take a peek at it and realize it’s on hinges, and that one soft tug reveals a wall safe with a rather old-fashioned rotary dial not very well hidden behind it.

You better believe I rifle through her desk for the combination, though she wasn’t much of a mastermind, and not very careful with secrets of this sort because I find the three-number string that I need in the back of her day planner rather quickly. Either she wasn’t concerned about anyone figuring it out or I have a much more criminal mind than I want to admit.

Let’s go with the first one, shall we? Thank you, I appreciate that.

I’m expecting paperwork, maybe even some personal items when the last number entered grants me success and the door swings open. Instead, I’m staring at a large metal box with a padlock on it. I slip it free, the weight troubling, resting it on the chest-high cabinet, again seeking out the means to open something Chelsea wanted to remain hidden. It’s not until I choose to check her jacket pocket that I find, at last, the small item in question, her pale hand falling as I do to dangle beside her, swaying in pale accusation.

“Sorry,” I whisper, turning back toward the locked box. The fact she secured it inside a substantial cast-iron safe behind a painting in a lockable office has my suspicions raised to the kind of heights that almost trigger excitement, like a treasure hunt of sorts, and would if I weren’t forced to turn my back on a dead woman to find out what she’s been hiding.

The padlock is new and well-oiled, giving me zero issues. When I gently open the top and look inside, I catch my breath, because honestly, I don’t know what I’ve been expecting but a glittering, glinting collection of jewelry and expensive-looking watches?

Not it. Not it at all.

I take a short step back from the haul and calm myself, my mind racing to the worst-case scenario I can imagine. These have to be stolen goods. From the residents? No, that can’t be it. Or could it? I picture Chelsea Thrice claiming the possessions of the poor orphans and foster children in her care as the price they pay for her presence. Surely, such a claim has to be illegal? Maybe, the more charitable part of me, suggests she’s holding these items in trust for the kids instead? For all I know, the jewels aren’t even real.

But I know better, don’t I? I don’t want to think ill of the dead, but another peek inside the box has me hissing through my teeth. I spent a great deal of time with my ex-fiancé, Emile Reis, more than enough of that surrounded by opulence and luxury, gifted with fancy gemstones and expensive items that I can spot the real thing from a mile away. And the items in that box?

Someone’s genuine article. I quickly sort through the selection, shaking my head at the odd truly pricey piece, and calculate in my head as I go, ending up with a total guesswork number that I’m sure is beneath market value for the lot, but needing some kind of an amount to work with. By the time I’m done, I’m certain she has somewhere in the ballpark of a couple of hundred thousand dollars in jewelry and pricey timepieces and now I’m shifting my possible reason for her murder to theft.

But the safe isn’t empty yet, is it? A tall stack of bills, several reams of hundreds among them, adds another hundred thousand to the pot. And there in the back, dully glinting in the light, is a small black cellphone I know in my heart can’t be traced.

So, what is the administrator of a group home doing with stolen jewelry, excessive cash and a burner phone? Nothing good at all. And more than enough motive, I’m certain, for murder.

I realize with a wince I’ve already handled the items so now my fingerprints are on everything. Well, there’s nothing to be done about that now. I turn with the box and set it on the desk, spreading out the items and photographing them individually before dropping each one into a folder. There are several of the timepieces with engravings that should make them easy enough to trace back to the original owners. I also photo the money stack with a few of the serial numbers just in case they might be counterfeit or part of some crime that he can trace as well as sharing an image of the burner before turning it on. It’s password protected so I leave it for the time being, texting the whole kit and kaboodle to Rowan before logging into my office app and searching Chelsea’s name.

She’s been admin here at Next Steps for two years and has a solid record in good standing as far as I can tell. This is her first post in Vermont, however, her last one in Minnesota but she came with an excellent resume and references.

As for her husband, Mark Patterson is a retired teacher who left his last position again with great references, choosing to assist in the house instead of finding a new teaching position here in Montpelier.

Randa Ruiz has been working with kids since college, moving states and group homes herself until arriving here and taking over as house manager a year ago. Her record is as impeccable as the other two, so no help there. And Peter Lu has been with Vermont Family Services Division for a decade. I’m not surprised to discover that both he and Randa are both formerly foster kids themselves, successful survivors of the system. Their protectiveness of the young people had me suspecting and now I have confirmation.

I hesitate before pinging Caleb Johnson, glance falling to the pile of files on the desk as he appears. Though there’s nothing untoward on the surface, it only takes me a moment to see he has a sealed record from two years ago. Whatever he did, a judge decided his life shouldn’t be ruined by it.

But did that choice mean someone had to die? I look away from the pile of files and shake my head at myself. I have no proof Caleb had anything to do with Chelsea’s death, and jumping to conclusions because he has an old history of criminal activity isn’t fair.

Except, I pause and frown at the date on my phone because, correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t that birthday year mean he’s already almost nineteen? That can’t be right. I flip open his file on the desk, read the date there. No, he has several months left before his eighteenth birthday. But the court file I’m staring at on my screen is two years older. What’s going on?

A sinking feeling in my stomach has me reaching for the next file in the pile. And the next. Until I’ve confirmed to myself each of the six kids listed are all aging out this year. I’m about to try to start comparing their online files with the paper ones when my phone rings.

“Day,” Rowan says with a sick sound to his voice, “are you kidding me right now?”

I’m not finding this funny, so I splutter a little. “I’m sorry,” I say, unable to stop the distress in my voice. “I know you said not to investigate, but I stumbled on this, and I thought you should know.”

His chuckle is strained. “You’re way more like Fleming than you’ll ever know,” he sighs. “Good job, Daisy.” Really? But he doesn’t know everything.

“I screwed up,” I say in haste, biting my lower lip but knowing I have to come clean. “I touched the items.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he says. “Have you heard about a string of thefts in the area?” I’m about to shake my head when a vague memory surfaces from earlier, a news report, right? Something to do with robberies? It’s enough that I murmur agreement. “I’m in touch with a fellow detective working the cases and she’s confirmed several of the items are on her list. She’s checking the rest, but I have a feeling you just gave her the best Christmas present ever.” Relief floods through me, a shaking grin following. I’m glad he can’t see it. “I think we now know why your vic is dead, yes? Were there signs someone tried to gain access to the stuff?”

The picture frame had been loose. “Maybe,” I say. “But why didn’t they follow through and take everything out of the safe?”

“The killer must have run out of time,” he says. “A safe? Tell me everything.”

I filled him in on all the details, including where I found the keys, so he’d know I touched the body. “And there’s more.”

He groans softly, but now that horrible, pained sound is gone from his tone. “Of course, there is,” he says. “Carry on, Detective Bruce.”

I wish he wouldn’t tease me, but it’s better than disappointment. I tell him about Caleb Johnson and the other five kids, that I suspect something isn’t right with their ages.

“But why would someone lie about that?” Rowan has to be distracted because the truth is obvious to me.

“They have to leave the system when they turn eighteen,” I say, unable to stop the sadness from creeping into my voice. “They’re on their own.” And now I’m thinking about Randa Ruiz and the fact she had a key for this very office, the one I’ve been using, even. What would that woman do to protect the children in her charge?

What wouldn’t she?

“Can you get into the burner, Day?” Rowan’s question reminds me there are possible answers to more questions waiting and I’m quickly putting my phone on speaker, setting it aside to activate the other cell I found. “Is it password protected?”

I grimace as I look up at the draped body across the desk. “Not for long,” I say, circling and pulling back the tablecloth, exposing Chelsea’s face. The screen flashes as it confirms her features and I’m in. There are three numbers listed as contacts, all of them burners as well, but the contents of the texts have me whistling softly.

“Don’t keep me in the dark, please,” Rowan says with a hint of humor. “I already know you’re brilliant. You can share, Day.”

“Sorry, right!” I blurt that when I realize he’s not here to see what I’m seeing, that horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach now an ache that will not go away. “Chelsea Thrice is behind the theft ring,” I say as I finish skimming a line of incriminating text, “and she’s using foster kids to do her dirty work.”

***

Chapter Eight

Rowan answers with the question also on my mind. “You’re thinking one of her thieves killed her?”

I stare at the pile of files in front of me and sigh. “I hate to say it, Rowan, but that makes sense, doesn’t it?” As much as anything else. “Then again.” I think about the email she had begun, Chelsea’s words to Mr. Corning. “What if she had no idea the kids were over eighteen?”

“What makes you say that?” It’s clear to me Rowan is frustrated that he can’t be there with me, the edge of it in his tone then tempered as he carries on. I want to ask when he’s coming but don’t because my voice will shake, I’m sure of it, because if he was going to be able to come, he’d be here by now, wouldn’t he? “Talk it out, Day.”

I read back the email on the computer monitor while he ponders it. “We know she’s the ringleader,” I say. “Or do we? What if she found the jewelry and the phone while investigating the kids? What if the real person behind this whole thing was the one who killed her?” The idea someone like Chelsea Thrice could be innocent has me frowning. Just because I didn’t like her for the way she spoke to me, to the kids, the fact the house isn’t decorated for Christmas… doesn’t make her an automatic criminal. And none of the texts I read actually identified her as the ringleader. For all I know, she confiscated the stolen items and the burner and was contacting whoever this mystery man is for information on the kids before turning everyone in to the police.

Am I jumping to conclusions because she wasn’t nice to me?

“I get your logic,” he says, “but. If she was innocent, Day, there’s no way she’d sit on the stolen stuff like that.” He has a point. “Maybe you’re right and she wasn’t in on it, but she might have been looking for a way in. Otherwise, why not have the cops show up immediately?”

I shouldn’t feel better about my judgment of her, but I do, and I silently thank Rowan for that. “We need to find out who this Mr. Corning is.”

“Already on it,” my detective friend says. “Richard Corning is the deputy commissioner of FSD. And I’ve just confirmed that Caleb Johnson is eighteen going on nineteen, Day. I have his records right here.”

How did he get the young man’s sealed file so fast? “What was he accused of?”

Rowan’s lack of accusation, his steady, calm tone, says a lot about him as he replies. “Theft,” he says. “Breaking and entering and theft, Day.”

“Let’s say that Chelsea was blackmailing the kids. That she found out they somehow managed to get their birthdates changed in the house files.” I have a very good idea how that happened, but I’m not going to share that until I know for sure. “When did the thefts start?”

“About a month ago,” Rowan says.

That’s recent enough. I look through the texts, confirm the first one on the burner is from about four weeks ago. “If she was blackmailing them, she could have pressured them into stealing for her. And if one of them decided to fight back…?”

“But surely she’d know they’d accuse her if she did turn them in,” Rowan says.

“Who would believe them over a respected administrator?” I can imagine how those conversations would go, and not favorably. “If they trusted the system at all.”

“Agreed,” Rowan says. “So, we’re thinking one of the kids pushed back, she threatened to out them and get them kicked from the house, and they killed her for it.”

It certainly is possible, though I feel like there’s still something missing. “Can you check into the last few places Chelsea Thrice worked?” I blink and catch a little breath as I realize I just gave Rowan Mallory an assignment.

But he’s already agreeing. “On it,” he says. “If there’s a string of thefts in the areas where she worked previously, we might be able to establish a pattern.”

“Then you’d better look at Randa Ruiz as well,” I say with enough hesitation my stomach knot tightens further.

“You suspect her?” I hear keyboard keys tapping in the background, so he’s working while we talk.

“Of changing the dates on the kids’ files,” I blurt, hoping I don’t regret it but knowing I’m right. “She’d protect them, I’m sure of it.” Except I have no proof and I really need to get some. And that proof is right in front of me. “Her, or Peter Lu.” Though I honestly think it’s Randa. All it takes is to flip to the last page in the file and see who signed off on their paperwork to confirm it. “Definitely Randa.”

“Got it,” he says before bringing up the one thing I hoped he wouldn’t. “Listen, it’s still storming out there, Day. I can’t get to you.” Now he sounds strained, concerned, and my worry returns with a vengeance. Good thing he can’t see me. I’m positive I’m not reacting well on the outside while my inside freaks out, too. “This is far bigger than we first thought. Yeah, I know,” he goes on before I can respond, “murder is pretty big, but now that there’s money involved…” He’s not wrong. “Someone in that house is desperate enough not only to steal but to kill. And they’re trapped with the rest of you. Please, be careful.”

I inhale slowly. I have no choice. While panic might be a natural reaction, it’s not an option. “I promise,” I say, and meaning it. “I’ll sit tight until you can get officers here.”

“Sure, you will,” he chuckles then. “I’ll be in touch.”

I hang up and tuck my phone away, tapping the cover of the file on the top of the stack marked THESE, before piling all of the stolen jewelry into the box, relocking it and tucking the padlock key away with my cell. Everything now returned to the safe, the picture closed over the face of it, I turn and exit the office, locking the door behind me. The contents are as secure as I can make them under the circumstances.

Randa is descending the stairs, a sad expression stiffening to resentment as I join her there. I don’t give her a chance to push past me, cornering her and whispering a question while pinning her with my taller body and my stare when I hit her with my need to know.

“Did you falsify the birthdates of some of the house residents?”

She blanches, eyes widening, flickering to one side and then back to me, all the show of guilt I need. And now her waffling between being nice to me and overreacting and accusing me of murder makes sense. Unless she’s actually the killer herself, of course, but one question and answer at a time.

When Randa stutters and stammers a moment, I wave off her attempted denial, as weak as it is, and allow her to absorb the fact I know and I’m not taking half-hearted lies at face value.

She finally sighs deeply, nodding once, arms crossing over her chest but more in a gesture of self-protection than aggression, like she’s huddling inside herself when she speaks.

“I had to do something,” Randa says, voice low and vibrating with desperation, eyes now rimmed in moisture. “They have nowhere to go. Ms. Bruce, the system is broken. We owe these children more than a push out the door just because some arbitrary number says they’re too old for us to care for.”

“It’s the law,” I remind her with gentleness, and she shrugs, looking away from me, bitterness now rising to the surface while she paws at a few tears before resuming her personal embrace.

“It’s wrong,” she says. “Yes, I changed their files. Yes, I know I’ll get fired and possibly charged. No, I don’t regret it.”

“So, you were in on the blackmail then,” I say, hoping I’m wrong and that hitting her hard with this question will show me the truth like my last one did.

I’m not disappointed. Randa’s head whips around, shock there turning to horror. “What are you talking about?”

“Chelsea Thrice was blackmailing the kids you aged down,” I say with utter conviction, Randa’s gape turning to grief and anger. “You knew, don’t lie to me.”

“I have no idea what you mean.” she snarls that at me, pulling herself under control as she glances over my shoulder toward the living room. Clearly, she doesn’t want to be heard and I’m not prepared to share this information with anyone else anyway, so I allow her that secrecy for the moment. “Blackmailing them for what?”

Maybe I shouldn’t believe her, but I can’t help myself. “You’ve heard about the thefts going on in the city? A string of break and enters that resulted in the loss of expensive property?” Randa gapes at me, her surprise returning, burning away her angry reaction and turning to terror as her huge eyes bulge a little. “Chelsea has been forcing the kids you tried to help, using the lie against them, making them steal for her.”

“You can’t be serious.” Randa deflates, her arms falling to her sides, hands hitting her thighs with two dull thuds. “I… she couldn’t…” one hand rises to cover her mouth, tears flooding again, now trickling down her cheeks. “I just wanted to protect them,” she whispers, hoarse and croaking past her trembling fingers. “What have I done?”

I let her beat herself up a little, but only a little, because I need answers and now that I’m confident she’s telling me the truth, I have more questions. “I believe you,” I say. “But I think someone was in on it with her, Randa. And that person could very well be her killer.”

The house mother shakes her head at me but drops her hand and manages to pull in a breath without sobbing. “She had to be working alone,” she whispers.

Not entirely. “What about her husband?” Mark Patterson might be faking his breakdown. Such an extravagant reaction could be a ploy to hide his involvement.

“No!” Randa’s response now has my eyebrows rising and another judgment leaping to mind as she glances again toward the living room door. “He couldn’t,” she says. “He wouldn’t.” But she’s hesitant now, and that horror that she’s been fighting has come to the surface one more time. “He’s not like that.”

And there’s only one way she would know for certain or think she did. “Are you and Mr. Patterson having some kind of relationship, Randa?” I’m almost embarrassed to ask and the old me, the Daisy of even a few years ago, would never have said a word. But this is my job, isn’t it, to ask the tough questions? Maybe Rowan is right because Fee wouldn’t hesitate. I might be more like her now than I ever thought possible.

Not a bad thing. And helps me stiffen my spine when Randa looks away, her paled complexion now flushing again until her dark cheeks are red. She hurries past me without another word, heading for the living room and I go after her, catching up as she crosses to the sofa and sits next to the slumped form of Mark Patterson. If he’s playing at the broken-hearted widower, he’s doing a good job of it. It looks like he hasn’t moved a muscle since I was last in here. Aside from the small pile of used tissues that he’s accumulated on the coffee table in front of him, the box beside him almost empty, it’s like he’s made the choice to quit at everything in favor of mourning his dead wife.

An odd reaction for a man having an affair. Have I leaped to an unfair conclusion again?

Except, the moment I join them, Randa takes Mark’s hand, and he stares at her in surprise while she looks up at me with defiance.

“Yes,” the house mother says, “we’re together. We’re in love.” He chokes and coughs and gargles something with wide eyes, but she ignores his reaction. Not that it stops her. “And Mark was going to leave Chelsea.” Now he’s spluttering while she tilts her chin at me, rebellion more like that of her teen charges than a grown woman.

“Randa.” He’s paled out, gaze flickering to me. Funny, his tears seem to have dried up all of a sudden. Is the show over, then? And am I going to allow someone like him to make me cynical?

Yes, I suppose so.

I might as well not be there anymore, though. Randa spins on Mark, face crumpling as she addresses him. “Tell me you didn’t know about what she was doing.”

He blinks at her. “What are you talking about?”

“The thefts.” Randa vibrates, shaking him a little via her grasp on his hand. I thought he was pale before. He’s positively ashen now, lips trembling as he licks them, Adam’s apple bobbing in response. “Mark, tell me you weren’t in on it?”

“He can’t,” I say then, nodding to him. “Can you, Mr. Patterson?”

Mark’s panic is so vivid I’m tense because I am picturing him leaping to his feet and attacking me. Have I found the murderer sitting here playing at the grieving widower? When he sags, deflating, I force an inhale of breath because only then do I realize I’ve been holding it and the black spots I’m seeing are from lack of oxygen.

“I knew,” he mutters, hoarse and shaking. “It wasn’t my idea, Randa, I swear to you. It was all Chelsea.” He looks up at me again. “I had nothing to do with it.”

“But you knew,” I say, surprised I sound so calm and sinking into it as much as possible because the last thing I need right now is to show any kind of weakness. Fee Fleming, preserve me. “Just like you knew every other time.”

He hesitates while Randa inhales sharply.

“What is she talking about?” Now she’s angry and he’s trying to pull away from her, but her small hands are firm and hold him tightly, refusing to release him.

“This isn’t the first time,” I answer for him. “This is a pattern, isn’t it?” I haven’t had confirmation back from Rowan, but Mark’s reaction tells me what the detective hasn’t yet. “How does she usually recruit her thieves, Mr. Patterson?”

“She gives them a cut,” he says in a small voice while Randa pulls away, aghast and crying again. When he reaches for her, she swats at him, turning sideways in clear physical rejection of him. Mark sinks back into the corner of the sofa, shoulders rounding forward. He’s lost more than his thieving wife tonight, I’m afraid. “Always at the end of her term, always just before she left the state.”

So, Chelsea was planning a move. “Smart,” I say.

He shrugs. “She was.” Was that admiration in his voice? Really?

“But she didn’t have to pay them this time,” I say.

“She didn’t have to,” he admits. “But she did.” Wait, the money Caleb offered me. The wad of cash he tried to use to pay for Lia’s search. That had to be from Chelsea. Where else would the young man have gotten it? “She needed them complicit.”

Not just her workers but benefiting from their thefts. Brilliant, really.

“A couple of them tried to back out,” Mark says. “When she found out what Randa was doing, she used that against them.” The stunned woman hisses a breath, dark eyes darting toward him. “I’m sorry.”

“You told her?” And then she’s leaping on him, pounding at him with her fists and I’m suddenly moving forward without thinking to put myself between them. It takes a moment and I’m wincing from the stray blow to my shoulder that Randa lands, but she’s panting and sobbing and he’s lurking with his head tucked down like a dog with his tail between his legs while I face off with his irate girlfriend. “He knew,” she snarls through choking cries, “he knew what I was trying to do, and he told her.” Randa lets out a little shriek of frustration, turning her back. “I can’t believe I trusted you,” she says before collapsing to her knees to sob and rock herself.

***

Chapter Nine

While I have few options and even fewer ways to enforce my will, I finally separate the pair, leaving Mark on the sofa in the living room and guiding the now shaking and irate—and still sobbing—Randa Ruiz to the dining room down the hall.

“I’ll get you some tea.” I hurry through the door to the kitchen to do just that, leaving her hunched over the table with a box of tissues in front of her liberated from the side table in the front entry. While I still don’t know for certain she’s not the killer, my compassion can’t help but take over.

What a mess.

I halt in surprise when I find Peter Lu at the counter, pouring hot water into a mug. He turns to hand it to me, wincing a little, fingers trembling and I note a freshly swept pile of shards on the floor where he’s clearly dropped another mug.

“I heard,” he says. Of course, he did. The whole house had, more than likely. “I hope chamomile was a good choice.” He finishes cleaning up his mess without another word.

It’s exactly what I’d been planning, so I nod to him and deliver it to the now quietly weeping Randa. She turns her back on me and the tea and I sigh as I leave her alone as she so physically requests with her posture.

Peter hands me another mug, his own raising to his lips as he blows steam from the surface, dark eyes watching me carefully. “Not how you were expecting your day to go, I imagine.”

“Yours either,” I say, unable to stop the small smile that automatically rises in response to his words as much as his kindness.

Peter shrugs his narrow shoulders, sitting at the kitchen table. I join him, my gaze sliding across the worn appliances, the equally well-scuffed floor, the large job whiteboard glaringly hung on the one long wall near the back door. I count twelve names and slots for a multitude of tasks the kids are responsible for in the group home, noting the green checkmarks and occasional red X that mar its grimy surface. Looks like both Caleb and Lia are good kids, pulling their weight. I set aside my cartoon character mug with the small chip on the lip, not really in the mood for tea.

“You’re probably wondering why I didn’t pursue Lia Trevors’ request to look into the man she claims is her father.” I meet Peter’s eyes as he briefly catches my gaze then drops his to the surface of his cooling drink now settled on the scratched surface of the table. His skin tone has sallowed in the yellow light of the bulbs overhead, giving him a greenish tinge that doesn’t seem healthy. Since his suggestion is actually the furthest from my mind but clearly at the apex of his, I let him speak without prodding. “Resources,” he says then with a simple rise and fall of those shoulders under his wool sweater, his tidy appearance rather a contrast to the over-used and tired feeling of the kitchen. “Time. And many years of disappointment.”

“Yours or theirs?” I don’t mean to antagonize him and shake my head, about to correct myself when he answers without a hint of anger.

“Both,” he says. “There was a time, when I first started with FSD, that I went the extra mile for every kid on my roster, Ms. Bruce.”

“Daisy, please.” There’s my empathy again.

Peter’s gaze softens. “Daisy,” he nods in acknowledgment. “These kids, they have so little, and the world asks so much of them. I almost burned out trying to do what the system isn’t built to do.” He shakes his head then, sadness creasing his face, pulling at his mouth and the round of his shoulders. “I wish I could do more. But I realized I can either help as many as possible with the skills and tools I’m given, or I can leave this job and abandon them altogether.”

“I understand,” I say. “I really do.”

“May I ask?” He stops speaking, waiting a moment before finishing his question. When he does, his voice is thick with emotion he struggles to hide from me. “Did you find anything?”

“That information is for my client,” I say, though without any animosity. “But I will say her request led me to at least a possibility.”

He nods heavily, toying with the string that anchors the tea bag in his mug. “Thank you,” he says. Peter clears his throat. “For doing what I couldn’t.” He looks up and meets my eyes again, his filled with the kind of anguish that has me reaching for him. He stands and exits in a rush, brushing past Caleb Johnson who I only then realize has been standing on the threshold, listening to us talk.

“Ms. Bruce,” the young man says, one hand sliding over the close-sheared curls on his head, black eyes flickering to follow Peter’s exit before returning to me. “I need to know why you came back.”

“And I need to know,” I say in a casual tone, “which of the thefts you were involved in.”

He stiffens, tension heightening, both big hands sliding into the back pockets of his denims, his broad chest now straining a little against the fabric of his tight t-shirt. But he’s not sullen or angry, just anxious, and I don’t feel threatened so much as wary.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Caleb’s weak attempt at a lie fades off in a harshly exhaled breath that he pairs with a head shake before sagging against the door jam. “How did you find out?”

“That doesn’t matter now,” I say as gently as I can. “Caleb, I need to know how long you’ve been stealing for Ms. Thrice.”

“You’ve what?” Neither of us knew Lia had been standing there, but she’s made herself known and she’s unhappy to the point she strikes out with a closed fist, punching her friend so hard in the upper arm he flinches and cups one hand over the spot she struck. But it’s the horror and disappointment on her face, I’m sure of it, that has him hanging his head and muttering something I miss as she spins him around to face her. “Tell me you didn’t. Caleb, tell me she’s wrong.”

He falls silent, dark eyes lifting to hers, apology written all over him.

Lia bursts into tears and crosses to me, abandoning him in the doorway to stumble into a seat, the same on Peter Lu just left. “I can’t believe this,” she says in a shaking voice. “You said you were done.” Wait, she knew, too? The kids likely all did, then. “What were you thinking?”

“I told her I was done,” he says. “I swear it. But she found out what Randa did.” His panicked response has Lia gaping. “She was using it against me, Lia. She was going to turn me in and get me kicked out of the house, threatened to charge me with defrauding the government if I said a word.” Well, technically, yes, I suppose. But what kind of monster would follow through on that? Right, the kind that threatened a desperate young man and forced him to steal for her. Is it wrong I’m not so sad Chelsea Thrice is dead? Yes, likely, and yet.

Not sad.

The power flickers in the kitchen as a gust of wind shakes the house. I jump a little while Lia lets out a squeak of surprise, but the dark only lasts a second. Caleb wavers where he stands, speaking again in a rush.

“She knows about all of us,” he says. “Mickey, Deno, all of us.” The other five files? No, Daisy. Five kids. They might have been tools to Chelsea Thrice, but they are living, breathing human beings out of options and she took full advantage of that.

Nope, not sad. Kind of glad now.

“You said it was one time.” Lia’s weeping doesn’t keep her from speaking. She’s less accusing and more broken at this point, but her disappointment is far from gone.

“I know,” he says. “It was only supposed to be once. But she wouldn’t let us quit, not after we took money from her for that first job.” Just as I suspected. “I tried, I swear it. But I had no choice, none of us did.” He exhales a long, shaking breath. “We’ve been breaking into places she chose, pulling small, expensive stuff.” Like unprotected watches and jewelry. “I’m sorry, Lia. I didn’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice.” I’m honestly surprised by her attitude, her harsh rejection when she turns away from him. “You said you had a plan. Is this part of it? Stealing?” She shudders then and asks the question I want to but am glad she broaches because he’s more likely to tell her the truth than me. “Murder?” She licks her lips as he flinches from that term. “Did you kill Ms. Thrice, Caleb?”

“I was just trying to protect myself and the others,” he says. “I swear, I didn’t kill anyone. I was going to turn her in.” His gaze turns to me as Lia looks away again, suddenly appealing to the only other person in the room in visible desperation. “Ms. Bruce, I didn’t kill her, please believe me. I just wanted to stay.”

My heart is breaking for him. For both of them. For all of the kids in this horrible mess. “I believe you,” I say though I don’t write him off as a suspect just yet.

“I’ll never believe you again,” Lia says, hugging herself. “You’re a liar and a criminal, Caleb.” She meets my eyes, hers full of tears and resentment. “Why are you even here?”

And just like that, it’s my turn on the hot seat.

***

Chapter Ten

She turns her animosity on me so fast that I catch my breath because this wasn’t how I wanted to tell her about what I’d found. But there’s no time like the present. Except, as I’m about to share the good news, Peter reappears.

“You’re supposed to be in your rooms, kids.” He waits for Caleb to acknowledge him, which the young man does with a slow but reluctant nod, before turning to Lia. “We really need you to do as you’re told.”

Lia stands abruptly and exits in a rush, not waiting to hear what I have to say. I don’t know why Peter chose that moment to interrupt or if he’s simply the master of terrible timing. Whatever the case, I’m about to go after the young woman who got me into this situation in the first place when the FSD agent puts a hand on my arm and stops me at the doorway.

“They’ve been through enough for the time being,” he says. “Whatever it is you found, it’s not going to help her right now. Is it?”

I consider that a moment. “Maybe it will,” I say. “But regardless, I work for her, Peter, not for you.”

“She’s a minor in my care,” he says, all signs of his earlier sadness and softness gone, replaced by the hardened case worker I now know he’s become. “There’s plenty of time to get her hopes up without justification once the police are able to deal with our current dilemma.” His cynicism is not lost on me. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist. As the authority in this situation, I’m asking you to back off for now. Please.”

Should I be suspicious? What reason would he have to keep me from telling Lia what I know? We just had this conversation, after all, and he seemed amenable, even wanted me to tell him the details first. Maybe that’s it. I’ve met individuals in the past who hated losing authority over others, especially if that power is misused regularly. But despite the fact Lia hired me to dig into her past for her, I can’t argue with the fact that she’s a minor and Peter Lu is, in fact, her guardian at this point.

“Very well,” I say, turning and sitting back down at the kitchen table, my tea cooled so much that I really should microwave it if I’m going to drink it. “If you think that’s for the best.”

He nods to me. “Thank you for putting Lia’s mental health first,” he says. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to check in on the rest of the kids. These accusations against Ms. Thrice are troubling, to say the least.” He hesitates then but dives in anyway. “I realize I’ve just asked you to step aside.”

“But you want to know which of the kids to talk to,” I say without a hint of irony. Suddenly, he needs my help, does he? “You can have that discussion with Randa Ruiz, I believe since she’s the one who falsified their documents in the first place.” My reasonable tone is a bit brighter than it needs to be. He has to see through my attempt to fake helpfulness, but instead of arguing with me, simply turns and exits, heading down one door to the dining room. I hear the murmur of voices as he speaks with Randa, and rise to listen in because who knew what kind of information I might glean from their discussion? I see her exit with him, heading for the stairs. Regardless of her crimes, she’s the only other person in the house who has the kids’ best interests at heart, I have no doubt of that, so his decision to include her in his check of the residents doesn’t surprise me.

I contemplate following them, just in case, but before I can take a single step, my phone vibrates.

I check the text from Rowan. Mark Patterson and Chelsea Thrice have an offshore account, he sends. The husband was definitely in on the thefts.

Or, at the very least, benefiting from them. This goes well beyond his claim of involvement, however. He told me he knew but he wasn’t part of the scheme.

The account is old, Rowan says, at least eight years old, topping out at a million at its peak. Either she amped up her choices or I vastly overestimated the value of the jewelry I found. Then again, depending on what she was able to make on the black market with stolen items, she might have been forced all along to accept far less than the merchandise was worth. Someone pulled two hundred thousand out just last week, he continues, and another transfer happened this morning, half a million.

Chelsea? Had to be.

She opened her own account, he sends. She must be siphoning off the money. We’ve heard back from three other cities where the pair resided, and Chelsea worked as an administrator. The final month before she exited her previous jobs there was a rash of burglaries just like the ones here. Well now, so we were right about this being a trend. And guess who just put in her resignation, according to Housing Management LLC?

The company that owned this residence. Chelsea Thrice, I send.

I’m sorry to make you sit on this, he sends then. Day, I now suspect Mark Patterson murdered his wife. Because she’s also filed for divorce. Uh-oh, not a good sign. According to the court, he hasn’t received the documents yet, but if he found out and checked the account…

She’s cutting him off, I send. More than enough motive for murder.

Just keep an eye on him, Rowan sends. The storm is letting up a little, but it’s still going to be morning before I can get to you.

The power flickers again, this time going out for a long moment before the lights return. I look up at the sound of kids squealing and chattering overhead in response to the loss of power. We’ll be here, I send.

After a moment of debate, I head down the hallway and to the bottom of the stairs. Another wave of brownout dims the lights, but they valiantly return to full force again while I catch my breath, nervous about being trapped in this place without electricity and a murderer in the living room. My plan isn’t well thought out, honestly. I perch several treads up the staircase and wait, keeping my eyes glued on the doorway below. There’s only one way out of the area where Mark sits on the sofa. I can see his shoes and the cuffs of his pants from where I crouch on the fifth stair. What I’m going to do about it if he decides to try to get up and leave is beyond me, however, and suddenly no longer of interest as someone slips in beside me and sits.

My head whips up and my eyes meet Lia’s troubled ones. She squeezes my hand, voice a whisper as she leans close. “You found my dad,” she says. “Didn’t you?” Tears trickle down her cheeks. “You did, and he doesn’t want me, does he?”

I hate that her mind took her there, even if I understand her reaction as someone who jumps to such conclusions herself on the regular. I hug her impulsively, rocking her a little, glancing up the stairs toward the landing. I know Peter Lu is up there somewhere and has expressly forbidden me from discussing this with Lia, but what am I supposed to do when she’s right here like this, her broken heart laid out before me?

But I don’t get to tell her what I know. The moment I inhale to explain, the power flickers one last time and then goes out.

And stays that way.

My ears are suddenly acutely aware of sounds, vision cut off while darkness engulfs the house. Lia inhales sharply next to me, but it’s the sound of heavy, furtive footfalls that makes me sit up straighter. Especially since they rush toward the stairs and then down the hallway. It has to be Mark Patterson making his escape.

I turn to Lia, squeezing her hand, just able to make out her eyes in the dark. “Go back to your room,” I whisper. “I’ll tell you everything later, but please, Lia, I need you to be safe right now.”

“Caleb didn’t kill Ms. Thrice,” she says with heat.

“I know,” I say. “Please, Lia. Go.”

She does, if reluctantly, and I wait until I don’t hear her footfalls anymore before I creep down the steps and to the foyer. I’m tense, naturally, my body vibrating with anxiety as the black engulfs me, shivering when a heavy gust of wind rattles the front door behind me.

A faint light flashes ahead and I go after it, though what my instincts plan to do with me when I reach the source, I have no idea. The door to the office is ajar when my hand slides over it, the light gone again as fast as it appeared, and I risk my own, keying my phone to life when it vibrates at the same moment.

Just lost power, Rowan sends. Day, please be careful.

He’s way behind me and Mark Patterson. Because if there is ever going to be a perfect time for the killer to take advantage of a situation and escape, this is it. Though where he’ll go, I have no idea. I turn my phone around and reveal the open safe, the missing box of stolen items, confirming while he might not have a plan to get away, he has his personal priorities straight.

He’s on the move, I send in a tense text as I hurry back out into the hallway, hearing movement near the kitchen and heading that way. Randa Ruiz and Peter Lu are both upstairs with all the kids, right? So, it has to be Mark.

You’re going to think I’ve lost my silly little mind, and honestly, I have. Because before I can stop myself, I’m hurrying toward the entrance to the kitchen, a cold wave of air hitting me hard as I step up my pace, stumbling over a chair I can’t see, then through the gaping back door and into the heavy snow on the rear step.

He’s barely two feet ahead of me, bogged down in the snow drift that has accumulated like a wall almost as tall as the railing, a winter coat draped around him, a backpack floundering in one hand on the surface of the drift.

“Mark!” He’s cleared the path enough I can tackle him if I choose, though he spins at the sound of my voice even as the wind carries it away with my breath, icy cold clawing at my throat. “There’s nowhere to go.” I cough around the freezing wind, the snowflakes that invade my mouth and breath. “You won’t make it out here in the cold, Mark. Chelsea’s not worth dying over. Come back inside. It’s over.”

“You don’t understand!” He wails that into the shrieking wind that buffers both of us, falling into the stiff snow as he stumbles, still trying to flee. His huge eyes bulge, the front of his hastily donned coat stuffed with white, as pale as his face I can barely make out in the dark. “This was all her idea, her fault! I just wanted what was mine. I trusted her and she was going to ruin me!”

“You’ve done that for yourself,” I say, knowing he probably doesn’t hear me because the effort it would take to say it with sufficient volume is quite beyond me, most of my breath and energy aimed at keeping me upright in the buffeting wind and shock of cold. “Come inside.”

I see it in him, how he tenses, and half-turns to try to throw himself down the snowbank. While it’s ridiculous to concern myself with the fate of a murderer, I know if he manages to win free, he’ll die in the storm. I’m just too me to allow that to happen, no matter what he’s done.

The moment he heaves himself up again to make his leap, I’m on top of him, dragging him down into the snowbank, my weight compressing the solid mass and burying both of us in the icy darkness.

***

Chapter Eleven

Yes, it crosses my mind that my decision (that is not a real decision because instincts are powerful things) is a foolhardy one and will possibly end in my death. But not until I’m suffocating, the snow devouring me and the man I’m desperate to keep from escaping, while the sudden silence inside the bank smothers everything.

And then someone is pulling on me, and I’m clear of the grip of the dense stuff, coughing and gagging as Peter Lu lunges for the second time, pushing me backward into Randa’s arms, the slim but obviously strong FSD agent wrangling the taller, bigger Mark Patterson out of danger. I let Randa lead me back inside, Peter shoving hard against the widower who clutches his backpack tightly to his chest, stumbling as he crosses into the kitchen before falling to his knees. Peter slams the door shut on the storm, eyes a little wild, panting, and clearly overwhelmed by what he’s just done. Only then do I realize there’s light, if flickering, and that they’ve managed to find a candle that valiantly beams its single flame into the black.

“Thank you,” I finally gasp as Peter leans away from the door he’s used to support him. I turn and point at Mark who still struggles for breath. “We need to secure him until the police arrive.”

“He killed Chelsea?” Peter’s dull question doesn’t sound surprised, though Randa is crying again and shaking her head, even as Mark manages to wheeze in protest.

“I didn’t kill anyone.” The widower turns toward us, making no attempt to rise, hugging the bag to him like a child he’s sworn to protect. I step forward and jerk it free of his grasp, stunned by how angry I am, knowing it’s a reaction to my near-death experience.

“That’s for the police to prove,” I snarl at him, shuddering as I unzip the backpack and pull out the metal box, padlock still intact, slamming it down on the table. “You’re certainly guilty of theft, Mr. Patterson. How long did you know your wife was going to divorce you and was cutting you out of the proceeds of your little criminal enterprise?”

Both Peter and Randa seem stunned by my questions, Mark quivering as he slowly gains his feet, using a chair for support.

“I’m not saying another word,” he whispers, “without a lawyer present.”

“Probably for the best.” The heat inside me is quickly burning away and I’m positive if this goes on much longer, I’m going to dissolve into a weeping mess. I just want this to be over. When I spot Caleb and one of the other boys lurking in the doorway, I gesture to them. “Take Mr. Patterson and lock him up.”

“Where?” Caleb isn’t purposely arguing with me, I’m sure of that, but I don’t have an answer.

“The laundry room,” Randa says, stepping forward. “There’s no exit from there and he can’t hurt anyone.” She meets my eyes, hers full of regret. “You should lock me up, too.”

“You were trying to help the kids,” I say. “Besides, I’m not a cop, Randa. What you did has nothing to do with me.”

She bobs a nod and straightens, marching forward, taking Mark’s arm in her hand, the other extending her cell phone with the flashlight screen lit. He splutters as though about to appeal to her feelings for him, but I’m positive those feelings are no longer the kind he wants aimed in his direction.

“Move,” she snarls at him. “Now.”

He slumps as he goes, glancing back over his shoulder at me. I wonder if he’s regretting not speaking to me after all. Whatever the case, he’s not my problem and I really need to sit down.

Peter exhales a long, slow breath while I sink into the wooden chair next to me, not quite falling into it but close enough. “I’m glad you’re all right.”

“Me too,” I say, trying a smile. “That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”

He laughs, a nervous sound, nodding. “Me, too.” Peter’s gaze falls to the doorway leading into the hall. “There’s a few hours left until morning,” he says. “The storm is supposed to break by dawn.”

“As long as we keep Mark contained, it’s safe for everyone to get some rest.” I’m shivering now that the snow I carried inside is melting, my clothes wet and clinging to me. The thin tights under my skirt are no match for the dripping wet that now turns my legs into icicles. Peter only then seems to notice, rushing to the counter and pulling open a drawer, bringing me a dishtowel that smells like it could use another round through the wash cycle. Still, I’m grateful for the effort. “The kids are okay?”

“They are,” he says. “I was just coming down to apologize to you for cutting you off like that.” He swallows hard, hands spread out before him. “I’m feeling guilty, in case you missed it. I just worry. I’ve seen things like this go very badly, Daisy. Hopes raised only to be dashed again. Lia deserves better.”

“You care,” I say. “That’s enough for me.” My phone vibrates as I squeeze water from my curls, Peter’s voice soft in the darkness when I turn it over to read the text.

“Too much sometimes,” he says. Day, we have it wrong. I barely register Rowan’s message as Peter speaks while the words on the screen mingle with the FSD agent’s spoken ones. “Nothing matters more to me than keeping these kids safe.” There have been reports that kids in the system have been blocked from finding blood relations despite that being the mandate. “Do you know what it’s like to be a foster kid, Daisy?” They’re aging out of the system when they could be reconnected earlier with family. “It’s not so bad, not really. Way better than being let down by the people who are supposed to love you. Take care of you.” That email you found, to the head of FSD. It wasn’t about Caleb or the other kids. “The people who brought you into the world and left you to fend for yourself.” She was reporting Peter Lu.

I look up into his eyes as I finish, finally realizing what I’ve read, to find him standing over me with something in his hand, raised over his head.

“They deserve better,” he snarls, “and I give it to them.”

His hand comes down so fast I don’t even have time to scream.

***

Chapter Twelve

I’ve always been lucky, and I know it. Serendipities, synchronicities, odd little moments of good fortune seem to follow me around. Fee makes a joke of it from time to time, but I think of my luck as my superpower.

It doesn’t fail me now. As Peter’s blow comes toward me, his foot slips forward and into a puddle of water. He’s suddenly sliding, dress shoes unsuited to such footing, and he’s thrown off sideways, tumbling with a heavy grunt as I dodge his descending hand and push hard against him, sending him to the floor.

My whole body floods with more adrenaline while I’m barely past the last surge of it, and now I’m shaking so badly I can barely hold my weight on knees that threaten to give out. But I manage to grasp the broom by the door, holding the handle in both hands, keeping it between us while Peter struggles to rise from the ground.

“You killed Chelsea,” I say, teeth chattering with not just the cold of my soaked hair and clothing.

“She didn’t care about the kids,” he says, voice deadly quiet. When he makes it to his feet, it’s in a slow and steady way, almost fluid, that only deepens my fear. I’m a shaking mess and he’s calm, contained, threatening as he observes me. The broomstick is suddenly a ludicrous barrier I know will fail me the moment he comes for me.

“You claim you do,” I say, my only hope to get him off guard, to make him angry. If I can rattle him, maybe I can get past him and find help. Wait a moment, what am I thinking? I’m far from alone in the house. My fight-or-flight reaction has dulled my mind and cut me off from the obvious. I’m about to shout for attention when he shakes his head.

“You have no idea.” He takes one slow step toward me, hands extended, like I’m a skittish animal he’s trying to tame. “None.”

“I know you’ve been keeping kids from finding their real families,” I say, circling myself, keeping the table between me and him. “Caleb! Lia!” There’s no response to my shout. “Randa, help!”

Peter’s head cocks to one side. “They’re in the basement,” he says. “Laundry room. They won’t hear you.”

Maybe not them, but the kids upstairs will, won’t they? “What are you going to tell them happened to me?”

Peter shrugs so casually I feel my stomach flip over. “No one will find you until the snow thaws,” he says, gaze flickering toward the door.”

He plans to throw my unconscious body out into the storm. That doesn’t work for me. I need to keep him talking, at least long enough for help to come. “Why keep them from their families?”

“Families, right.” His snarling response cuts through the air toward me. “They can’t be trusted. None of them can be. They let you down, Daisy. First, they abandon you, then they forget about you, tell the system to keep you, that you were never wanted.” His past has come back to haunt us both, it seems. He’s clearly talking about himself and there’s nothing I can do to convince him he’s wrong, that much is clear. “They’re better off here where I can protect them.”

“With a woman who won’t even let them celebrate Christmas,” I shoot back. I’m almost to the sink, though that means I’m now across from the exit, and the table and Peter are between me and the door. Awesome move, Daisy Bruce. But I have more audible ammunition to use. “Who blackmails them into stealing for her.”

“That’s not my fault,” he says. It’s the first time he seems to hesitate, so I pounce on it.

“And when they age out? What then?” He flinches at my question. “You can’t protect them then.”

“I do the best I can!” Peter’s shout is sudden and makes me jump and squeak in fear as he rushes toward me. “They deserve to be free, don’t you see?” I jab at him with the broomstick only to have him grab the end. We struggle across the table over it, my panic closing my throat, shortening my breaths, narrowing my attention further, while Peter continues to snarl. “She didn’t care about them at all,” he says, jerking on the handle. I hang on, just barely. “I just had no idea how far she’d gone, that she turned them into pawns in her greed. Thank you for revealing that. It horrified me, believe me.” He’d broken a mug, not clumsiness then, but a reaction to the news. If only I’d been in his presence when he’d heard me accusing Mark Patterson, I might have solved the case then and there. Instead, he’d had time to not only pull himself together, but make tea for Randa to hide his reaction. Maybe I’m not so lucky after all. “Now I know I’m justified in what I did.”

Wait, hang on. He didn’t know. He had no idea. Why kill her, then? Just because she didn’t care?

He shakes his head as he tugs again on the broom. This time I stumble forward as my mind grapples with the truth, my hands clinging desperately to the curve of the bristled end, coughing at the dust that it sheds on me when he twists it to try to loosen my grip.

“You killed her.” I heave back on the broom, the handle slipping partway through his grasp, making him swear before he pants agreement as he glares over the flickering light of that single candle between us. “You murdered her, for what, Peter?”

“She confiscated the box of decorations Randa bought for the kids,” he says. “Said there would be no Christmas this year, that the kids hadn’t earned it.” He blinks like he suddenly realizes what he’s doing, where we are. But no, not that. I can see him reliving the moment he describes because it crosses his face, the horror of what he’d done. “The lights were right there. I didn’t think. I just…” his hand spasms on the broomstick then suddenly lets it go. I stagger back while Peter stares down at his hands, now held out in front of him, the candlelight casting a creepy glow over his cheeks as tears begin to trickle down his face. “I strangled her with them,” he says. Looks up at me, a faint smile more maniacal than reassuring giving me a shiver. “My mother hated Christmas, too,” he says then, a little boy’s voice. “Handed me off on Christmas Eve when I was five years old. Said it was my fault, that I ruined everything.” He shudders and so do I because it wasn’t Chelsea Thrice he murdered, not in his mind. It was his own mother. “I plugged the lights in when it was over.” The boy in him hardens, goes dark and hateful. “Defiance.” He barks a laugh. “She hated Christmas.” Again that whisper, the two women combining in his head as he sighs, wiping at his tears, face falling into peaceful calm. “I’d do it again,” he says. “For the kids.”

For himself.

I’m expecting him to lunge at me, to try to attack again. Instead, to my surprise, Peter sits at the kitchen table, cradling his face in his hands, and begins to sob while I do my best not to crumble and do the same.

***

Chapter Thirteen

I close the trunk on my suitcase while the snowplow drives past, carrying the last of the lingering slush from the street and clearing the way for me to head out to Reading at last. My hope to hit the road before the holidays is coming true, at least, though Christmas Eve is already past noon as I climb behind the wheel and huddle in the warmth of the heater filling the interior with hot air.

My phone vibrates and has me checking it where I’ve slotted it into the holder on the dash. Rowan Mallory’s number pops up and I quickly read the text he’s sent.

It’s official, his message tells me. Peter Lu has been arraigned and will be tried for second-degree murder. It’s not really a surprise, but Rowan told me not to expect news until after the holidays, so they must have found a space in the last docket before Christmas to make sure he’s getting what’s coming to him. His confession to you will stand and he’s not contesting it, so I’ll have you scheduled to address the judge when you get back. And Mark Patterson’s lawyer was laughed out of court when he suggested he wasn’t in his right mind. The victim’s husband tried to blame everything on his wife. Maybe if his name hadn’t been on the original offshore account, he might have gotten away with it.

“Thanks for keeping me posted,” I say, the phone converting my words into text to send back to him. “What about Randa Ruiz?” I still waffle over my feelings about her because while I know her actions made it harder for other kids who qualify to be in the system to get the resources they need, how can I blame her for trying to protect others who simply have nowhere to go when they turn eighteen?

He answers right away. She’s under investigation, he sends. She’s already lost her job, but I’m suggesting she not be charged with fraud. Same for Caleb Johnson and the others. While they are guilty of theft, they were under duress. My boss isn’t keen on leniency, but the state’s attorney seems to agree with me, so we’ll see.

It makes me sad to think about Caleb and the five young people who are now out on their own and facing charges whether lenient or not. They’d only been trying to protect themselves from a system that didn’t care about them the way it should have and a woman who treated them like her own personal criminal army.

A car pulls up next to mine and parks while I try to formulate a response to Rowan. Someone knocks on my window, and I look out in surprise to find a smiling Lia Trevors on the other side. I exit my car immediately and accept a giant hug from her that has me embracing her back.

“I want you to meet my dad.” She’s breathless and her eyes gleam in the sunlight, misty exhale of happiness turning from me to the middle-aged man standing on the other side of the car, a knit cap firmly pulled down over his ears but a beaming smile on his face. “Anderson Wilson.” Formerly Rittles and yet completely overjoyed from what I can tell.

“Ms. Bruce.” He circles to shake my hand, matching my height, a bit of a portliness to him giving him width inside his puffy coat. There’s nothing but excitement about him though when he releases me and puts his arm rather awkwardly around Lia’s shoulders. She leans into him, and he softens further, suddenly not so awkward after all. “I wanted to thank you so much for what you did for us.”

And now I’m overjoyed and letting myself enjoy the utter delight that comes from a job well done because how can I feel sad in the face of this reunion? “You made good time,” I say. We’d only reached out several hours ago.

“Came as soon as you called,” he tells me. “The second I knew about Lia, I was on the road.” He swallows hard, blinking in the sunlight, moisture rimming his hazel eyes that match his daughter’s. “I had no idea she was even born,” he says. “Her mom never said a thing.” I know as much. He’d told me when Lia gave me permission to make the call and inform him of what we suspected. And while we don’t have DNA proof yet, I can see her in him enough to be confident he is her father. “Had to wait on a few snow plows to get through, but I made it.” His rural area was hit harder than Montpelier, a massive thirty inches still being cleaned up from our roadways. He laughs when Lia hugs him enthusiastically. “My family grew by a daughter for Christmas, Ms. Bruce. That’s the best gift anyone could ever give me.”

I think about Peter Lu and his attempt to keep Lia from this happy ending and firmly push aside those thoughts. No, not everyone can have what she’s found, what I helped her find. But sometimes making a difference in one life is enough.

“Dad’s going to help Caleb and the others,” Lia gushes.

He blinks and coughs in surprise but nods in earnest agreement. “Whatever I can do,” he says. “Those kids deserve better, from what Lia tells me.”

“I agree with you there,” I say. “It’s likely they’ll have to serve some time for their involvement.”

“That’s okay,” Anderson says. “I own a small construction company and when they get out, they’ll have jobs, all of them, to help them get back on their feet.” Lia squeals a little and hugs him again, her adoration making him beam. “We should go, honey,” he says. “Angela and the boys can’t wait to meet you.”

She’s trembling when she turns to me, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a small wrapped box that she presses into my hands. “I know you said you don’t want anything for helping me,” she says in a shaking voice, “but I wanted you to have this. Merry Christmas, Ms. Bruce. And thank you so much for not giving up on me.” She hugs me hard again and then they are climbing back in his van and driving off, waving as I wave in return, stunned and touched as I look down at the small package balanced in my hand.

I climb back behind the wheel before I open it, a teary giggle escaping at the sight of the small daisy pin nestled in the cotton batting under the lid. I immediately pin it to my jacket as one last text lands.

Merry Christmas, Daisy Bruce. Rowan’s message touches me more than he’ll ever know. You did good, kid.

I reach up and press one hand over the daisy pin, not bothering to fight the happy tears that escape. I did do good. I really did. And this is just the beginning.

“Merry Christmas, Daisy Bruce.” I whisper Rowan’s words into the warmth of my car. “Time to go home to your family.”

It’s going to be a long drive, but I’m not complaining. There are Christmas carols to sing and a whole lot to be thankful for, especially when the phone rings and a familiar voice warbles, “Daisy! Can I keep you company on the ride?”

“Fee!” I’m still crying and my heart so full I can barely stand it. “I love you, Fee.”

“Don’t you dare,” she breathes, sniffling suddenly.

That has me laughing all over again. “Tell me what the girls are up to.”

“Well,” she begins with a sigh that has me giggling, “Iris’s hair is redder than ever and Flora, you’ll never guess…”

Did I say it’s a long ride home? Best drive ever.

Looking for more Daisy Bruce? Stay tuned! Book three of her cozy mysteries is coming in February with Day of Hearts!

***

My very dear reader:

I wish the very best for you and your family. Whatever you celebrate (or don’t), may the end of 2023 treat you with kindness and generosity and may you be surrounded by those who love you most.

To those who do celebrate, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, and all the Happy Holidays! I’ll see you in 2024.

Best,

Patti

About the Author

Everything you need to know about me is in this one statement: I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was a little girl, and now I’m doing it. How cool is that, being able to follow your dream and make it reality? I’ve tried everything from university to college, graduating the second with a journalism diploma (I sucked at telling real stories), am an enthusiastic improv performer (if you’ve never tried it, I highly recommend making things up as you go along as often as possible). I’ve even been in a Celtic girl band (some of our stuff is on YouTube!) and was an independent filmmaker (go check out the Lovely Witches Club!). My life has been one creative thing after another—all leading me here, to writing books for a living.

Now with multiple series in happy publication, I live on beautiful and magical Prince Edward Island (I know you’ve heard of Anne of Green Gables) with my multitude of pets.

I love-love-love hearing from you! You can reach me (and I promise I’ll message back) at patti@pattilarsen.com. And if you’re eager for your next dose of Patti Larsen books (usually about one release a month) come join my mailing list! All the best up and coming, giveaways, contests and, of course, my observations on the world (aren’t you just dying to know what I think about everything?) all in one place: https://bit.ly/PattiLarsenEmail.

Last—but not least!—I hope you enjoyed what you read! Your happiness is my happiness. And I’d love to hear just what you thought. A review where you found this book would mean the world to me—reviews feed writers more than you will ever know. So, loved it (or not so much), your honest review would make my day. Thank you!