Killion nods, then turns to me. His green eyes hold mine for a long moment before he pulls me into a swift, tight hug.
“Good work, Detective Holiday,” he murmurs against my hair.
But when he pulls back, I can’t help noticing how quickly he steps away.
There’s a distance between us and it has nothing to do with physical space.
“I have to go,” he says, his expression unreadable.
I nod, unable to form words around the lump in my throat. As he walks away, following his colleagues and their handcuffed charge, I can’t help wondering if I’ll ever see him again.
As I stand amid the wreckage of what was supposed to be the social event of the season, I can’t help feeling that while one mystery has been solved, another—the one closest to my heart—remains frustratingly unclear.
HATTIE
Thanksgiving in Brambleberry Bay arrives with all the subtlety of a turkey wearing tap shoes.
The air smells of woodsmoke and impending snow, and the sky is a bruised palette of grays that perfectly matches my mood.
The wind whips off the bay with enough force to make the festive banners along Main Street snap as if nature was offering up a round of applause—although what exactly it’s applauding remains unclear. Certainly not my love life.
After sitting through the town’s Thanksgiving parade with Cricket and Rookie, huddled on a bench while watching inflatable turkeys and Pilgrims bob down the street with unsettling enthusiasm, I’m currently dragging myself toward the Holiday Lobster House with all the energy of someone reporting for their own execution.
It’s almost three in the afternoon, and the sun—what little of it managed to pierce the thicket of storm clouds—already looks to be setting. November in Maine is pretty much where daylight comes to die by lunchtime.
She’s been moping all day,Cricket mewls from her perch inside my tote bag.This is the third sigh in five minutes. I’m keeping count.
Maybe she just needs to eat,Rookie suggests optimistically, trotting beside me with Mr. Jolly Beary secured to his back.Humans get cranky when their stomachs are empty. Like that time she hadn’t had coffee and yelled at the toaster.
Cricket chitters out a laugh.The toaster deserved it. It was being passive-aggressive with the bread settings.Her tail twitches as she remembers the event.But this isn’t hunger. This is heartbreak. I think she should dump Killion.
Not so fast!Rookie is quick to bark up a storm.He might have a good explanation.
For sneaking around with the redheaded she-devil?Cricket practically gags on her words.Please. The only explanation that would satisfy me involves amnesia, evil twins, or possibly alien mind control.
I try to tune them out as we approach the Holiday Lobster House, which stands like a weathered beacon overlooking the bay. My brother has transformed the place for Thanksgiving, managing to make a restaurant dedicated to shellfish feel festive for turkey day. And I’m pretty sure he succeeded.
Miniature pumpkins and gourds line the windowsills, corn husks and autumn leaves frame the doorways, and a hand-carved wooden sign featuring a lobster wearing a Pilgrim hat welcomes guests with alarming cheer.
Through the windows, I can see the place is packed. Locals who didn’t want to cook, tourists without kitchens, and families too large for home dining rooms all crowd the rustic wooden tables. The scent of butter, herbs, and roasted turkey spills outeach time the door opens, along with bursts of laughter and the happy chatter of conversations running wild.
The special banquet room, with its panoramic ocean view, is where my family will be gathering. I can already imagine them in there—my mother orchestrating the seating arrangement like a military campaign, my father pretending to understand the complexities of the wine list, Winnie and Fitz being perfect together, Neelie and Stanton displaying their May-December romance with uncomfortable enthusiasm, and Henry playing proud restaurateur while Tipper charms everyone within a ten-foot radius.
And I’ll be the sad singleton whose boyfriend is probably spending Thanksgiving with Venetta Brandt.
Perfect.
I’m about to step inside when movement on the beach below catches my eye. Two figures stand at the water’s edge, outlined against the steel-gray surf. Even from this distance, I’d recognize Killion’s tall frame and confident stance anywhere. And the woman with him, her auburn hair whipping in the wind like a banner of betrayal, is none other than Venetta-the-Man-Stealer Brandt herself.
I watch frozen in place as Killion extends his hand. Venetta takes it, shaking firmly, and then—just to drive the stake deeper into my heart—she pulls him into a strong embrace.
Something inside me snaps like a wishbone being pulled apart. Before I can think better of it, I’m storming down the wooden steps to the beach with sand flying from beneath my boots like I’m personally responsible for erosion rates along the Maine coastline.
“Well, isn’t this cozy,” I call out as I approach them, my voice carrying in the wind as if it didn’t want to stick around for the fun. “So nice to see you two together. Again. On Thanksgiving. How perfectly heartwarming.”
They break apart and Killion turns toward me with an expression caught between surprise and what looks suspiciously like guilt. Venetta, on the other hand, appears amused, her crimson lips curving into a smile that makes me want to introduce her face to a snowball. Preferably one with lots of rocks in it.
“Hattie?” Killion starts. “This isn’t?—”
