It was harder and harder to remember that he wasstraight for God’s sake. I couldn’t count the number of times we’d been sitting on the sofa when some innocent thing—the teasing look in his eyes, or the way he swallowed his beer—made my gut clench, and suddenly I’d be popping wood like a fucking teenager. I’d ended up clutching a pillow to my lap or, worse, moving down to the floor on the pretext of petting Honoria, so I could mentally recite facts about anteaters and wildebeests until I calmeddown.
Humiliating? Why, yes, thanks, itwas.
I was viscerally aware of the fact that I hadn’t had sex with anyone in more than half ayear.And my hand wasnotan acceptable substitute, though God knew I tried day andnight.
But worse than my perpetualneedwas the way everything felt so fucking complicatednow, though I was pretty sure I was the only one who feltit.
There was no need to lie anymore—not that there ever really had been. O’Leary had learned that Shane Goode, of all people, had been behind the disappearances in town, and Daniel had absolutely no need of an alibi anymore, not that he really had in the firstplace.
It had been a huge blow to O’Leary to learn that the killer had been a local guy—a man a lot of people in town had known and loved, and the rest of us had known and tolerated. It had been especially difficult since he’d been caught only after he’d kidnapped old Frank Lucano, who owned Pickett’s Campground, and Everett Maior, Si Sloane’s boyfriend. Si had been frantic, and apparently had found them only minutes before Shane killed them both. For weeks, O’Learians had talked of nothing else as we all processed thistogether.
And while I was as shocked and horrified about Shane as anyone, there was a tiny part of me that was happy O’Leary had moved on to bigger and better topics than my love life. Now, the hottest gossip was whether Hen Lattimer would propose to Diane Perkins before the end of the year since, as Jay Turner had said at the diner last Saturday morning, “God knows neither of ‘em’s gettin’ any younger.” It was a sign that O’Leary was bouncing back from the trauma—at least as a whole. I knew some people, like Jamie Burke, whose sister Molly had been Shane’s first victim a decade ago, would take much, much longer toheal.
Daniel knew about Shane—I’d told him as soon as I’d heard. He hadn’t said anything about staging a breakup or making a heartfelt confession. But the longer the fake relationship dragged on, the harder it would be once itended.
Daniel paused in front of the bakery door as Rena Cobb and her wife greeted him with smiles. He seemed almost taken aback by the friendly reception; his own smile took a fraction of a second too long to appear, like he hadn’t thought he’d need to drag it outtoday.
My heart squeezed a little at thethought.
I didn’t understand why he isolated himself the way he did. I was as introverted as anyone, but even solitary animals neededsomelevel of interaction, so I was happy he was chatting with other people and coming out of his shell, finally. It seemed healthy. And maybe it was this fake relationship that was making him more approachable. Giving him a second chance to make some friends in this town. Maybe that was reason enough to keep the liegoing.
“And maybe you’d latch onto any excuse,” Iwhispered.
“Two copies of the same book, Angela?” I heard Bill Nickerson ask from the front counter. “Afraid you might loseone?”
“No, this one’s for someone else in my book club,” my mother said coyly, and I lifted my eyes to the ceiling because I knew almost exactly how the rest of this conversation would turn out. I was glad Bill couldn’t see me from where I wasstanding.
“Oh, yeah? I didn’t know you were starting a book club!” Bill said. “My wife’s always looking for someone to talk to about her novels. Got room foranother?”
“Of course,” my mother the traitor said immediately. “I’ll give Dhann a call this week. Maybe we could even have meetings here at the store, after-hours!”
Kill me now. I’d give my mother a kidney if she needed it, but there was no way I was coming to a romance book club with Dhann Nickerson… oranyone.
“Well, I dunno about having it here,” Bill said slowly. “Maybe, I guess, if it’s not too big agroup?”
“Of course it wouldn’t be,” my mother said sharply. “But if everyone were here, wouldn’t that meanmorebusiness for you, just in time for theholidays?”
My mother, ever the businesswoman. But Bill still seemedreluctant.
I wandered closer to the front counter, my attentioncaught.
“I suppose. If everyone were honest,” Bill agreed. “But nowadays, whoknows?”
“Is this about Shane Goode?” my mother demanded. “Just because he went crazy, that’s no reason to mistrust the rest of the people we’ve knownforever.”
“S’not that, Angela,” Bill said a trifle nervously. “It’s thetheftsthat’ve been goingon.”
I frowned. O’Leary had always been the most crime-free place in the Western Hemisphere. I refused to believe that somehow in the last month, we’d learned we were harboring both a murdererandathief.
I wandered down the cookbook aisle, the aisle closest to the register, and pretended to inspect titles on pressure cooking so I could catch a glimpse of Bill’s face in the gaps between books on theshelves.
Bill Nickerson was an older man, maybe sixty-five, and I could count the number of gray strands combed neatly across the top of his otherwise-bald head. He and his wife, Dhann, had inherited the store from his parents and would likely pass it to their daughters inturn.
“What thefts?” my mother asked. “I’ve heard nothing.” She sounded outraged, and I couldn’t tell whether she was more offended by the idea of someone stealing or by the fact that she hadn’t heard about it before anyoneelse.
Bill grimaced. “Started off small, that’s why. Lisa Dorian missing clothes from her line, Janice Turner’s warm rain boots went missing from her frontporch.”
“Kids playing pranks,” my mother said dismissively. “This is nothingnew.”
