Flour Sugar and a Fatal Secret

• Chapter 1 A Spoonful of Flour
• Chapter 2 Rising Doubts
• Chapter 3 The Midnight Batch
• Chapter 4 Kneading the Truth
• Chapter 5 Sugar and Spite
• Chapter 6 Crumb Trail
• Chapter 7 A Whisk Worth Taking
• Chapter 8 Half-Baked Alibis
• Chapter 9 Bitter Icing
• Chapter 10 Proofing the Evidence
• Chapter 11 A Recipe for Disaster
• Chapter 12 Sweet Whispers
• Chapter 13 Burnt Offerings
• Chapter 14 Glazed Over
• Chapter 15 Secret Ingredients
• Chapter 16 Sifting Through Lies
• Chapter 17 The Missing Measuring Cup
• Chapter 18 Frosting the Crime Scene
• Chapter 19 Piping Hot Suspects
• Chapter 20 Folded Betrayals
• Chapter 21 A Pinch of Poison
• Chapter 22 Dough or Die
• Chapter 23 Cooling Rack Confessions
• Chapter 24 Rolling Pin Justice
• Chapter 25 The Final Layer
• Chapter 26 Sweet Vindication

The five o’clock morning air in Willow Creek always smelled of damp pine, tide-water from the nearby bay, and—if I was doing my job correctly—warm vanilla and roasted butter.

I turned the heavy brass key in the lock of The Sugar Spoon, pushed open the front door, and inhaled deeply. There was a brief, blissful second before the daily panic set in. Owning a bakery at twenty-four was a dream I had spent three years of grueling, sleep-deprived reality bringing to life. Every tile on the checkerboard floor, every pastel-green display case, and every copper whisk hanging from the rack had been paid for with sweat, stubbornness, and a scary amount of commercial debt.

"Morning, Barnaby," I murmured to the sleepy tabby cat who lived on the porch of the hardware store next door. He gave me a brief, judgmental twitch of his ear before settling back into a furry ball.

Inside, the bakery was cool and quiet. I flicked on the lights, illuminating the glass counters that would, in less than three hours, be packed with almond croissants, blueberry scones, and my signature lemon-thyme tartlets. I tied my canvas apron behind my waist, swept my dark hair up into a messy bun, and headed straight for the industrial mixer.

Baking wasn't just my livelihood; it was my math. It was precision in a world that rarely made sense. You couldn’t fake a soufflé, and you certainly couldn’t negotiate with yeast. Two cups of flour, a cup of sugar, a pinch of salt—get the proportions right, and the outcome was guaranteed. If only the rest of my life followed such neat metric conversions.

I was sifting three pounds of unbleached flour into a massive stainless-steel bowl when the back door rattled.

I paused, holding the sifter mid-air. The alley entrance was bolted from the inside every night, and nobody had a key except me and my lead assistant—and best friend—Daisy Vance. But Daisy wasn't scheduled until six-thirty, and she was famously incapable of doing anything before six unless coffee was involved.

The door creaked open, and Daisy stepped inside. She didn't look like someone who had just woken up. Her usually bright, chaotic strawberry-blonde hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, and she was wearing a dark rain jacket over her clothes, despite the clear morning sky.

"Daisy?" I blinked, setting the sifter down. "You’re early. By a lot. Is everything okay?"

She flinched slightly at the sound of my voice, jumping back against the metal doorframe. When her eyes met mine, I saw a flash of raw panic before she quickly smoothed her expression into a fragile smile.

"Maeve! Hey. Wow, you’re up early," she said, her voice dropping an octave lower than usual. She kept one hand tucked deep inside her jacket pocket.

"I’m always here at five," I said, eyeing her closely. "You look like you just ran a marathon. Or robbed a bank. Did you rob a bank without me?"

"No! Of course not," she gasped, perhaps taking the joke a little too seriously. She laughed, a high, strained sound that hit a sour note in the quiet kitchen. "I just... I couldn't sleep. Thought I'd come in and get a head start on the morning prep. You know how crazy Tuesdays get with the breakfast rush."

"Right. The breakfast rush." I crossed my arms, watching her. Daisy had been my closest friend since we were ten years old, when she’d shared her peanut butter sandwich with me after I dropped my lunch box in a puddle. I knew her tells. When she was nervous, she chewed her lip; when she was lying, she avoided looking at the flour bin.

She was looking intensely at the flour bin.

"Daisy, what's going on?" I asked softly, stepping around the central stainless-steel prep table. "You look exhausted. And why are you wearing a winter jacket in May?"

"It's chilly outside," she insisted, taking off the coat with exaggerated slowness and hanging it on a hook near the back door. Her hands were trembling slightly. "Look, I'm fine. Really. I just had a weird night."

Before I could press her further, a heavy thud echoed from the alley outside, followed by the clatter of a metal garbage can tipping over.

"What was that?" Daisy asked, freezing instantly. The color drained from her cheeks completely, leaving her looking paper-white.

"Probably the neighbor's dog. Or a raccoon," I said, though a cold coil of uneasiness twisted in my stomach. The alley behind Main Street was usually dead quiet in the early morning. "I'll go check. The alley doors aren't supposed to be unlatched anyway."

"No, Maeve, wait—" Daisy reached out to grab my arm, but her fingers brushed past my sleeve as I stepped toward the heavy metal door.

I pushed the door open, the cool ocean breeze cutting through the warmth of the kitchen. The narrow alley was bathed in the pale twilight of dawn. Blue plastic recycling bins were lined up against the brick wall of the bakery, and a few stray sheets of newspaper blew softly in the wind.

At first, I didn't see anything out of the ordinary. But then my eyes tracked to the far corner, near the oversized green dumpster shared by The Sugar Spoon and Arthur’s Antique Shop next door.

A pair of polished black dress shoes stuck out from behind the dumpster, pointed stiffly up toward the sky.

"Hello?" I called out, my heart suddenly knocking against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Is someone there? Do you need help?"

No answer. The wind rustled a discarded brown paper bag across the asphalt.

I took three slow, hesitant steps forward into the alley. The chill of the air bit through my linen flour-dusted shirt. "Look, if you're sleeping off a rough night, you can't be back here. The delivery trucks come in at six—"

I rounded the edge of the green dumpster and stopped dead. The words dried up in my throat.

Lying on his back, wedged between the rusted metal wall of the dumpster and a stack of wooden pallets, was Arthur Pendelton.

Arthur was the seventy-year-old owner of the antique shop, a soft-spoken man who wore tweed vests year-round and occasionally brought me old glass cake stands he found at estate sales. But Arthur wasn't going to bring me any more cake stands.

His eyes were wide open, staring unseeingly at the gray morning sky. His mouth was slightly parting, as if he were about to offer a polite remark about the weather. But what caught my breath—what made my stomach drop into a bottomless pit—was the white powder liberally dusted across his dark navy sweater and his neck.

It was flour. High-grade, finely milled pastry flour.

And sticking out from his chest, driven deep into the left side of his ribcage, was the ornate, silver-plated handle of a heavy vintage cake server—the very one I had used yesterday afternoon to cut the display pies.

"Maeve?" Daisy's voice called tentatively from the kitchen doorway. "Is everything okay out there?"

I couldn't speak. I couldn't move. My hands were covered in the very same white flour that dusted the dead man's chest.

"Maeve?" Daisy took a step out into the alley. Her gaze followed mine down to the base of the dumpster.

A sharp, ragged gasp tore from her throat. But it wasn't just shock on her face. As I turned my head to look at her, I saw a flash of terrifying recognition in her eyes before she clapped both hands over her mouth, muffling a violent sob.

"Oh God," she whispered through her fingers, stepping backward toward the kitchen door. "Oh God, Maeve... what did he do?"

The morning sun finally crested the horizon, casting a bright, unforgiving beam of gold light across the alley, illuminating the corpse, the weapon, and the fine white dust that linked the murder directly to my bakery.

The world snapped into a terrifying, razor-sharp focus. The crisp morning air suddenly felt suffocating, thick with the scent of damp pavement and the iron tang of blood beneath the sweet, grain-heavy aroma of pastry flour.

"Daisy, don't move," I said, my voice sounding strangely flat, as if it belonged to someone else entirely. "Don't touch anything. Go inside and call 911."

She didn't move. She stood frozen in the doorway, her knuckles white where she gripped the metal frame, her eyes glued to Arthur’s motionless form. Her chest heaved in shallow, frantic bursts. "Maeve... the server. That's—that's yours. That's the one from the display case."

"I know," I said, swallowing hard past a sudden lump in my throat. "I know it is. Daisy, please. Go call the police."

She gave a frantic, jerking nod, turned on her heel, and stumbled back into the kitchen, letting the heavy door slam shut behind her. The sharp metallic click of the latch sounded like a gunshot in the quiet alley.

I stood completely still, my heart hammering against my ribs. Logic insisted I should back away, go inside, and wait for help. But my eyes kept returning to Arthur Pendelton. Arthur, who always insisted on paying exact change for his cinnamon rolls. Arthur, who had lived in Willow Creek for forty years and didn't have a single known enemy.

And then there was the flour.

I stepped a few inches closer, careful where I placed my sensible black baking clogs. The white powder wasn't just dusted on him; it had been tossed over his chest like an afterthought, spreading across the front of his dark wool sweater. It was fine, soft, and distinctly white—exactly like the King Arthur Unbleached Pastry Flour currently sitting in two-hundred-pound sacks inside my pantry.

My mind raced, frantically sifting through the events of yesterday afternoon. I had used that silver-plated cake server at three o'clock to slice a sour cherry pie for Mrs. Gable. Afterward, I had washed it in the three-compartment sink, dried it, and placed it back in the velvet-lined drawer where we kept the antique serving pieces. I knew I had. I was meticulous about my utensils.

So how had it ended up buried in the chest of the local antique dealer?

The alley door swung open again, breaking my trance. Daisy stood there, her cell phone clutched in her hand. "They're on their way," she whispered. Her voice was trembling so badly the words almost slurred together. "They said... they said to stay where we are and not to touch anything."

"I haven't," I said, stepping back toward her.

I looked at Daisy, really looked at her. Her face was still utterly devoid of color, and her eyes were wide, wet with tears that hadn't yet fallen. But what caught my attention was the subtle twitch in her jaw and the way she kept glancing toward the street at the mouth of the alley, as if expecting someone else to appear.

Oh God, Maeve... what did he do?

That's what she had said. Not who did this. What did he do.

"Daisy," I murmured, keeping my tone low as I reached the doorstep. "What did you mean earlier? When you first saw him?"

She blinked, a tear finally spilling over her dark lashes and tracing a clear line through the faint dusting of sugar on her cheek. "What? What do you mean?"

"When you looked at him, you said, 'what did he do?' Who were you talking about?"

Daisy flinched, drawing her shoulders up toward her ears. "I—I didn't say that. Maeve, I'm just in shock. I don't know what I said. Arthur is... he's dead. Right outside our back door."

"Daisy—"

Before I could ask her anything else, the wail of a siren echoed in the distance, bouncing off the brick walls of Main Street. Within two minutes, two blue-and-white Willow Creek Police cruisers rounded the corner, their emergency lights flashing red and blue against the morning twilight, painting the alley in garish, artificial color.

Chief William Gabriel was the first out of the lead vehicle. He was a broad-shouldered man in his late fifties with graying hair cut into a strict military buzz, a thick mustache, and an expression that suggested he viewed the entire world as a mild personal insult. I knew Chief Gabriel fairly well; he bought a black coffee and two bran muffins every Thursday morning, and he was the uncle of my high school lab partner.

"Maeve. Daisy," Gabriel said, stepping out of the cruiser and setting his officer's cap firmly on his head. He pulled a pair of yellow latex gloves from his belt. "Stay right where you are. Don't step any closer to the scene."

"We haven't touched him, Chief," I said, holding my hands up. My palms were still white with flour from the morning prep. I noticed Gabriel's eyes drop immediately to my hands, then to my apron, before resting on the flour dusting the dead man's sweater.

"Good," Gabriel grunted. He motioned for his deputy, a young, nervous-looking guy named Miller, to secure the end of the alley with yellow crime scene tape. "Where is he?"

"Behind the dumpster," I pointed with a trembling finger. "It's Mr. Pendelton."

Gabriel’s brow furrowed. He walked slowly down the alley, his boots crunching on the loose grit. He rounded the dumpster, crouched down, and leaned over the body for a long, silent minute. When he stood up, his face was set in hard, grim lines.

"How long have you two been here this morning?" he asked, turning to face us.

"I got here at five," I said. "Just like every morning. I was setting up the kitchen, sifting flour for the morning dough, when I heard something fall over in the alley."

"And you, Daisy?" Gabriel asked, turning his sharp blue gaze toward her.

Daisy swallowed heavily. "I... I got here a little after five. Maybe five-fifteen. I came in through the back door."

Gabriel stared at her for a moment. "You came through the back door at five-fifteen? Did you see the body then?"

"No!" Daisy said quickly, her voice cracking. "No, it was dark, and I... I wasn't looking toward the dumpster. I just unlocked the door and went straight inside."

"The alley door was locked?" Gabriel asked.

"Yes," I chimed in, eager to clarify. "I locked it from the inside when I left last night at eight. Daisy must have unlatched it when she arrived."

"Or someone else unlatched it before she got here," Gabriel remarked dryly. He walked toward us, his sharp eyes taking in every detail of the doorway, the alley, and finally, my apron. "Maeve, that weapon in his chest. You recognize it?"

My heart gave a sickening lurch. There was no point in lying. Half the town had seen me use that serving knife at the annual Willow Creek Blueberry Festival last summer. "It's mine. It's a vintage silver cake server. It stays in the drawer in the main bakery counter."

"And when did you last see it?"

"Yesterday afternoon. Around three o'clock," I said clearly. "I used it to slice a pie, washed it, and put it away in the drawer. The display floor was locked up when I left at eight last night."

"Was there any sign of forced entry when you arrived this morning?" Gabriel asked.

"No," I admitted. "The front lock was completely fine. The back door was bolted."

Gabriel rubbed his thumb against his chin, making a quiet scratching sound against his stubble. "So someone had a key to the bakery, took a knife from your counter, walked out into the alley, stabbed Arthur Pendelton, and then sprinkled your flour over his body."

Put like that, it sounded completely absurd. It also sounded horrifyingly deliberate.

"Chief, you can't possibly think Maeve had anything to do with this," Daisy interjected, stepping in front of me defensively. Her temporary freeze seemed to break under the threat to me. "She loved Arthur! He brought her vintage cake stands! Why would she ever hurt him?"

"I'm not accusing anyone yet, Miss Vance," Gabriel said calmly, though his eyes remained cool and calculating. "I'm just laying out the facts. And the facts show a dead man in your alley, killed with your knife, covered in your flour."

"It's framing her!" Daisy insisted, her voice rising in panic. "Someone is trying to make it look like it was her!"

"Or," Gabriel said softly, "someone got into an argument, used the nearest available object, and made a mess. We'll let the physical evidence tell us what happened." He turned to Deputy Miller, who was currently tying the yellow tape to a drainpipe. "Miller, call the county coroner and get the state police forensics team down here. Nobody enters or leaves this bakery until we've swept the place."

"Chief, wait," I said, panic flaring in my chest. "My business—I have a morning rush in less than two hours. I have wholesale orders that need to go out to the inn down the street—"

"Your business is a crime scene, Maeve," Gabriel interrupted firmly, not unkindly, but with absolute authority. "The Sugar Spoon is closed until further notice."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Closed until further notice.

In a small business, "further notice" could mean days. Days without income meant missing the mortgage payment on the building. It meant failing to pay the ingredient suppliers who were already giving me thirty-day credit lines out of goodwill. A shut-down of even a week could bankrupt me before the summer tourist season even fully started.

I watched in mute horror as Deputy Miller led us out of the alley and around to the front of the shop. The early morning sky was brightening into a clear, brilliant robin’s-egg blue. Main Street was beginning to wake up. Across the street, Mrs. Gable was stepping out onto her porch to sweep her steps, her broom pausing in mid-air as she took in the police cars, the flashing lights, and the yellow tape being strung across the front door of The Sugar Spoon.

Within minutes, word would spread through Willow Creek like wildfire through dry pine.

Gabriel escorted Daisy and me to the back of his cruiser, letting us sit on the bench seat with the doors open while he took down our formal statements. I gave mine automatically, describing my evening lock-up routine, my arrival that morning, and the exact sequence of events leading up to the discovery of Arthur’s body.

When it was Daisy's turn, I listened closely.

"I woke up around four-thirty," Daisy told Gabriel, her eyes fixed on her sensible sneakers. "I couldn't sleep, so I decided to walk to work. I got here around five-fifteen, let myself in through the back alley door, and started chopping apples for the tartlets."

"You walked?" Gabriel asked, pausing his pen. "You usually drive that little yellow hatchback, don't you?"

Daisy flushed, a blotchy red stain rising up her neck. "The... the battery was acting up. I didn't want to risk it not starting, so I walked. It's only six blocks."

That was a lie. I had seen her hatchback parked in her driveway just two days ago, and she had bragged about getting the alternator replaced last week. Why would she walk six blocks in the damp five-o'clock twilight when she had a perfectly functional car?

Gabriel noted something on his pad, his expression inscrutable. "And you didn't hear anything in the alley while you were inside chopping apples?"

"No," Daisy said, her voice barely audible. "The industrial fans in the kitchen are loud. I didn't hear a thing until Maeve came in."

"Right." Gabriel closed his notebook with a sharp snap. "I'll need both of your aprons and your shoes for evidence. To check for flour matches and blood spatter."

I untied my apron with numb fingers and handed it over, along with my clogs. Daisy did the same, stepping out of her rubber boots with a look of profound misery. Gabriel placed the items in brown paper evidence bags, labeled them with a thick black marker, and sealed them up.

"You two can go home for now," Gabriel said, leaning against the side of his cruiser. "But don't leave town. I'm going to have a lot more questions once the coroner gives me an estimated time of death."

"Chief Gabriel," I said, finding my voice again. "What about Arthur's shop? Did anyone check his front door?"

Gabriel cast a long glance down the sidewalk toward Arthur’s Antique Shop. The dark wooden storefront looked serene and sleeping, its gold-leaf lettering glinting in the morning sun. "The deputy checked it. It's locked tight. Why?"

"Arthur lives in the apartment upstairs," I said, my brain frantically piecing details together. "He always turns on his porch light at four in the morning when he makes his tea. I look for it every day when I unlock the bakery. This morning... the light wasn't on."

Gabriel stared at me for a beat, his thick eyebrows drawing together. "That so?"

"Yes," I insisted. "If his light wasn't on at five, whatever happened to him happened before then. Before I even stepped foot on Main Street."

Gabriel didn't offer a response. He simply nodded once, made a brief note on his pad, and turned back toward the alley where the forensics van was just pulling up.

Daisy and I were left standing on the curb in our socks, holding our spare shoes from our lockers like two disgraced schoolchildren. The morning air was getting warmer, but a cold, heavy knot of dread remained firmly lodged in my stomach.

"Come on," I said softly to Daisy, pulling my spare canvas sneakers onto my feet. "Let's go to my place."

We walked the four blocks to my small cottage near the harbor in complete silence. The town around us was coming alive—shopkeepers flipping their 'Closed' signs to 'Open,' the smell of salt water floating off the bay, gulls wheeling and crying in the blue sky. Under normal circumstances, this was my favorite time of day. Today, it felt completely surreal, like a picture postcard painted over a dark, terrible secret.

My cottage was a tiny, cedar-shingled place with a small porch and a overgrown garden of lavender and mint. As soon as we stepped inside, Daisy collapsed onto my faded velvet sofa, pulling her knees up to her chest and staring blankly at the cold fireplace.

I went straight to the kitchen. It was an instinct—when the world was falling apart, you make tea. You heat water, you measure leaves, you build order out of chaos. I filled the kettle, set it on the stove, and turned back to face my best friend.

"Okay, Daisy," I said, leaning against the counter and crossing my arms. "The police aren't here. It's just us. You need to tell me what's going on."

Daisy didn't look up. "I told you. I was in shock."

"You lied to Chief Gabriel about your car," I pointed out gently. "I know your alternator is fine. You told me on Sunday that your brother fixed it for you. Why did you walk to work at five in the morning?"

Daisy pulled her knees tighter against her chest, burying her chin in her denim jeans. Her shoulders began to shake, fine, silent tremors running through her whole body.

"Daisy, please," I pressed, coming over to sit on the edge of the coffee table in front of her. "The knife was mine. The flour came from my kitchen. Chief Gabriel is looking at me like I'm his primary suspect. If you know something—anything—about why Arthur was in that alley, you have to tell me."

Daisy lifted her head. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her nose blotchy. "I didn't hurt him, Maeve. I swear on my life I didn't hurt him!"

"I know you didn't," I said softly, reaching out to take her cold hands in mine. "I know you wouldn't hurt a fly. But you know something. What did you mean when you said 'what did he do?'"

Daisy squeezed my fingers so hard her knuckles turned white. She swallowed, looking around the small, cozy living room as if she were afraid the walls had ears.

"I wasn't talking about Arthur," she whispered, her voice barely a thread of sound.

"What?" I blinked. "Then who were you talking about?"

"Julian," she breathed.

Julian. Julian Vance, her older brother.

The room seemed to tilt slightly on its axis. Julian was twenty-six, handsome, charismatic, and entirely unstable. He had spent his early twenties drifting from job to job, getting into debt, and starting reckless business ventures that inevitably failed. Last year, he had returned to Willow Creek, claiming he had turned a corner and was working as a private contractor.

"Julian?" I repeated, my brain racing. "What does Julian have to do with Arthur Pendelton?"

Daisy swallowed hard, tears overflowing her eyes and dripping onto her sweater. "Julian owed Arthur money, Maeve. A lot of money."

I stared at her, the pieces slowly, horrifyingly trying to assemble themselves in my head. "Why would Julian owe Arthur money? Arthur was an antique dealer."

"Julian... he wasn't just working as a contractor," Daisy sobbed, pulling one hand away to wipe her face. "He was finding things for Arthur. Estate sales, private liquidations. But last month, Julian got into trouble with some people down in Portland. Card games, bad debts. He took an advance from Arthur—ten thousand dollars—to buy an estate collection of antique silver and jewelry up in Bangor. Only... Julian didn't buy the collection."

"He used Arthur's money to pay off his gambling debts," I said, the grim reality sinking in.

Daisy nodded miserably. "Arthur found out two days ago. He was furious, Maeve. Absolutely furious. He told Julian that if he didn't have the money back by this morning, he was going to the police. He said he was going to ruin him."

"Oh, God," I muttered, sitting back on the table. "Daisy... where was Julian last night?"

"I don't know!" she cried, her voice cracking with pure despair. "That's why I walked to work this morning! He left our house at midnight, raving about how he was going to 'fix things' with Arthur. He didn't come home all night. I walked down Main Street looking for his truck, but I couldn't find him. When I got to the bakery, I... I thought maybe I could talk to Arthur before he opened the shop. But then you found him."

"And the flour?" I asked, my blood running cold. "Why was there flour on Arthur's body? Why my cake server?"

"I don't know!" Daisy wept, burying her face in her hands. "I don't know, Maeve! But if Julian did this... if he took your knife and... oh God, Maeve, what am I going to do? He's my brother!"

I sat on the coffee table, listening to the whistle of the kettle beginning to scream from the kitchen.

The situation was far worse than I had imagined. It wasn't just a random mugging gone wrong, and it wasn't a tragic accident. Arthur Pendelton had been murdered, and the evidence painted a target square on my chest—or on the chest of someone who had full access to my bakery, my keys, and my inventory.

Julian had spent plenty of time hanging around The Sugar Spoon. He knew where the spare keys were kept. He knew the layout of the alley. He knew where the flour bins were, and he certainly knew where I kept the antique serving utensils.

If Julian was the killer, he had used my shop, my tool, and my flour to cover his tracks or frame me. And Daisy—sweet, loyal, terrified Daisy—was caught right in the middle, sitting on a secret that could send her brother to prison for life, or destroy my life completely if I kept quiet.

The kettle's whistle reached a shrill, deafening peak.

I stood up, stepped into the kitchen, and clicked off the burner. The sudden silence in the cottage was heavy, almost physical.

Chief Gabriel thought I was a suspect. The state forensics team was currently turning my beloved bakery inside out, looking for fingerprints and microscopic traces of flour. My business was shuttered, my reputation was hanging by a thread, and my best friend was protecting a man who might be a cold-blooded killer.

I poured the hot water into two ceramic mugs, watching the dark tea leaves swirl and settle at the bottom.

Precision in a world that didn't make sense. That's what baking was supposed to be. But right now, the proportions were all wrong. The math wasn't adding up.

If I wanted to save The Sugar Spoon—and keep myself out of a orange jumpsuit—I couldn't just sit in my kitchen waiting for Chief Gabriel to put the cuffs on me. I had to sift through the lies myself, starting right here in Willow Creek.

I walked back into the living room, set the mug of tea on the table in front of Daisy, and looked her dead in the eye.

"We need to find Julian," I said softly. "Before the police do."