Despite being exhausted, Alice slept fitfully that night.
A single nightmare ran on repeat: She was back in the church, standing next to Rich at the altar. Except it was a massive cathedral. Like Notre Dame in Paris. And the walls were crumbling. The whole vaulted ceiling was going to collapse, yet no one was moving toward the exit. When she tried to run, Rich smiled and held her hand tight.
“Sweetheart,” he said, his soft, lulling voice still loud and clear in the din of the collapsing cathedral. She looked down at their hands and he was putting her engagement ring back on her finger. “You lost this.”
The ring was made of gold and shaped like a heart.
Alice woke with a gasp and sat up in bed. Her heart was galloping in her chest. She gripped the bedsheets.
On her bedside table lay her phone. No missed calls or messages. Of course not. Rich didn’t need to call anymore. He was coming.
She ran a hand across her forehead, expecting to feel hot. She did feel feverish. Clammy. Her mouth tasted like dust, and when she swallowed spit, her throat ached.
She put down the phone and noticed, curled up like a golden snake, the necklace she’d found in the bookstore. And next to it, the heart pendant. The wall and ceiling had collapsed because she’d wanted to get that damn pendant.
She picked up the necklace and pendant, and examined them closer.
Vince had bought multiple necklaces, each time adding a heart pendant. A necklace for each lover. And when he’d broken off the affair and paid attention to Susan again, he’d given his wife a heart pendant. Now she had three.
The fact that the pendant was a heart and not a dollar sign meant that Darrell Townsend wasn’t the killer. If Darrell had been guilty of murder, he could have been removed as a threat to Blithedale Books. But it seemed Vince’s death and Darrell’s scheming had nothing to do with each other. Even if she exposed the killer, it wouldn’t stop his development plans. Now she had to rely on Rich to save the bookstore.
The realization felt like a rock inside her chest, heavy and hard-edged.
Her phone buzzed. Rich again?
She reached for it. The message was from Becca. She’d sent a photo—a snapshot of a group of locals gathered in front of the What the Dickens Diner. Several held placards up with words written in marker pen:
Get well soon!
♥ You’ve got friends
Blithedale’s thinking of you
Becca had obviously orchestrated this. Still, it didn’t diminish the message: People here cared enough to send her a message…
Her throat tightened, shutting the door on a sob. But she shook it off, refusing to let the emotion overcome her. And then she saw someone in the photo, and she sat up straight.
Andrea Connor, bald head and long, pendant earrings, stood at the edge of the crowd. She was back.
Alice reminded herself that catching the killer now wouldn’t save the bookstore.
But if it hadn’t been for Vince’s death, this disaster wouldn’t have happened. The Oriels would’ve bought the place. The bookstore would be safe.
She’d have to rely on Rich to save the bookstore. But she could rely on herself to solve the murder.
“You’re the hero of your own story,” her mom had once told her. “But a story is only a story if the hero takes action.”
She swung her legs over the side of the bed.
Today would be her last day in Blithedale. Rich would take her home. But before she went back to her old life, she’d wrap up this case. She’d confront the killer.