Eleven
I get a strange sense of déjà vu as I peer at the Boulder County Sheriff’s Office. Its flagstone exterior, white-paned windows, and printed placards are meant to instill confidence in the justice system. Instead, all I feel is a building dread.
Reid escorts me to the entrance and squeezes my hand chastely. Neither of us has mentioned what almost happened on my balcony. “Holler if you need anything.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Seriously, I’m at your beck and call.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say, as much for my benefit as for his. Then I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and walk through the gleaming glass doors.
When I gave my statement after the climbing incident, I did so with an amiable officer prompting me with questions and Eli steadfast at my side. Tonight, however, I’m escorted into a cold room enclosed by mirrored walls. There’s a lone table in the center surrounded by metallic chairs so uncomfortable my butt immediately protests with a sharp twinge of pain.
Eli sits across from me, his notepad and a folder on the table before him. His tie is loose around his neck and there’s a wariness in his eyes that tells me to proceed with caution. I bite back the myriad questions I’m dying to ask.
Eli doesn’t greet me before flipping open his notepad and stating, “Describe in detail your whereabouts this evening, Ms. Valentine.”
Not Parker; Ms. Valentine. It seems we’ve regressed from old friends who rock-climb to casual acquaintances.
I shift in my seat. “At six o’clock I left Anita to close up and went to Murphy’s Bend with my best friend. After that, I went home for a bit and—” I pause, fiddling with my necklace, not wanting to spill the next part. “At nine thirty, I took an Uber to campus. I was supposed to meet Max, but he never showed.”
My eyes flit to Eli’s, trying to gauge his reaction. His face is smooth, unreadable, and completely void of emotion. I may as well be staring at the stainless steel of my winepress.
I continue, “I stayed until a little after ten, when I got a call to go to Pearl Street to pick up my brother. He’d had too much to drink. The rest of my night has been dealing with that.” Absently, I touch my lips, deciding not to mention my almost-make-out session with Reid.
Eli leans forward, dark hair escaping his gelled side part. “Let me get this straight. After I warned you to stay out of the investigation, you went to a competitor’s winery—”
“To teach my friend, Sage, how to taste wine,” I interject, my excuse weaker than a glass of Franzia.
He ignores me, ticking transgressions off on his fingers. “Then you went to campus. At night. Alone. To meet a man you barely know in a murder investigation.” He punctuates each statement with an angry jab. “Jesus, Parker, I thought you’d be more careful after your climbing gear was sabotaged.”
I feel like I’ve been slapped. “I can’t just sit around and wait for the killer to try again.”
Eli rolls his shoulders, struggling to keep his composure. I can’t tell what he’s more upset about: that I put myself in danger or that I interfered in his case. His voice is detached as he asks, “Were you and Mr. Jackard close?”
I cross my arms over my chest, staring at the initials etched into the tabletop. “I’d only met him twice. At my opening and when I went to his house the other day. Then he called and said he had something important to tell me about Gaskel.” Goose bumps break out on my arms as I recall his raw fear, discernible over our spotty connection.
“Did you tell anyone you were meeting him?”
I shake my head. “Honestly, I wasn’t convinced I’d actually go through with it.”
He lets out a long exhale, hurt entering his brown eyes. “You should’ve reported this. Why didn’t you call me?”
“Because I knew you wouldn’t have let me go and I was afraid Max would refuse to talk to anyone else.”
“You bet your ass I wouldn’t have let you go. This isn’t some game.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I snap, my voice bordering on shrill. I push my bangs back from my forehead, blinking back tears. “I could lose my business, everything I’ve worked for. I had to do something.”
“Try a promotional gimmick,” he says, completely deadpan.
I grind my teeth, wishing an ad campaign could solve my problems. “I’m throwing a party later this week for VIPs. Does that count?”
“When is this party?” He holds his pen poised over his open notebook. “I’ll assign officers to patrol.”
“This Thursday.” My shoulders tense as his offer slowly sinks in. “You think the killer might try something?”
“Better safe than sorry.” He sets his pen down, appraising me. Whatever he sees must concern him, because he tries for humor. “This isn’t my way of fishing for an invite.”
I snort but an iciness seizes my heart. Images of Gaskel’s body flash through my mind—the vomit, how his limbs jutted at awkward angles, the waxiness of his skin. I can’t go through that again. My chest tightens and I close my eyes to hold the panic at bay.
“Look, Parker, I’m sorry for being such a hard-ass, but you can’t keep putting yourself in danger,” Eli says. “I’m actually a decent detective, if you let me do my job.”
“What’s your solve rate?” Frazzled nerves have apparently disabled my verbal filter.
“Better than most, not as good as some,” he answers vaguely. I wonder if that information is public record. “Now, is there anything else you want to tell me?”
This is my opportunity to come clean, to share all the information I’ve gathered. Before I’ve sufficiently considered the pros and cons, words burst forth like bubbles from a shaken bottle of prosecco. I tell Eli everything—the weird conversation I had with Max at his frat-boy house, the fight I overhead between Moira and Carrick, and Jason’s untimely proposal.
Eli ferociously takes notes, waiting until the end to say anything. “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t keep all this from me.” He meaningfully clears his throat. “If, and this is important, if you promise to stay out of the investigation. I mean it, Parker. This can’t happen again.”
“Scout’s honor,” I say, holding up three fingers. Eli doesn’t know I was only a Girl Scout for a month. The cookies I could get into, but the “Kumbaya” sing-alongs, not so much.
Eli nods, apparently satisfied. He extracts a piece of paper contained in a plastic bag from the folder and slides it toward me. “We found this letter at the scene.”
I scan the note, written in a hasty scrawl that’s oddly familiar and signed by Max. In it, he confesses to killing Gaskel. He claims he did it to get revenge on the critic for an unfair review that ruined his family’s restaurant—a place called Jolly’s Diner. His final words to the world are full of anger, sorrow, and guilt, the latter apparently becoming too much for him to bear. I swallow the lump forming in my throat.
“Does the name ‘Jolly’s Diner’ mean anything to you?”
There’s a niggling in the back of my brain, but there are so many loose threads that I can’t trace it. “No, sorry.” I make a mental note to Google it later.
From the wrinkles in Eli’s brow, I can tell he’s as puzzled as I am. He replaces the letter and folds his hands on the table. “Now, your brother said he’d have pictures for me. I’m guessing you know where I might find those.”
I give him a wry smile. “Hey, you are a pretty good detective.”
My apartment has gotten more action in the last twenty-four hours than it has in the past six months combined.
Eli leans against the wall of my entryway looking like a suave detective from the 1920s. All he’s missing is the cigarette. He cocks an eyebrow toward Liam, who’s still fast asleep on my couch with Zin tucked in next to him. They’re snoring together in unison.
“Ignore him,” I say. “He’s out cold.”
“I remember your brother from high school,” Eli says. “Not as well as you. But he was always kind, even to a stoner like me.”
I smile, padding into the kitchen. “For all my brother’s faults, he’s a good guy.”
Eli follows at a respectful distance, my narrow apartment forcing us to go single file.
I dig the prints out of the junk drawer, relocated there from my purse. There was no way I was leaving them out in the open overnight.
I pass the stack to Eli, who straightens to his full six feet and moves closer to the floor lamp. I watch as he flips through them, the black-and-white images blurring together.
Too soon Eli is at the first print again. I furrow my eyebrows, a pit forming in the bottom of my stomach.
Something is wrong.
“Flip through again,” I say.
Eli complies, going slower this time.
Nothing jumps out at me at first. There are the same shots of wine, decor, and people. The close-ups of Sage have more meaning now, but otherwise everything is status quo. Then it hits me; it’s not the content of the images, it’s the quantity.
“There’s a print missing,” I whisper.
“Are you sure?”
I nod, hair rising on the back of my neck.
Eli checks the corners of each photograph to make sure two aren’t stuck together while I lurch toward the junk drawer, my hands shaking as I sift through takeout menus, bags of dried catnip, and loose batteries. It’s nowhere to be found.
I pace back and forth, growing agitated. “The print must have been stolen, which means there was something incriminating in it, right?”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions yet.” Eli plucks his trusty notebook from his suit pocket. “Can you describe the photo?”
“Gaskel was in the foreground with his empty glass—it was taken right before I poured his taster of chardonnay.” My memory is hazy and unreliable, a minefield of nerves and exhaustion. “There was a shadow off to one side, and what looked like fingers, barely visible in the upper corner.”
Eli’s entire demeanor changes as his jaw tenses, accentuating his strong chin. His eyes bore holes into mine. “Who had access to these?”
“I had them at my winery this afternoon, but was with them every sec—” I stop, tugging on my hair in realization.
“What is it?”
“During my phone call with Max, Reid was alone at the front of my store, maybe he saw something—someone.”
I decide not to mention Reid’s abrupt departure. True, I never found out why he ran off so quickly, but I’m sure he has a good explanation. And I’d hate to put the investigative spotlight on him when he has no reason to steal Liam’s print.
“I’ll check with Mr. Wallace in the morning.” Eli makes a note. “Anyone else?”
“I didn’t have the chance to drop them off at my apartment before going to Murphy’s Bend. They were in my purse through the whole tasting. I suppose someone could have gotten to them there.”
Eli pockets his notebook and neatens the stack of prints. “Tell your brother I’ll be wanting the negatives.”
“Of course,” I say, smacking my palm against my forehead. “Liam can make another print.” I start for where Liam is snoring on the couch, tripping over the geometric-print area rug.
Eli grasps my forearm to steady me. He breathes in sharply and takes a step back. “Morning will be fine. Liam’s no use to me inebriated. Besides, I have a couple other leads to track down tonight.”
I walk him to the front door, a sadness settling over me like a buzz gone bad. If I’m going to learn anything about Max, now is my chance. “What else can you tell me about Max?”
“Nothing, since you promised to stay out of the investigation,” he says in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Even if it’s for my own sanity?”
I imagine what he must see: disheveled hair, smudged makeup, dirt-scuffed jeans, a slightly crazed look in my eye. Maybe that’s why he answers.
“Max was found alone at Chautauqua Park with an open bottle of wine and the suicide note I showed you,” he says in one long exhale of words. “It would seem he killed himself out of remorse for murdering Gaskel, using the exact same poison.”
My stomach roils and I force myself to focus on the facts. If Max killed Gaskel, then who was he so afraid of? What could possibly have been his motive? And why would he poison himself the night he planned to meet me? Something doesn’t smell right.
“I don’t buy it,” I finally say, wriggling my nose. “Obviously, you don’t either or you wouldn’t be continuing with the investigation.”
“Whoever is behind all this is getting sloppy.” His smile looks more like a grimace in the darkness.
“What kind of wine was Max drinking?”
“Chardonnay from Murphy’s Bend.”
An artificial buttery flavor coats my mouth at the mention of the wine and I fear I’m going to be sick. I ground myself by staring at the welcome rug in my entryway that reads If You Forgot the Wine, Go Home. Finally, I peel my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “This is giving chardonnays a bad rep.”
He snorts and scratches his forehead. “Have they ever had a good reputation?”
“Hey, chardonnay is the most popular varietal in the U.S.,” I say in defense, crossing my arms over my chest. “I guess it’s a good sign my wine was spared this time.”
“Maybe,” Eli says, eyes narrowed. “There are still parts of this that feel personal. Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt you? Maybe an ex?”
“I haven’t talked to my last boyfriend since we broke up.” Eli never met Guy, wouldn’t know this isn’t his style. If Guy wanted to take me down, he’d do so with words, a carefully constructed slander campaign, something that wouldn’t jeopardize his image. Besides, he’s moved on. After Insta-stalking him one afternoon, I learned he’s already snuggly with someone else. I doubt he’s looked back.
At that memory, I think of another rocky relationship. “Jason, my best friend’s boyfriend, knew Max. He’s never been my biggest fan. Not sure he had a motive for killing Gaskel, though.”
Eli nods, waving in Liam’s direction. “I’m glad you’re not alone tonight.”
I snort. “Fat lot of good he’ll do me.”
“Sometimes it’s about appearances. The killer doesn’t know he’s in a drunken stupor.”
I watch after Eli as he jogs down the steps, an undercurrent of fear coursing through my body. Correction: hopefully the killer doesn’t know.
I spend the rest of the night alternating between tossing and turning in bed, searching for information on Jolly’s Diner, and anxiously checking social media.
I finally remember where I’ve seen the name “Jolly’s Diner”: the archive section of Gaskel’s blog.
Jolly’s used to be located in Evergreen, a mountain town en route to the ski resorts. It was a beloved community favorite until Gaskel reviewed it nine years ago, right as he was gaining traction in the blogosphere. He claimed their stuffed French toast was undercooked, breakfast burritos were lackluster, and their bacon wasn’t crispy enough. Coincidentally, the diner closed one year later.
When dawn breaks, so does news of Max’s death. #KillerChardonnay is trending on Twitter again. It would seem the people on social media are more interested in vocalizing their opinions than in gathering facts. Because even though my wine wasn’t involved in the murder, the angry mob is calling for my head on a platter. Or a corkscrew, as it were.
Desperation kicks in.
I dress all in black—tailored trousers, a V-neck blouse, and pointy-toed flats. I keep my makeup subdued and let my hair air-dry so it’s wavy instead of straight. It’s not much in the way of camouflage, but hopefully nobody will recognize me.
I have a memorial service to attend today.
“Morning, sunshine,” I say, plunking a mug of coffee and plate of dry toast on the table in front of Liam.
He squints and groans, his eyes bloodshot as they take in his surroundings. “Whadhappened?”
I’m in no mood to tiptoe around his hangover. “You mean when you confessed your love for Sage, or when you lashed out at me and Reid and then we had to carry you up three flights of stairs to my apartment, or when someone else turned up dead?”
He sits up, cradling his head with a wince. “That’s not funny.”
“Good, because I’m not joking.”
His skin takes on a green pallor. “Who died?”
“Max Jackard.” My throat clenches as I say his name. “He was at my opening.”
“Is this related to the fancy critic?”
“So it would seem.” Zin rubs up against my leg and head-butts my ankle for attention. I kneel down and scratch behind her ears; the little traitor cuddled with Liam all night.
“Why didn’t you wake me up?” His voice is raspy and there’s a mystery stain on the front of his Millennium Falcon T-shirt.
“You weren’t really in a state to be woken up.” I shrug. “Besides, I handled it. Sort of.”
Liam bows his head, his eyes locked on the couch cushions as if he were contemplating burrowing into them. “I’m so sorry, Parker.” He frowns through an exhale, running a hand through his dark hair. “I’ve been a crap brother.”
“No argument here,” I say, clicking my tongue. “I’m only going to apologize one more time for what happened with Guy. Take it or leave it: I’m sorry.”
Liam bows his head. “I know.”
“No, I don’t think you get it. I can’t keep defending myself because he turned out to be a Class-A jerk.”
Liam mumbles something unintelligible.
“What was that?”
He clears his throat and, looking me straight in the eye, says, “I forgive you.”
“Great, now that’s settled . . .” I place my hands on my knees, ready to get up.
Liam picks at the weave on Zin’s afghan. She hops onto the couch and starts kneading it, emitting a rumbling purr. “It’s okay with me, you know.”
“What is?”
“You and Reid.” He waves his hand in the air before resting it on Zin’s head. She leans into his palm, seemingly starved for attention. “You have my blessing, or whatever.”
“Thanks,” I say quietly, unsure what to do with that. “There’s actually something else I need from you.”
“Name it.” Liam grabs a piece of toast and shudders as he takes a bite, following it with a large gulp of coffee.
“One of your prints was stolen. I need you to make me another one, preferably before you turn the negatives over to Eli, which he requested, by the way.”
“Consider it done.” He downs the rest of the toast and coffee, the combo seeming to reanimate him.
The silence lengthens, punctuated by Zin’s soft purring. I fiddle with my necklace and change the topic. “So Sage, huh?”
Liam checks the time on his phone and hops to his feet, dodging my question. “We should get going.”
His reluctance to talk about Sage speaks volumes. It means he’s serious. As in completely head over heels. Which, to my knowledge, is a first.
Normally, I would pester him until he caves, but a murder investigation takes precedence over my brother’s love life. “I’ll grab my purse.”
After a quick bus ride across town, we traipse along the sidewalk of my parents’ street. My black attire absorbs the sun’s rays, insulating me against the cool morning air. The neighborhood lawns are lush and green and dotted with spots of bright color from petunias and marigolds. Every once in a while, Colorado will serve up a freak summer snowstorm, but fortunately for these blooms, this season is proving to be mild.
When we first approach my parents’ house, I think I must be seeing things, that sleep deprivation has led to full-fledged hallucinations.
I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath. When I open them, the same scene greets me.
Toilet paper sways from pine tree branches like flags surrendering to the wind. Entire rolls have been draped over shrubs, unspooled between raised flower beds, and even launched onto the roof. Crushed PBR beer cans litter the sidewalk.
“Teepeed,” Liam grumbles. “I’ll be glad when all the graduation celebrations are over.”
Hair raises on the back of my neck and a chill slithers down my spine.
I peek over my shoulder, scanning the street. We’re alone apart from a runner making his way toward the Mount Sanitas trailhead with weights around his ankles. Because running at altitude isn’t hard enough.
“Did you celebrate graduation by teepeeing houses?” I ask.
He chews the inside of his cheek, eyebrows furrowed. “Maybe middle-school graduation.”
My unease grows as I realize my parents’ was the only house that was vandalized. It was targeted. “Let’s go.”
We traverse the front yard, navigating around rolls of toilet paper, and follow the path to the back of the house.
My heart plummets when I see the basement door swinging open on broken hinges.
“Wait here.” Liam jogs the last few steps to the door and tentatively pushes it open.
“Like hell,” I grate, following on his heels. I wrap my fingers around the pepper spray I keep tucked in my purse. While Boulder is a relatively safe city, you can never be too careful.
A harsh stench assaults my nostrils as I cross the threshold.
The basement is a shambles. My brother’s photographs litter the floor and it looks like someone took a baseball bat to the glass frames and porcelain lamp. The boxes holding our childhood memorabilia are torn to shreds, our prized toys and artwork strewn about.
The real travesty is the makeshift darkroom. Trays are upside down, chemicals seeping into the carpet, and light shines through the unprotected doorway and onto rolls of undeveloped film.
Whoever did this is long gone.
My pulse pounds behind my eyes as I take everything in. Hands shaking, I tiptoe around the shattered remnants of my family’s past.
The posters that used to line the walls have been ripped down, only the pushpins remaining, and the base amp my brother uses as an end table is covered in dust, tiny shards of glass, and mystery liquid dripping from an upended cup.
Glass crunches beneath Liam’s feet. Gingerly, he crouches to pick up the broken pieces of his vintage Nikon camera. He cradles them in his hands, dipping his forehead toward his fingers as if he could breathe his equipment back together. His chest heaves as he lets the pieces fall back to the floor.
Something sparkles behind the base amp. I bend down for a closer look, carefully moving torn pieces of paper out of the way like I’m playing the ultimate game of pickup sticks.
My heart lodges itself in my throat at what’s underneath.
A chunky old-fashioned ring, its silver band twisted in an overlapping design that features a hefty turquoise stone in the center. There’s a clasp on one side of the setting that almost looks like a hinge. It’s just like the one from Liam’s missing print. And around the ring is a circle of faint green dust.
Liam is suddenly at my side. He reaches for the ring, his eyebrows furrowed in a mixture of hurt and confusion.
“Don’t,” I say, grabbing his hand.
He looks at me, startled by my panic. His blue-gray eyes search mine questioningly.
I can practically feel the blood drain from my face as I ask, “Have you ever seen this ring before?”
“No, it’s not mine.”
I dip my head beneath my knees and try to think. The ring is in my parents’ basement, where my brother is currently living. How could it have gotten here?
“Have you—uh—had a girl over recently?”
Liam turns beet red and shakes his head, offering up no other explanation.
No doubt his pining for Sage has kept him occupied.
I get my senses back and lurch to my feet.
“Mom, Dad!” I shout, darting up the staircase that leads to their kitchen, worry gnawing at my stomach.
I burst through the door to find them sitting at their usual spots at the kitchen table. They stare at me quizzically, my dad with a sliver of grapefruit halfway to his mouth and my mom mid-sip in her peppermint tea, the Washington Post sprawled between them.
“Thank God you’re okay,” I say, holding a hand over my racing heart.
“Why wouldn’t we be?” my mom asks.
I wave toward the window, where toilet paper visibly wafts in the breeze.
“Don’t let that trouble you,” my dad says, pushing his grapefruit bowl aside. “Sometimes students get upset if they don’t receive the grade they think they deserve. This has happened before.”
“Have you seen the basement?” I ask. “It’s completely trashed.”
“I heard a commotion last night. I thought your brother had guests over,” my mom explains, the lines in her forehead deepening. She rises to her feet, growing frantic. “Where is Liam? Is he all right?”
My brother materializes behind me. “I’m fine, Mom.” Liam turns to me, the severity in his gaze filling me with dread.
My voice is quiet, fearful. “What is it?”
“The negatives from your opening . . .” Liam trails off. “Parker, they’re gone.”
The Valentine family’s behavior is a foregone conclusion. We succumb to our coping behaviors like sugar to yeast.
My dad, cool and calm, focuses on what needs to be done, in this case phoning the police. My mom channels her frantic energy into brewing cups of tea that no one will drink and cleaning every surface in sight. Liam provides comic relief, cracking joke after stupid joke, even though he’s clearly heartbroken.
As for me, I’m ashamed to admit, I leave.
I tell myself it’s because I have Gaskel’s memorial to attend, answers to discover, and a winery to save. But the truth is I’m scared.
First, there’s the ring’s ominous presence. Then there’s the fact that nothing besides the negatives is missing from the basement. Which means the break-in—and likely the teepeeing—are related to the murder investigation. Whoever is behind all this is smart, desperate, and knows where my family lives. Unfortunately, thanks to the wonder that is the internet, this intel is easily accessible. It could be anyone. I feel nauseated and slightly light-headed, as if I’ve swallowed wine that has long since turned to vinegar.
I slip out the front door when everyone is occupied. Well, almost everyone.
Liam catches me on the front walkway. He’s still in his stained T-shirt and there are dark bags under his eyes. “Not so fast, Houdini.”
I wince, tucking my wavy hair behind my ears. “I have to go.”
“Can’t your winery wait?” There’s a bite to his words, anger blended with sadness.
“It’s not about my winery,” I say quietly, my gaze locked on a strand of toilet paper tucked into a crushed PBR can. “Gaskel’s service is this morning.”
He rubs his chin, his face grim. “Parker, I’m worried.”
“That makes two of us.” I cross my arms over my chest, toeing the sidewalk. “What do you remember about the print that was stolen?”
Liam recalls more than I do. Gaskel’s sideways glance and tense posture, the phantom fingers and flashy ring in the upper left-hand corner, and the shadow cast over the chardonnay bottle. The shadow allegedly belonged to Reid; Liam wanted it included because it gave the shot more texture.
But without context, these details are as meaningless as categorizing varietals based purely on color.
“Do you really think the print is important?” he asks.
“The killer is working awfully hard to make sure no one sees it again.”
What did Liam inadvertently capture on film to make the killer panicked enough to steal every trace of it? Was it their fingers, the focus of Gaskel’s attention, or something else entirely? I stand up straighter, my eyes opening wide in realization. There is one other missing piece of evidence. Maybe the key is with that.
“Do you remember Gaskel having a piece of paper? It could’ve been on the tasting bar, sticking out of his pocket . . .” I trail off, my shoulders creeping up toward my ears.
“No,” Liam answers. “Why?”
“Just curious.” I let out the breath I’d been holding, checking the time on my phone. “I really have to go.”
“Get outta here.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “This gives me the chance to finally secure the status of favorite child.”
“Yeah, right.” I force out a chuckle. “I’m sorry about your camera, your photographs—” I swallow, not sure what else to say.
He casts his gaze skyward, blinking into the sunlight. His lips twitch into a lopsided grin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “The robber probably did the art world a solid.”
“Don’t say that. Maybe there’s a picture you can salvage, send into a magazine or something.” No words will be able to repair his precious camera.
“I have enough to deal with right now.” He clenches his jaw, waving at the mess in the yard.
“What about work?” I ask. A part of me worries he’s going to completely self-destruct after learning about Sage’s imminent engagement coupled with the basement disaster.
“They won’t miss me.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re just not going to show?”
Here I thought Liam was finally getting his act together, but it’s the same bottle, different glass.
“Let it go, Parker.” He turns his back on me and picks up a long strip of toilet paper, crumpling it into a ball.
I massage my temples and then try a different strategy. “Look, at least call and let them know what happened. Now isn’t the time to make any rash decisions.”
He heaves a dramatic sigh. “Fine.”
I nod, secretly relieved. “We’ll get to the bottom of this.” If I say it with enough conviction, perhaps I’ll actually start to believe it. “Call me if you need me.”
“I will.” He bows his head and continues, his voice so quiet I almost miss it, “Don’t say anything to Sage. Please.”
“About what?” I ask with a wink. Then I hightail it to North Star Lutheran.