Twenty-One

If one more person came into Chocoholic’s to talk about Hamadryads, Matt would lose it.

He’d been tempted to hide out in the kitchen but, on Mrs. Callahan’s day off, that wasn’t an option. And with that clear blue sky, the weather forecast not high or humid enough to anchor cottagers to the water, the shop had been busy all morning.

He unpacked the shipment of Molinillo hot chocolate whisks and fought to keep his temper in check. So far, he hadn’t snapped at anyone. But if he had to field one more question about that book — Matt slit the tape on the box with a satisfying jerk of the knife.

He reached for the blue stoneware pottery mug on the counter and pulled it closer. On loan from the local potter in exchange for some free promotion, the mug would make for a nice display. One-of-a-kind and durable, that rustic appeal cottagers couldn’t get enough of, would help sell the whisks. But all that was just an excuse to keep his hands busy, because they were itching to do some damage.

Ever since his conversation with Jeffrey, it felt like the world had tilted beneath his feet.

He had never craved violence before, but all he could think about now was breaking bone. Drawing blood. Inflicting pain until he’d forced out the truth and his victim begged for mercy.

But Andrew was dead.

The killer had robbed Matt of that chance and tainted the one thing in the world that was perfect. Chocolate.

He tore the plastic off the next whisk.

The bell chimed and a little girl entered the store, clutching a handful of coins. A smattering of freckles beneath the sunburn, cut-off shorts, and a fraying friendship bracelet screamed carefree summer holidays. Focused on the milk chocolate seashells, she headed toward the shelf, flip-flops slapping against the floor. Rattling the coins thoughtfully in her hand, she studied the selection with a frown. The kind of make-or-break concentration devoted to the biggest decisions.

Matt dropped the first whisk into the mug, wood ricocheting off stone. The girl jumped a foot, shot a glance at him over her shoulder. Wide-eyed, she took one look at him and gave a squeak of terror.

Before he could wipe the scowl off his face, or work up a smile, she turned and fled. Hightailing it out of there, fast as possible.

The door clattered shut behind her.

“Great.” He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. Now he was scaring kids.

A fatal fall on a construction site. That’s what the cops had said when they broke the news. An accident. Only that wasn’t true. His mom had died — been murdered — because she tried to do the right thing. And Jeffrey kept that information to himself until it was too late.

Forgive and forget? Maybe Jeffrey could, but hell if he would. Anger clamped in his chest, tight as a vice. Not a chance.

The bell chimed as the door opened again, and he scowled. What now?

Meghan stepped into the store like a woman on a mission. Something told him she wasn’t here for the chocolate seashells. Not with that gleam in her eye.

She smiled as she approached the counter, but he knew enough not to trust it.

“Meghan.” He nodded, as he set the mug, full of whisks now, beside the cash register.

“Pretty,” she commented. She looked around, gaze sliding over prepackaged bags of chocolates, the gleaming display case. “There’s probably always lots to do here.”

In the shop? He relaxed a bit. “It keeps me busy, yeah.”

“I believe it. Which is why I won’t hold it against you.”

What was that supposed to mean? Wary, he asked, “Hold what against me?”

“We’ve known each other a while.”

“Yeah, we have,” he agreed cautiously.

“I’d say we’re friends, wouldn’t you?”

And there it was. The conversational equivalent of a bear trap, and no way around it. Say no, and you’re a jerk. Say yes and you’re committing to anything. “Sure,” he said finally.

“I gave Chocoholic’s some nice promotion, when you opened, ran a feature on the shop in the paper. And it didn’t cost you a thing.”

She had him there. Snapped the jaws of the trap shut in one neat move. Though why she came here to bring it up now, he had no idea. “You did.” To be safe, he added, “And I appreciated it.”

She nodded, fingered one of the whisks. “Imagine my surprise when I saw the display in The Coffee Nook.”

So that’s what this was about. He’d been expecting it, but not this soon. Not today, not with everything else. “Listen Meghan —”

She held up a hand, cut him off. “Your dad wrote a book. An important book. And it’s just been revealed that he was the author. Don’t you think it might have been nice to give me a heads-up? As the editor of the Oakcrest Courier.”

He hadn’t even thought of it. Probably should have. “It really wasn’t —”

“I only found out about it when Charley bought a copy.”

“She bought a copy?” Panic simmered.

“This is big news, Matt,” she continued, relentless. “Huge. The kind of news that could put this town on the map.”

“Oakcrest is already on the map,” he said dryly. “That’s how the tourists find us.”

Meghan stalked around the counter, and he backed up in defense. She drilled a finger into his chest. “A tip, that’s all. Is that too much to ask?” She punctuated it with another jab.

“Hey!” It felt like she’d bored a hole straight through his ribs. He rubbed the spot. “I think you hit an organ.”

“The heart, I hope.” Her eyes flashed fire, reminding him of Charley. Seemed both sisters had a hell of a temper. “One measly text message and I could have run with it. Your dad lived here most of his life, and the local paper had nothing. Not a single word. How do you think that makes the Oakcrest Courier look?”

No right way to answer that one either.

She stood all but toe to toe with him. He looked down at the top of her red hair. Although she was taller than Charley, it still felt like being told off by a tough pixie. With a blood-stained dagger tucked up her sleeve. “Um —”

“An interview.”

“What?” He tried to keep up. Any other day he could have handled this confrontation better. Maybe even saved his ass. But today, the quick-fire exchange was messing with his head.

“I want an interview.” She hoisted her bag higher on her shoulder. The tote looked heavy. It wouldn’t surprise him if it turned out to be filled with all the town’s secrets.

“I’d love to help you with that, Meghan.” He fought to keep his patience. “But there’s one minor detail. The man you want to talk to is dead.” She’d run the obit herself.

She eyed him, sizing him up. “From what I can see, you’re alive and kicking. And full of information.”

Jesus. She made him sound like a human vending machine. He put the counter between them. “No.”

“You owe me.” She stalked after him.

“Free chocolates, sure. You like the dark chocolate orange slices, right?” He took a box off the shelf — the closest thing he had to a peace offering — and set it on the counter, slid it toward her. “Take them. But I’m not doing an interview.” Place some tape recorder in front of him and grill him about his childhood, about his dad? No way.

She ignored the chocolate. “It’ll only take half an hour — maybe forty-five minutes, tops.”

He’d always figured selling his soul would take a little longer than the average Netflix episode. His mistake, apparently. “Hounded by the press,” he muttered beneath his breath.

“Just one determined journalist,” she shot back.

Pain in the backside, was what she was. He shook his head. “It’s not happening. You’re wasting your time.”

She shrugged, like she knew that’s what he’d say. Expected it, even. “Your dad was a dark horse, and the word is out.” Not cruel. Just honest. “I’m not the only one who’s going to ask questions.”

It didn’t help that she was right.

At wits’ end, he gritted his teeth. “And everyone will get the same answer.”

“Until you crack.”

His vision turned red at the edges. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just a warning. You will crack. Everyone does. And I’ll be there when you do. I always get my story.” The smile she gave him was sweet as caramelized sugar. She picked up the box of chocolate orange slices. “I think I will take these, thank you.”

“Help yourself.” Anything to have his peace and quiet again. Knowing he sounded sulky and annoyed with himself about it, he crossed his arms.

“By the way —” Meghan paused on her way to the door. “— what’s with the box of books outside the shop?”

“Belated spring cleaning.” How many were left? Putting them on the sidewalk was the fastest way he could think of to get rid of the books in his dad’s office. He’d dumped some in an old box, scrawled FREE on the cardboard with a fat black marker and left them there. His dad would hate it. Hopefully, those books would be gone by the end of the day. He didn’t intend to cart that box home with him again. “Take whatever you want. There are textbooks, novels. Actually, there’s some that Charley might like.” He should have thought of that sooner, set aside some for her, and kicked himself for missing that chance.

“Good idea. I’ll take a look.” She gave him a cheery wave as she went out, leaving him feeling like he’d played right into her hand. The glass rattled in the door.

Matt scowled at the chocolates. He was surprised they didn’t melt before his eyes.

He had two options. Let the anger, the bitterness, destroy him from the inside out. Or focus on the good.

Bracing his hands on the counter, he took a steadying breath, filling his lungs with the scent of cocoa butter, spices, and fruit.

The past had shifted ground on him, but the present was rock solid. And that was all that mattered.