The drive from Carson’s compound to the town was a sedate one. Every house had a front porch, often a screened one. Everywhere you looked there were flags, flower planters,
green lawns, and shady spaces. This was the kind of town where everyone seemed to have a tire swing. There was one incredibly sharp turn along a wooded stretch, which then led them past a full-size blue billboard that read LIBERTY HIGH, HOME OF THE MIGHTY OWLS.
“Take it down a notch, sign,” Nate said. “Why are you yelling about owls?”
The sign was ridiculously huge, almost as high as the trees around it, and it seemed entirely out of place along the road. The high school it announced was a modestly sized redbrick building, midcentury and fairly ugly compared to all the other places Stevie had seen along the way. The school and its sign were then left behind for another half mile of woods and streams, before they reached a traffic light.
“This is Barlow Corners,” Carson said, turning onto a slightly busier street. “Population two thousand. This is the main drag here—all the businesses.”
There were the kinds of places you see in every small town. A boutique full of local crafts, scarves, and bric-a-brac. A savings and loan. A place for takeout tacos. A yoga studio. There was the Dairy Duchess, the diner that had been owned by Diane’s family.
He indicated a cheerful-looking coffee shop called Sunshine Bakery.
“That place over there is where we’re going first,” he said. “It’s run by Patty Horne. She was friends with at least three of the victims.”
The Sunshine Bakery was a painfully adorable
small-town kind of business, painted in a half dozen varieties of yellow, from a pale buttery color to a lemon, all the way to a near-orange that mirrored the namesake sun. It had several glass cabinets of genuinely astonishing cakes on display—real works of art, detailed and sculpted. Janelle was drawn to them at once like a moth to a flame.
Behind the counter was a woman with dusty blond hair pulled up in a messy bun. She wore loose distressed jeans and a blue apron. She looked to be somewhere in her fifties, and seemed lost in thought, examining a list.
“Morning!” she said, looking a bit surprised. “Camp already? I thought the counselors were coming tomorrow?”
“These guys are special,” Carson said before anyone else could answer. “This is Stevie Bell. She was the one who solved those murders at Ellingham Academy back in the fall.”
“Oh,” Patty Horne said. Stevie could tell she didn’t really know the story but was being polite and acting like she was trying to remember the details. “Wow. That’s impressive. And you’re . . . going to be counselors?”
“Yup!” Carson said quickly. “Here to grab some coffee and . . .”
He stared at the display of baked goods under glass as if he were looking at a collection of captive spiders.
“。 . . muffins? Or whatever you want. I don’t drink coffee or eat sugar.”
Stevie looked around the room, at the framed historical photos of Barlow Corners over the years, along with some portraits of an older man. Janelle was closely examining the
bakery case, where three small cakes were on display. One was baby blue, with a delicate pattern of raised white edging, like Wedgwood china. There was one that was covered in butterflies, and a third that was in the form of an exploding volcano.
“Your cakes are beautiful,” Janelle said. “The detail is incredible.”
“Thank you,” Patty said. “Those are samples I did for a wedding this week. They came out really well, so I’ve left them up for display.”
“How did you even make those butterflies?”
“They’re sugar,” Patty said. “Are you interested in decorating cakes? Here. I’ll show you up close.”