Page 55 of The Worst Possible Plan

I’d spent the last two days trying to figure out what Hartwell was hiding. Turned out it wasn’t incompetence. It was fear—of failing and proving everybody right.

She was scared she’d mess this up. Scared she’d let people down.

But she kept showing up anyway.

I pushed away from the fence as quietly and quickly as I could. The last thing I wanted was for her to see me standing there like a goddamn stalker.

I wasn’t a stalker. I was just checking up on things. That’s what I did. Temporary animal enclosure. Festival grounds. Public safety. Entirely reasonable. Entirely professional. The fact that I’d somehow remained rooted to one spot listening to a conversation between a woman, two alpacas, a goat, and a donkey was… an unfortunate detail I’d be keeping to myself.

But she might not take it that way if she saw me.

I moved without making a sound. Years on the job had taught me that sometimes the best thing a sheriff could do was leave people exactly where they were, believing they had a quiet moment all to themselves.

Some moments weren’t meant to be interrupted.

This was one of them.

13

SOPHIE

Ibarely slept. If I managed to sleep for ten minutes, I’d consider that a win.

I was exhausted, but my brain, that cruel little beast, decided it was the perfect time to host a seminar on Every Possible Way the Festival Could End in Public Humiliation.

Attendance was excellent.

Last night, I dragged myself back to my room at the Hartwell Inn, kicked off my shoes somewhere near the door, face-planted onto the mattress, and waited for unconsciousness.

It never arrived.

Instead, my mind clocked in for a full overnight shift.

Did we have enough volunteers? What if the food trucks lost power? What if it rained? What if somebody parked in the emergency lane? What if Bandit escaped? What if Sheriff Walker showed up and discovered I’d accidentally violated seventeen municipal bylaws before breakfast? What if Helen fired me?

Around three thirty, I accepted that sleep had become more of a philosophical concept than an actual biological function.

So when my alarm went off at five thirty, I was already awake, staring at the ceiling like a sleep-deprived zombie.

I hauled myself into the bathroom and stared at my reflection.

“Oof. Now, that’s horrifying.” My eyes had developed impressive dark circles underneath them, my hair appeared to have formed its own nest above my head, and every muscle in my body hurt worse than yesterday. How was that even possible?

The shower helped loosen some of my muscle pain. But not much.

“Ow.” Pain flared as I turned my neck to the right. Super. My neck was stiff. That’s all I needed.

So what’s a girl to do when she’s suffering from a stiff neck and needs to shower?

She showers at a forty-five-degree angle.

And I did, washing only the body parts I could actually see without moving my neck.

Good enough.

If I dropped the soap, I was fucked.

Fortunately, I didn’t.