Page 11 of Talk Wicked to Me

He held up his hands. “Hey, I’m not judging you. I was just curious.”

“Good. I baked biscuits for Ollie, too. Would you mind getting some for him? They’re his favorites, and I’m sure he’s missing me. There are baggies and plastic containers in the cabinet by the fridge.”

“You made dog biscuits?” Why was that so alluring?

“Yeah. He loves them, and I like knowing he’s getting healthy treats. Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“I definitely don’t mind. I’ll be back.” He headed for the door.

“Wait.”

He turned, brows lifting in question.

She looked at him for a long moment, her expression softening. “I don’t know how to thank you for everything you’ve already done, and don’t take this wrong, because I love my dog, but I’m really grateful that Ollie ate that chocolate chip cookie.”

He smiled. “Me too.”

EMERSON LIVED IN a cute cedar-sided cottage with steel-blue shutters, a matching front door, and an enormous pot of daisies on the porch. Baz took note of the cracked walkway as he headed up to the front door. He stared at three additional locks on the door. While he was glad she took her safety seriously, there wasn’t much crime on the lower Cape. The overkill didn’t track with what she’d said about trusting her neighbor.

He unlocked the last lock and walked into the cozy two-bedroom, which smelled as sweet as she did, but holy shit. There were about a dozen moving boxes scattered around the living room and dining room. The dining room was devoid of furniture. He scanned the boxes, each of which had CONTENTS written in black marker on the side, with an itemized list below. She wasn’t kidding about being organized. In the living room, a laptop and pen lay on a blue plaid couch. On the white coffee table were an open moving box labeled office supplies and a paperback novel. A dog bed lay on the floor between a blue armchair and a faded and worn brown leather recliner, which was beside the fireplace.

He went to check out the framed photos on the mantel, admiring pictures of a young woman about Emerson’s age holding a little girl. He had no doubt that was Emerson’s mother holding her. The likeness was uncanny. She had her mother’s golden-brown hair, chestnut eyes, and apple cheeks. He wondered how old she was when she’d lost her parents. It was easy to spot her father, a tall, bearded man whose arm was slung over a teenage Emerson’s shoulder. They shared the same straight nose and beaming smile.

He ached for her loss as he took in a number of other pictures of Emerson and her parents at varying ages—standing on a ski slope, bundled under a blanket on the couch, her and her mother sitting on their knees by a coffee table doing a puzzle, Emerson on her father’s shoulders. She was loved, that was for sure.

There were several pictures of Emerson with a cute dark-haired girl with olive skin. In one picture they wore matching tutus, leotards, and ballet shoes and looked to be around six, Tank’s oldest daughter, Junie’s, age. In another picture, they were probably thirteen or fourteen, wearing fancy dresses and makeup. In all of those pictures, Emerson radiated with carefree light. But there were more recent pictures of her with the same dark-haired friend and with a distinguished couple who looked like they could be the other girl’s parents, and there were none of Emerson and her own parents past her teenage years.

As he studied the pictures, his chest constricted. In the recent pictures, that light still shone in Emerson, but the carefree essence was missing. He knew the pain of losing someone he loved, and he hated that she’d suffered such a loss.

He picked up a recent picture of her and the dark-haired girl. They were wearing winter coats and knit hats, standing in the snow. Emerson’s hat was pink, her coat white. Her friend wore a white hat and a black coat. They were grinning, their heads touching, and they were each holding a mug. Emerson’s mug had a picture of the backs of two girls, one with black hair and the other with brown, wearing pink miniskirts and black sweaters. The names Gwen and Emerson were written in script across their skirts. They were holding hands, and their other arms were curled over their own heads, touching each other’s fingers, their arms forming a heart. Gwen’s mug had BEST BITCHES written in pink, and below it in black it read,

SISTERS AT HEART

FOREVER NEVER APART

MAYBE BY DISTANCE

BUT NOT IN OUR HEARTS

He set the picture back on the mantel, wishing Gwen could be there for her now. He probably shouldn’t snoop, but he couldn’t help himself. The place was small, with an open floor plan and only three doors off the living room. Two bedrooms and a bathroom. He headed into one of the bedrooms where he found a dresser, a rocking chair, and four enormous boxes containing an unassembled crib, a bassinet, a changing table, and a Pack ’n Play. A stroller with the tags still on it sat by the window, along with several bags containing baby-related items. Three cans of paint sat on the floor by the closet.

Tension gathered in his neck as he walked out of the room and peered into the tidy master bedroom. The bed was neatly made with a pretty floral comforter. Two paperbacks and a phone charger were on the nightstand, and on the dresser were a comb, a brush, a small wooden jewelry box, and another framed picture. He walked in to check it out. It was a picture of Emerson at fifteen or sixteen, maybe seventeen, and her parents, wearing skis and ear-to-ear grins.

He pulled his phone from his pocket as he left the room and headed into the kitchen, which was separated from the dining room by a half wall. His gaze trailed over at least three dozen cookies lying on parchment paper on over-the-counter shelves, which he assumed was to keep Ollie from reaching them if he counter surfed. Smart. The cookies were shaped like onesies, sleepers, baby carriages, tiny feet, rattles, bibs, and bottles. Each cookie was decorated to perfection, from the spokes in the carriage wheels and the bow on the rattles to the outline on the bibs and the buttons on the sleepers. He thought about the chocolate chip cookie she’d bought from the sub place and what she’d said about not knowing anyone in town and wondered who she’d baked them for. Her pregnant friend in Chicago, maybe?

Not my business. The less he knew about her, the better.

His gaze slid to an equal number of bone-shaped dog biscuits in varying sizes on the shelves above the other counters. They were also expertly decorated in red, white, and black, some with tiny paw prints, others iced and outlined with OLLIE written across them.

So you’re a puppy spoiler.

A smile tugged at his lips, but he quickly stifled it and called Tank. His older brother answered on the first ring.

“Hey, B. I heard you’ve had a hell of a night. I figured you’d call when you could. You okay?”

“Yeah, and it’s getting more interesting by the minute…”

EMERSON SENT GWEN pictures of Brennan and the picture of Baz holding him and called her on speakerphone as the baby nursed. She told her all about her frantic veterinary run, meeting Baz, and all the embarrassing details of Brennan’s birth.