Page 114 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

"He'll probably nod once."

"And say 'Thanks.'"

"Maybe."

"You are wasting perfectly respectable chocolate."

I smiled as I folded another handful into the dough.

"Maybe but I don't think cookies are about whether someone deserves them."

I paused, watching one stubborn chocolate chip refuse to disappear beneath the dough.

"I think they're about hoping they smile after the first bite."

Neither Gerald nor Frank had an answer for that.

For once...The kitchen was quiet except for the soft scrape of the spoon and the steady beat of my heart. While the oven hummed its steady, dry little tune in the kitchen, I wandered down the narrow hallway toward my bedroom. The cottage grew cooler away from the stove, carrying the soft scent of dried rose that drifted from the wardrobe.

I pulled the heavy oak doors open. The white linen dress was hanging exactly where I'd left it. Simple, clean, no lace, no embroidery, nothing that demanded attention. Just soft ivory linen that caught the afternoon light and made it look warmer than it really was.

I slipped it off the hanger, letting the cool fabric slide over my arms. I chose this one because of Tuesday.

We'd been standing in his kitchen while he worked through a stack of reports. The old pendulum clock had been ticking between us, filling the silence one second at a time. When he'd finally looked up, his eyes had stopped on the dress.

Not my face. Not my hair. The dress. Three seconds. Maybe four. Long enough for me to notice. Long enough for him to look away first.

I smiled to myself.

Small victories are still victories.

I knelt beside the wardrobe and slid open the cedar-lined drawer beneath it. The little leather wallet waited exactly where I'd hidden it.

One...

Two...

I eased the glossy photographs free, careful not to bend the corners, before standing and slipping behind the wardrobe door. The corkboard waited for me. Patiently.

You’re probably imagining walls covered in newspaper clippings connected by red string. Crazy handwriting. Thumbtacks everywhere. The sort of thing detectives discover halfway through a horror movie before saying, "Jesus Christ..."

Mine wasn't like that. Mine was neat. Everything had a place. Straight lines. Equal spacing. Breathing room between each memory. A faded coffee sleeve from the café. The receipt from the hardware store. A pressed birch leaf that had landed on his truck one windy afternoon. A folded county map I'd quietly borrowed while everyone at the sheriff's station had been too busy answering ringing phones to notice.

And now...

Two new photographs. I pinned the first one beside the map. Then the second. My fingertip rested on the edge of the photograph showing the sharp angle of his jaw and the tiny pale scar beneath his left eye.

Something felt...

Off.

I frowned. The pin sat just a little crooked. Barely noticeable. I nudged it. Just a fraction. Perfect. There. Better.

You probably think this is strange. I don't. People keep little things from the people they like all the time. Movie tickets. Pressed flowers. Concert wristbands. Receipts. Photos. Mine just happen to be organized. Strange would've been taking his toothbrush while he was at work.

I didn't.

Yet.