They sat at one of the booths by the front door. Brandon yanked his beanie off and his hair crackled and frizzed. Genevieve snickered. She grabbed a notebook and, while the rain poured down in sheets, they tossed around ideas for the fall flavors that would start next week.

“What was that one you guys did last year?” Brandon sipped his hot chocolate and frowned in thought. “The one with the edible googly eyes and gummy worms for guts?”

Genevieve flipped open her notebook. “That was the Monster Mash.”

“It was honestly kind of gross.”

She gaped at him. “The kids loved it! That was our most popular flavor!”

“Kids are kind of gross.”

“What?! Kids are awesome! You have a kid sister!”

“Exactly. How do you think I got talked into trying that abomination?”

Genevieve waved her hand at him dismissively and turned back to her notebook. “Charlotte has far better taste than you, that’s all.”

“Fine. Do the Monster Mash.” He paused and then snickered at his words. “What else?”

“Something pumpkin flavored⁠—”

Brandon groaned. “Not pumpkin spice,” he said irritably. “I get so sick of making pumpkin spice lattes.”

Genevieve looked up, offended. “Don’t insult me. I wouldn’t think of being so cliche.” She thought for a moment. “I was actually thinking⁠—”

“How about something gingerbread flavored?”

“That’s Christmas, loser.”

“It can be a fall flavor, too!” He reached determinedly for the notebook but she snatched it away.

“You’re hopeless,” she said, shaking her head. “I always do Gingerbread House for December, remember? Soft chunks of gingerbread cookie with crunchy bits of peppermint candy cane—ooh, that sounds good right now. Anyway, for October it has to be pumpkin, but not pumpkin spice. How about...” she tapped her pencil on the pad of paper. “Aha! I know. How about Pumpkin Pecan Pie?”

Brandon considered. “Will there be a nut-free option for those of us who don’t believe in ruining our desserts with dried-up fruit?”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine.”

The door chimed and they both looked up. “Hey, man,” Brandon said, getting to his feet and shaking the newcomer’s hand. He looked vaguely familiar but Genevieve couldn’t quite place him. She rose and smiled quizzically.

“Genevieve, long time, no see.” The boy grinned, flipping back the hood on his jacket. He had dirty blonde hair, about a billion freckles on his face, and a very familiar voice.

“Genevieve, you remember Dillon?” Brandon said, rescuing her. “Hacker extraordinaire?”

“Oh!” She did a double take. The last time she’d seen Dillon, he’d been a full foot shorter, and... “You’re wearing pants!” she exclaimed.

Dillon raised an eyebrow and looked down at his jeans. “Huh. You’re right, I remembered to put them on today. Usually I skip the whole getting dressed thing, but on the rare occasion I leave the house⁠—”

Brandon was howling. “Nah, man, she’s talking about middle school, remember? When you refused to wear anything but shorts, even when it was the middle of winter?”

“Oh, right,” Dillon said, chuckling. “Boy, I was weird.”

“Was,” Brandon said to Genevieve, using air quotes. She smiled.

“Anyway, it’s nice to see you, Dillon,” she said. “Thanks again for your help with⁠—”

“No problem, no problem,” he cut her off pointedly.

“I take it you came in for your payment?” she said, waving him toward the counter. Dillon pulled off his gloves and blew into his hands, then rubbed them vigorously together.

“Sure did. Although I’ll take it in a to-go cup. It’s really too cold out for ice cream, but I had to run an errand for my dad and thought I’d pop in.”

“I’m glad you did,” Genevieve said, scooping up the mocha chocolate chip and packing it into a to-go carton. “You’re the only customer I’ve had for over an hour.”

Dillon took the cup and slipped a folded five-dollar bill into the snow-cone tip jar. “Can’t imagine why,” he quipped as more thunder cracked in the gray sky. “Between the weather and the police dragging the lake for a dead body, it’s no wonder people don’t feel like strolling down Main Street.”

Brandon, who had followed them to the counter and settled on a bar stool by the register, quickly tried to change the subject. “How’s the Queen Mary coming along?” he said.

“It’s a tough build, man. I’ve had to start over four times on the hull, trying to get the curvature right. It’ll be worth it though.”

Genevieve had tensed at the mention of the lake and was grateful to Brandon for knowing how much she didn’t want to talk about it. She’d busied herself scrubbing at a nonexistent splotch on the counter but Dillon, looking as if he’d suddenly remembered something, turned to her and said curiously, “So what was the protected address all about? Did it have something to do with the death of that teacher?”

Genevieve set her washcloth down in surprise. “What do you mean?”

Dillon blinked. “You didn’t notice? That’s what I was trying to ask you about the other night on the phone.” The front door chimed as a pair of high school students walked in, giggling and holding hands. Dillon’s change in demeanor was instantaneous. “Gotta go,” he muttered.

“But—” Genevieve came around the counter, but Dillon was already headed out the door, pulling his hoodie over his head as the rain sheeted down and blew in a blast of cold air.

“Thanks for the ice cream,” he called back, and as Genevieve and Brandon watched, he jogged to his car, skidding on the slick sidewalk.

Genevieve glanced at the couple; one of the girls was pointing out flavors and the other one was squealing about calories—they were firmly wrapped up in their own little world. She sat next to Brandon and pulled out her phone, clicking on her email and checking the trash folder, which she hadn’t thought to empty yet. The file was still there. She opened it.

“Oh,” she breathed. She hadn’t seen it before because she’d paged straight through to the L listings in the hopes of finding Miss Love. But someone had made the mistake of alphabetizing by her first name...

There, between Santos Garcia’s address on Grove Street and Deja Jackson’s listing on Lincoln Lane, was the name Haylie Love.

Only next to the teacher’s name there was no address, only the word PROTECTED.

“Why would her address be protected?” Brandon mused. “Unless she already felt she was in danger?”

“And if she were that afraid of Ms. Pierce,” Genevieve added, “why would the school have allowed the substitute to work there?”

“What if,” Brandon said slowly, “there was someone else Miss Love was afraid of?”

They looked at each other, troubled. Then the door to Sweet Dreams burst open and Carly Jamison rushed inside, her cheeks red with the cold and with obvious excitement.

“Did you guys hear the latest?” she asked breathlessly. “Principal Mattison has been taken in for questioning! They’re saying Ms. Pierce didn’t commit suicide after all.” She paused dramatically. “She was murdered!”

CHAPTER EIGHT