Genevieve shook her head at the question and instead sat at the table. She looked admiringly at Mellie’s work in progress—a four-tiered square wedding cake with showy gold ribbons topping the layers in bows, like a stack of presents.

“Aunt Mellie, you are truly an artist,” she said.

Mellie laughed, tucking a stray wisp of salt-and-pepper hair back under her hairnet. “Well, when you love what you do, it shows in your work.” She picked up her palette knife. “I never would have guessed it, but it seems I was always meant to be a cake decorator.”

Genevieve watched her skillfully smooth the final layer of icing, and then said, “I wish I knew what I was meant to do.”

“Oh, but you don’t need to know that just yet, not at your age.” Mellie scraped the palette knife along the edges of a clean bowl and slid the bowl toward Genevieve. “Being seventeen means getting to explore—you have so much time to figure out what makes you happy.”

“The thing is,” Genevieve said slowly, picking up a spoon and scooping up some of the icing, “I feel I already know what makes me happy. It’s being here, at Sweet Dreams. And in Pinewood.” She sampled the icing, which was heavenly, and avoided looking at Mellie.

“Forgive me,” Mellie said gently, “but if you know that already, then why are you here this morning, Genevieve? What are you really asking?”

Genevieve set the spoon down and looked at her aunt. “It’s just that everyone is trying to make me feel like I couldn’t possibly know what I want yet,” she said. With a trace of bitterness, she added, “And by everyone, I mean Dad.”

She pulled out the envelope and placed it on the table. Mellie hesitated, then brushed her hands off on her apron and unfolded the letter. She looked at Genevieve in surprise. “I hadn’t realized you’d been applying to other colleges,” she said. “You seemed so set on Mountain Ridge⁠—”

“He made me apply to at least three others,” Genevieve explained. “To keep my quote—options open—end quote.”

Mellie regarded her without expression. “And now you’re conflicted on which to choose?”

“No!” Genevieve said emphatically. She pushed away from the table and stood, feeling restless. “My feelings haven’t changed, I just—before I had confidence in my decision and now I’m doubting myself because... he doesn’t trust me. So maybe I shouldn’t trust me either.”

“Oh, honey.” Mellie smiled at her wistfully, and with great fondness. “Never in my life have I met someone so in charge of her feelings as you. I trust you. Never let a man—any man—make you doubt your deepest convictions.”

Genevieve stared at her aunt. “So you think Dad⁠—”

“Loves you more than the moon,” Mellie said firmly. “And sometimes, as the saying goes, love is blind. It is easier than you know to impede the choices of those we care deeply for in the misguided belief that we are protecting them.”

Genevieve looked at her doubtfully.

“Don’t you see what he’s doing?” Mellie shook the envelope at her and then tossed it back on the table. “Your father is terrified of making a mistake, of holding you back. He sees your mother in you; he remembers the way her spirit withered being in a small town, and he wants to make sure you don’t end up feeling trapped here too.”

“But I’m not my mother!” Genevieve cried. “I love Pinewood; she never did.”

“Your experience has been greatly limited to Pinewood,” Mellie argued. “Your father is so attached to this town he is probably afraid your feelings are naturally tied into his. He’s afraid you haven’t seen enough of the world to make an informed choice about where you belong within it. As a parent he feels he’s obligated to push you toward new experiences so you don’t end up with regrets.”

“You sound as if you agree with him.”

“Not at all!” said Mellie easily, picking up the icing bowl and her decorating tools. “I told you; I trust you, but my judgment isn’t clouded by past heartbreak.” She placed the dishes in the sink and retrieved a cake box from the cupboard. “Help me box this up, sweetie.”

Genevieve was quiet as they boxed up the cake and stored it in the freezer. Afterward, as they stood side by side at the sink washing dishes, Genevieve asked, “Was she ever happy here?”

Mellie handed Genevieve a freshly scrubbed bowl to rinse. “She was happy with you,” she said. “And, for a time, with your father. Your mother just wanted more.” Suddenly Mellie laughed. “It used to drive him batty, the way she couldn’t hold still. She was always so full of life, always flitting from project to project—like a hummingbird. You are so very much like her.” Mellie’s voice was full of affection. “Bursting with energy and light. Always up at the break of dawn, already moving faster than the rest of us, always on the move. The difference, of course, is that you are content to move within the circle of home. This small town. You have a keen sense of belonging and are well grounded, like your father. Genevieve, you are the best of both your parents. They know it, and adore you for it, and, honey, so do I.”

Genevieve impulsively hugged her aunt, forgetting she was still holding a wet sponge, which soaked Mellie’s back. They both laughed.

“As for this awful situation at your high school,” Mellie said, grabbing a clean washcloth and patting her neck dry, “I hate that you’ve been caught up in it, but you do have excellent instincts, Genevieve. I’ll never forget the time, I think you were seven or eight, when your father hired a magician for your birthday party. He performed all the usual tricks—the disappearing coin, the levitating card, the cup under the table. But you were not impressed. You studied his moves carefully and questioned him on everything. By the end of the demonstration, the magician, who was exceedingly good natured, had quite given up trying to trick you and instead spent the time showing you his methods. That did the trick, so to speak.” Mellie drained the dishwater, a smile playing across her lips. “You’ve always been highly logical with a good instinct for sensing when something is wrong or doesn’t quite fit. In fact, for a year or two after that party you were obsessed with spy-themed toys.”

Genevieve smiled. “I was?”

“You don’t remember?” Mellie laughed. “You and Brandon would run around the neighborhood wearing your walkie-talkies and carrying those spy glass things.”

Suddenly Genevieve was laughing too. “I do remember that now! We interviewed all the neighbors one day trying to solve ‘The case of Mrs. Peterson’s missing cat.’”

Mellie snorted. “That poor cat probably escaped at the first opportunity from the pretentious old woman.”

“Aunt Mellie!” Genevieve cried, and then dissolved into giggles despite herself. “Although it’s true we never did find the cat.”

Mellie looked at her seriously, placing her warm hands on Genevieve’s shoulders. “Honey, trust your instincts. If you’re sensing something is off, and if that something occurs to you, no matter how farfetched or how silly it seems, do call that detective. Let her know. You were the first person on scene at a terrible crime. I don’t want you reliving it, of course I don’t, but there is obviously something there in your memory that is troubling you. If you are doubting yourself, you risk closing your mind to a clue that may be there waiting to be discovered. Don’t go looking for it. Let it come to you. It’s like falling in love. One you stop looking, it arrives, like a wrapped gift.”

When she returned home from Sweet Dreams, Genevieve’s father was at the dining room table, settled comfortably in his usual chair with the morning paper unfolded before him. Steams of coffee curled up from his I ♥ Pinewood bear mug, which she had gifted to him for his birthday several years ago, and which he still drank from every morning. Seeing him there, Genevieve felt a flood of tenderness, remembering Mellie’s words. She walked over and gave him a swift kiss on his freshly shaven cheek, inhaling the scent of pine.

“Good morning, Dad.”

He tipped his head up to her with a questioning smile. “Morning, kiddo. Were you at the shop? You smell like waffles.”

Genevieve laughed and went to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. He’d boiled water in the kettle already. “I’m surprised you can smell anything over that aftershave,” she teased. “Have you ever considered switching up for something new?”

“Nope. It’s worked for me the last thirty years; why fix what ain’t broke?”

“Can’t argue with that.” She steeped a bag of spiced chai in her cup of boiling water.

“There’s some toast in the oven,” her dad said from behind his paper.

“That does sound good.” Genevieve got a piece, spread butter over it, and sprinkled some cinnamon and sugar on top. She grabbed her plate and cup and sat across from her dad, and they ate in companionable silence. Genevieve had decided to take Aunt Mellie’s advice and try not to think about the crimes for a while and let her subconscious do the work. As she allowed her mind to drift, it occurred to her just how tightly she’d been wound. She ate her toast slowly and sipped her tea.

“Terrible about the fires up north,” her father said. “Weather’s too dry, we need a good dusting of snow. Some folks in town lost their cabins yesterday, they just went up like matchsticks.” He peered at her from over the paper. “Been a bad year all around for Mountain Ridge. But at least the robberies seem to have stopped.” He snapped the newspaper straight again.

Genevieve stared at the back of the paper, her mouth hanging open, her hand frozen mid-air, clutching the last piece of her toast. A dizzying sense of deja-vu had washed over her and swept her out to a dark sea of possibility. Pieces that hadn’t fit together snapped into place with the snap of her father’s newspaper. Everything was clear, so clear. If she was right about this...

Standing abruptly, she gave her father one more peck on the cheek. “Thanks, Dad,” she said, struggling to keep the emotion out of her voice.

He raised his eyebrows. “For...?”

“Everything,” she said, before racing up to her room.

The first thing she did was text Brandon, but of course no ‘read’ receipt was forthcoming. Why did he even have a phone? Next, she found Detective Christie’s card and hastily dialed the number. There was no hesitation this time, no worries about looking foolish or being wrong. Unfortunately, the ringtone kicked over to voicemail. She left a harried message and then called the police station, knowing they wouldn’t take her seriously. They didn’t.

“We’ll pass on your theory to the detective on the case,” the officer said in a maddeningly complacent tone.

“I already left her a message on voicemail,” Genevieve said, gritting her teeth.

“Wonderful. I’m sure you’ll hear back from her real soon. Take care, miss.” He hung up.

“Shoot!” Genevieve said, stamping her foot in frustration. She forced herself to think through the haze of panic, trying to remember Principal Mattison’s first name. Martin. Genevieve opened her laptop and typed in the name, but none of her searches yielded the result she needed.