After the sheriff had arrested Jen, everything had happened with that hybrid mix of urgency and delay that seemed to accompany anything official. More deputies arrived. Jen was taken away. Deputy Bobby and I were separated, and deputies took our statements. The sheriff hadn’t said a word to either of us, but she hadn’t looked happy. And when the deputies had finally seemed to decide that they’d had enough of Indira’s coffee and cookies, the sheriff told them to take me with them. And now here I was. Sitting in her office. I wondered if I’d get a blindfold and a last cigarette. Oh, or a last meal.

  The door opened, and Sheriff Acosta entered. She looked tired, but then, I looked like a wreck. (The floor of that secret passage had been dusty, and apparently, tricking a confession out of a murderer makes me super sweaty. The result was that I looked like a walking dust bunny.) Maybe something similar crossed the sheriff’s mind, because as she settled into her seat, I thought she was trying not to smile. Then, in her most official voice, she said, “Mr. Dane.”

  “Don’t punish Bobby.”

  Sheriff Acosta stared at me.

  “I mean please,” I said. “Please don’t punish him. Or arrest him. Or whatever.”

  She kept staring.

  “I didn’t tell him about my plan. He wasn’t part of it. And he didn’t know I was going to call you and—please. He wasn’t supposed to be involved.” Although, since Deputy Bobby had been inside that secret passage, waiting for me—and, doubtless, watching through the hidden peepholes that looked in on the billiard room—I had a good idea who had told him I might need help. “Please don’t take it out on him.”

  “It’s sheriff’s office policy not to discuss ongoing investigations—”

  “Please!” And then genius struck. “I’ll go to the media! I’ll talk to the press! I tell them he caught Jen, and he’ll be a national hero, and if you go after him—”

  “For God’s sake, Dash, knock it off.” It wasn’t quite a shout. She didn’t even sound angry—at the end of her rope, maybe, but with a kind of good-humored vexation that took me by surprise. “I’m not going to do anything to Bobby. You should be more worried about him killing you, by the way. He’s not happy with you. And, for the record, neither am I.”

  I caught myself before I could continue my in-defense-of-Deputy-Bobby rant. And then I said, “He’s not in trouble?”

  “I’d like to give him a stern talking-to, but there’s not much point if he’s still planning on leaving.”

  The best I could come up with was “Oh.” Was Deputy Bobby still leaving? I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything, actually. He’d avoided me the day before, in spite of my best efforts to check on him. Maybe he’d changed his mind. Maybe he and West had patched things up. Or maybe he just couldn’t stay here any longer. Maybe he was going to move to California and be a beach bum.

  Whatever the sheriff saw on my face softened her expression. “And since you seem to be so invested in Bobby’s future, I’ll tell you that I asked him to reconsider. Again. Tonight. He’s a good deputy, and he’s got a lot of potential, and aside from his taste in men, he seems to have his head screwed on straight.” There were a lot of ways to take that last sentence, but before I could try to decipher it, the sheriff continued, “Mr. Dane, we need to have a talk.”

  This was it, I thought. Maybe she wasn’t going to execute me personally (no last meal, tragically), but there’d be an arrest, charges of some kind, punishment. She’d warned me, after all, not to interfere with her investigations.

  “I…understand that you have been a significant part of several recent investigations. And I’d be ungrateful not to acknowledge that, in some instances, you’ve helped identify culprits who might, otherwise, have evaded justice. And I also want to acknowledge that even though you did something stupid tonight, you tried to…involve the sheriff’s office.”

  Which was true. I had. All that time I’d spent at the sheriff’s station? I’d been convincing Sheriff Acosta to keep an eye on the house. Personally. And when Jen had shown up in the middle of the night and snuck into the house dressed in all black, well, the sheriff had, naturally, been curious. Curious enough, in fact, that she’d overheard my conversation with Jen and Jen’s confession. So, in the most technical sense, my plan had worked. Perfectly. I was going to keep repeating that phrase because I wasn’t sure Deputy Bobby or Sheriff Acosta saw it that way.

  “If you’re going to arrest me—”

  “This is a small town,” Sheriff Acosta said over me.

  But that was it. I watched her. And then I felt a tiny smile. “Is this a version of ‘This town ain’t big enough for the both of us’?”

  “No, Dash. This is me telling you we’ve got to find a way to live together. I don’t want civilians jeopardizing my investigations. But I’d be an idiot not to recognize that you’ve been an asset—albeit, of the pain-in-my-rear kind. And I’m not an idiot. From what I understand, you’re planning on staying. Is that right?”

  I didn’t answer. I’d thought—well, I’d thought something. But I’d thought a lot of things. And I was starting to suspect I hadn’t been right about any of them.

  Once again, that look of compassion softened Sheriff Acosta’s face. “Well, I’m not planning on going anywhere. And if you’re going to be here, then we need to find a way to do things so that I don’t have to arrest you, and you don’t make the sheriff’s office look like a horse’s behind.”

  (She didn’t say behind.)

  I said cautiously, “I’m not planning on getting caught up in any more murders.”

  For some reason, that made her laugh. “Maybe not. But you do seem to...attract them.” She closed her mouth, considering me, and then said, “You know, Vivienne and Sheriff Jakes had an arrangement. It was fairly simple. When Sheriff Jakes had a difficult case, he asked Vivienne for help. And if Vivienne could help, she did.”

  “Like partners.”

  “More like a consultant.”

  It wasn’t unprecedented; law enforcement hired all sorts of experts (and quasi-experts, like psychics and hypnotists and dog therapists). And Vivienne had certainly done her fair share of collaborating with law enforcement around the world, not just in Hastings Rock. The sheriff’s offer was a fair one. It was more than fair, actually. It was downright generous. And she was doing it not because she had to, but because she was a good sheriff, and she wanted this town to be a good place to live. For everyone. Even me.

  “I’m not Vivienne Carver,” I said. “I don’t know how much help I’ll be.”

  “Just say yes, Dash,” she said. “I’m tired, and I’ve still got to tell my best deputy that I think he’s making a huge mistake.”

  I thought I had an idea who that was, and it made me smile. “Yes.”

  “Great. We’ll work out the details later.” She paused. “Consultant, Dash. Not partner.”

  I nodded.

  “Not cowboy.”

  A grin slipped out. “I understand, Sheriff.”

  As she shook my hand, she met my gaze and held it and said, “He is making a mistake, you know. I’d appreciate it if you could help him see reason on this.”

  “I’m not sure I’m the right person to help. I don’t think he wants any more advice from me.”

  She was still holding my hand, and she tilted her head, as though she were trying to see the bottom of something that was just out of sight.

  “Dash,” she finally said, “he doesn’t want advice.”

  Chapter 18

  It was a perfect Halloween night. Crisply cold, the sky full of stars and clear and hard as glass. The breeze was low, twisting through the hemlocks with the sound of a great scroll being unfurled, carrying the salt of the sea. Indira brewed an enormous pot’s worth of hot cider, and Hemlock House was warm and bright and full of the scent of cinnamon and the sweet tang of apples.

  And the trick-or-treaters didn’t stop coming.

  As the most recent pack of them retreated (this group consisted of a witch, a zombie, two princesses, and a genuine masterpiece of a costume: a dinosaur wearing a fedora), I said, “I thought Hastings Rock was a small town.”

  After closing the door behind them, we retreated to the reception room. We never used it, but it was conveniently located next to the front door, and there was enough seating for all of us. Plus Millie had hung about a million square yards of “spider webs” all over the main floor, so getting anywhere else in the house was an endeavor.

  Keme, dressed in his “skeleton in a suit” costume again, gave me a disparaging look as he opened a fresh bag of candy and emptied it into the pumpkin-shaped bowl we were using. I went for one of the fun-sized Butterfingers, but he beat me to it. And to the next one. And the third.

  “Hey!”

  He was grinning as he passed me the bowl. (No Butterfingers left, I’ll have you know.)

  “It is a small town,” Millie said in answer to my earlier statement. Her ’80s workout costume had made a second appearance, and the only good part of the night had been watching its effect on Keme. The boy had walked into two doors (yes, two separate, distinct, totally different doors); spilled his soda when he’d tried to take a drink without, you know, actually putting the can to his mouth; and flipped right over a hassock. (Fox had to tell me it was a hassock and not a footstool.) “And Vivienne always gave out the best candy on Halloween. Plus the house is spooky, but it’s GOOD spooky. Every kid in the area comes here on Halloween.”

  Which, thank God, they’d warned me about in advance. We’d spent the day recovering from everything with Jen. Deputy Bobby was, technically, still staying at Hemlock House, but that seemed to be more in theory than in practice. I hadn’t seen him since the deputies had separated us the night before. My occasional texts making sure he was okay had been answered with the kind of short, declarative sentences that made me want to bum rush every man within reach off the nearest cliff. He was avoiding me. And he was avoiding me because he was angry, of course. Angry I’d interfered. Angry, perhaps, I’d ruined his life.

  But, a little optimistic voice inside me said, he hasn’t left yet.

  Be quiet, I told that little voice, or I’ll squash you like Pinocchio squashed Jiminy Cricket.

  “What I don’t understand,” Fox said, “is why you didn’t pick a better costume this time. You had a second chance. And for the second time, Dashiell, you chose to be a cat that was beaten to death with a keyboard.”

  “Not my costume,” I said. “Also, what is your costume?”

  Fox gave me a scandalized look and then, with one arm, made a sweeping gesture to encompass their costume: a dirndl, welding gloves that went to the elbow, and tissue-paper butterfly wings that made it impossible for them to do anything but perch on the edge of the hassock. “I,” Fox announced, “am a human being.”

  Keme and I rolled our eyes at the same time.

  “I think your costume is very nice, Dash,” Indira said. She’d gone for her tweed-and-deerstalker look, and she glanced over at me now as she filled paper cups with hot cider. “Kitty cats are very cute.”

  I hadn’t been going for cute, not exactly. I mean, I wasn’t West. I didn’t have zero body fat and perfectly sculpted muscles. I certainly didn’t have abs. But in a black tee and black jeans and black Chucks, with little black cat ears perched on my head, and for once in my life, my hair was actually doing a thing I could be proud of—well, I thought I looked good. The little keyboard letters CTRL + C glued to the front of my shirt were kind of like a safeguard. If I couldn’t be hot, at least I could be clever, right?

  But I didn’t want to go into all that, so I settled for “Thank you, Indira.”

  Keme made a gagging noise, which immediately made Millie start giggling as she tried to shush him.

  The doorbell rang, and Keme immediately recovered. But I was faster. I grabbed the pumpkin bowl and sprinted for the door, and he let out a wordless shout of outrage as he chased after me. He caught up with me as I started to open the door, and it turned into a wrestling match that resulted in a lot of laugh-shouts of protest (me), weirdly unnecessary teenage boy aggression (Keme), and a lot of mini Charleston Chews spilling onto the floor. Finally, Keme wrenched the bowl away from me, shouldered open the door, and held out the candy, breathing hard.

  Deputy Bobby was standing there with a group of children. The kids were staring with huge eyes. Deputy Bobby looked like he was about to haul me and Keme in for disturbing the peace. He gave us a withering look, took the bowl from Keme, and said to the kids as he turned to them, “This is why some people, even adults, shouldn’t eat too much candy. Here, everybody take two. Oh, George, that is such an awesome chipmunk costume. Are you Alvin? And Emma, are you Wonder Woman? Don’t get me with your lasso!”

  Emma, the Wonder Woman in question, did some excited flailing with the lasso in question. If I hadn’t been wearing my glasses, I probably would have lost an eye.

  A few moments later, Deputy Bobby sent the kids back down the hill to their waiting parents. As little footsteps faded into the night, he straightened and turned back to me.

  He was dressed in a blue uniform, with shiny black shoes that had to be incredibly uncomfortable and a peaked cap. It looked like a lot of polyester. It looked itchy. It looked like it had been packed in plastic and hanging on the pegboard at the Keel Haul General Store. The patch on the sleeve said HAPPY TOWN POLICE DEPARTMENT, and somehow, he’d gotten a little brass plaque for his shirt that said OFFICER BOBBY.

  He was looking at me with a funny expression on his face, and I realized I was staring.

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  I nodded and made myself say, “Hi, Officer Bobby.”

  (Yep. I totally nailed it.)

  His mouth tilted into a smile, and he stretched up to flick the cat ears I was wearing. “Hello, Copy Cat.”

  I forgot about everything else. Literally everything else. Except, maybe, slightly, about how it felt when his hand brushed my hair. “Oh my God, you got it!”

  “Well, it’s not exactly hard—”

  “Fox! I told you it was a good costume! Come on, you have to tell Fox.”

  It was strange how easy the night was after that. Hemlock House was warm and bright and safe. There was plenty of hot cider to drink, not to mention all that candy. Kids came, kids went. Keme ragged on Bobby for going as a police officer, and Bobby, laughing, tried to defend himself by explaining that a deputy and a police officer were two different things (which made all of us groan). And at some point during the night, in the midst of all that laughing and talking and Keme trying to convince me to arm-wrestle him, I realized I was happy, and Hemlock House had become home.

  The trickle of kids slowed, and then it stopped all together. I left some candy on the terrace and locked the front door, and we moved into the billiard room. Somehow, Bobby and I ended up on a settee that was technically big enough for two people, although that was probably only true if one of those people was a fainting Victorian waif and the other was a fainting Victorian maiden. Bobby, so that we’d both be comfortable, stretched one arm out along the back of the settee. Which meant, technically, his arm was behind me. Almost around me.

  “HOW?”

  Here’s a quick tip, totally free: cold showers? They’ve got nothing on Millie.

  “HOW,” Millie asked again, “HAVE YOU NEVER SEEN HOCUS POCUS?”

  “I don’t know,” Keme said. “It’s a kids’ movie.”

  “Oh my God, no. I mean, it’s about kids, yeah, but there’s also this talking cat, and there’s a zombie, oh, and there are WITCHES! It’s the BEST!”

  “What about Scream—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Indira said. “You’ll have nightmares for a week.”

  The look on Keme’s face was priceless.

  “Nightmares,” I said under my breath.

  “Be nice,” Bobby murmured in my ear.

  “Hocus Pocus is great,” Fox said. “Put it on.”

  That seemed to settle the matter for Keme (although, God knows, if I’d tried the same thing, he probably would have put on The Texas Chainsaw Massacre just to spite me). Millie, Fox, and Indira took the chesterfield, and Keme stretched out on the floor, and we started the movie.

  Fox didn’t last long; they kept making a suspicious noise, their head drooping, and then jolting upright. Indira finally offered to drive them home, which Fox accepted. Then Millie stretched out on the couch, and I entertained myself by watching Keme try to sneak glances at her until Bobby poked me in the ribs and gave me a look. Millie went next; after a period of silence that was far too long for her to have been conscious, she sat up groggily, explained she had to be at Chipper early the next morning, and headed out (shaking her head at Bobby’s offer to make sure she got home safely).

  Keme, meanwhile, had gotten glued to the screen.

  “Why are they all so dumb?” he asked.

  “We don’t have to finish it,” I told him.

  “No, don’t turn it off. Millie said they sing a song.”

  My eyebrows must have done some talking for me because Bobby whispered, “Let it go.”

  So, we watched the rest of the movie—if you can call it watching when you’re hyperaware of the arm behind you and in a state of constantly escalating tension because he’s here and he’s right next to you, and oh my God every time he breathes you can feel his chest move against your shoulder.

  When the movie ended, the credits rolled, and Keme’s soft breathing blended with the music. Bobby and I sat there, in the quiet, in the dark. And maybe it was my imagination, but I thought I felt something building, an electric charge that kept bouncing from him to me to him to me, until it felt like I had a ball of lightning spinning in my stomach.

  Bobby sat up and whispered, “I need my arm back.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  He squeezed my thigh in answer as he stood. When he crouched next to Keme, he whispered something, and Keme groaned in protest. Bobby whispered something else, and he helped Keme sit up, then stand, and a moment later, he was easing Keme down on the chesterfield.