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The whispers. The looks.

That’s when they don’t pretend not to see you.

I didn’t care.

Not anymore. What could any of them say that hadn’t been said? Behind my back, then to my face, and finally in theCopenhagen Herald. I didn’t care what they thought before. I sure as hell didn’t care what they thought after I’d been exonerated.

I cared about the dog, though.

Freyja. My four-year-old golden retriever.

She’d run away two days earlier. Just too lonely after Astrid, I guess. Malcolm was apologetic, but it wasn’t really his fault. He had his hands full with the funeral arrangements and a company in freefall. Even so, he offered to help me look for her.

Our annual average snowfall is about forty-four inches here in Little Copenhagen. Hard to imagine Malcom in his fifteen-hundred dollar suit out there in the snow, tacking up Lost Dog posters, but it’s the thought that counts.

I stuck my last Reward Offered for Lost Dog poster on the bulletin board at Jensen’s Feed Store, adding Freyja to the photo line-up of free kittens, free ducklings, puppies for sale, and farrier for hire.

“That’s your priority? A dog?” Carl Jensen muttered behind the counter.

There was a time in my life when I’d been able to laugh almost anything off. But that was a long time ago. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that not everyone believed that “charges dropped” equaled “exonerated.” There are conspiracy theorists everywhere, even in a cute little town that looked like a Thomas Kinkade collectible.

I turned from the giant scrapbook page that served as a bulletin board. “With nights dropping down to nine degrees? Yeah, finding my dog is a priority.” I walked toward the counter, stepping around the giant fiberglass Christmas tree with animal ornaments, the heavy bags of dog food and cat food and horse pellets adorned with red bows. “Why? What do you think should be my priority, Mr. Jensen?”

Jensen had one of those old-baby faces. Bulging blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and a peevish little mouth. He stared at me, then popped the drawer on his cash register and started counting money. His back to me, he said, “None of my business.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear that.”

He turned and glared. “I said, it’s none of my business what you do.”

“Thanks for saying so. And thanks for letting me put my poster up.”

He continued to glare at me. Warily.

Yeah, Jensen was one of those people who believed I was getting away with murder. Maybe because he really did believe I’d killed Tom Peyton, or maybe because somewhere along the line, I’d done something to offend him. I admit it, before I was charged with killing my boss at Bredahl Cookies and Cakes, I’d been pretty oblivious to other people. Not mean. Not rude. Not intentionally. Just…oblivious.

But there were still advantages to belonging to one of the wealthiest families in northwest Wisconsin—and by far the town’s largest employer. Jensen might take my poster down after I left, but he wasn’t going to confront me. And he probably wouldn’t take the poster down, either, because he wouldn’t want to risk losing the Bredahl account. Minus Freyja, there were still four hunting dogs and five horses back home that had to eat.

“Merry Christmas,” I said and walked out of the feedstore.

But I was shaking as I climbed inside my car.

I don’t like conflict. I’m not good at it. You’d have thought eleven months in County would have toughened me up. Not so much. It taught me how to fake it, though.

According to the Chamber of Commerce, Little Copenhagen isa hidden gem nestled in the heart of northwestern Wisconsin. A charming village that embodies the essence of Scandinavian heritage and traditions and an inviting atmosphere that captivates visitors from near and far.

Mostly from far, because, if you live here, you know appearances are deceiving.

Although, full disclosure, I didn’t realize that until I started dating Officer Raleigh Jackson.

Anyway, the generic Chamber of Commerce script isn’t wrong. The village was founded in 1845 by Danish immigrants, and it’s pretty and picturesque, especially around the holidays, when it could pass for an Alpine village competing for a slot in an Advent calendar.

Six days before Christmas, you couldn’t take three steps without bumping into a giant inflatable reindeer or falling over a mini forest of resin candy canes. Everywhere you looked there was evergreen garland and tiny twinkling lights.Thousandsof twinkling lights woven around trees, lamp posts, and storefronts, casting a soft and inviting glow over the entire town. The crisp, cold air was sweet with the smell of cinnamon and pine and cocoa.

Anyway, was it weird that eleven months after being sequestered from the world, I didn’t have any trouble driving, but I couldn’t figure out what to do in a grocery store?

For one thing, the previously mentioned looks and whispers. To think I used to like people.

But more than that, the overwhelming possibilities, the staggering number of choices. For crying out loud,twenty-five brands of vodka? I could feel my heart speeding up, my forehead and underarms getting damp. The rational part of my brain tried to remind me that I was just feeling flustered by the idea of being able to eat whatever I wanted—drink whatever I wanted—whenever I wanted to the extent I wanted. Or not eat at all. Which was more likely by the second.