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Tara watched Amelia storm off, her shoulders stiff and her head down. The whole scene had been absurd: Amelia flailing, the lemonade showering an unsuspecting victim, the collective gasp of the crowd. Tara hadn’t meant to laugh. It had just happened.

But the way Amelia had looked at her afterwards... It felt like Tara had kicked a puppy.

‘What is wrong with me?’ Tara muttered under her breath, dragging a hand through her raven hair as she turned away from the path Amelia had disappeared down.

The square was alive with chatter when she returned. People were still buzzing with energy, some of them laughing as they mimicked Amelia’s graceless tumble or swapped exaggerated versions of the story.

But Tara wasn’t laughing now. Her stomach hurt.

But then she realised something. This was an opportunity. She was unleashed and had the perfect cover to ask questions. The application. Plus, everyone had had a day to accept her presence and their current pickle. It was time to dig.

Tara struck up conversations here and there, her questions carefully phrased. A few regarded her like shit on their shoe, but some people were eager to talk about the community’s successes: their self-sufficiency, their traditions, the way they rallied together. It was impressive. Frustratingly impressive.

The pattern repeated itself as she flitted from conversation to conversation. Solhaven was too neat, too wholesome. No one seemed to have a bad word to say, and every thread she tugged unravelled into nothing.

Until she overheard the latter half of a question that stopped her in her tracks.

‘…Harriet’s shed?’ a young woman asked an older lady, her voice low but carrying just enough curiosity to pique Tara’s interest.

Tara lingered near the stall they were browsing, pretending to examine a basket of misshapen potatoes as their conversation unfolded.

‘The one with the blue roof? I suppose she must keep tools in there. Or supplies.’

‘Supplies for what?’ the younger woman asked, her tone full of mischief. ‘It’s not like Harriet ever has anything to do with the workshops or the gardens. And I’ve never seen her go in or out of it.’

‘Well, it must be something practical,’ the older lady said with a shrug, though her tone carried less conviction now. ‘Why else would you keep a shed off the path locked? She must be protecting the children from poking around and getting hurt.’

The younger woman hesitated, glancing around as if checking who might be listening, before leaning closer. ‘What if it’s not tools at all?’ she whispered.

The older lady snorted. ‘What else would it be?’

The younger woman’s lips twitched into a mischievous smile. ‘Harriet’s first husband?’

The older lady gasped, her hand flying to her chest. ‘Now, then! That’s uncalled for!’

‘I’m just saying,’ the younger woman said with a laugh, ‘we never did find his body.’

‘Because the poor man drowned!’ the older lady shot back, her voice rising. ‘He went out to sea, and that was the end of it. You know as well as I do!’

The younger woman laughed harder, clearly enjoying the scandalised reaction.

Tara’s pulse quickened. A locked shed, tucked away and shrouded in mystery. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

And something was precisely what Tara needed right now. Something to chase, something to focus on, something that wasn’t the memory of Amelia’s hurt face.

Her fingers tightened around the basket in front of her as the thrill of the hunt pushed aside everything else. Whatever was in that shed, Tara would find out.