Page 55 of Will Bark for Pizza (Bluebell Springs #1)

FORTY-FOUR

KIRA

The dry rattle of the doorknob left me puzzled. I didn’t remember locking the door to the bookstore apartment. In fact, I distinctly remembered leaving it unlocked so Beckett could paint this week.

I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of tasks we needed to accomplish before our soft opening next week and wanted a quiet escape. Just for a few minutes.

I took a deep breath, but the thoughts ran rampant anyway.

Thankfully, Grandma Connie worked her magic and repaired a severed relationship with one of the major publishers.

Turned out, she had an old friend still working as a book rep, and called in a favor.

It wasn’t as much progress as we hoped, but having some recent releases and bestsellers was certainly better than having none.

The books, however, would arrive before the bookshelves I ordered.

We might only have a day or two to assemble the new shelves and stock them.

It all left me feeling a little . . . dizzy.

Because there was absolutely no time to head to the lake today, I sought the solace of the empty apartment to clear my head.

Except the damn thing was locked.

Maybe Beckett locked it out of habit.

I went back to the office, searching my purse for my set of keys, and headed back up the stairs. But when I inserted my key into the lock, it didn’t fit.

“What the?—”

After a struggle ensued to pull my key out of the lock, I tried the other key. The only other key I had for the bookstore. But it, too, was rejected.

It made no sense.

I’d been using the same keys since I snuck into the bookstore my first night back in town, almost a month ago. Not once did they give me an issue with any of the doors.

Until now.

Did Beckett change the locks?

No. Why would he do that without telling me?

Besides, he wasn’t technically the landlord yet. I doubted Dad would give him authority to change the locks until the sale was final.

I pulled my phone from my back pocket and called Dad.

“Kira, everything okay?”

“My key to the apartment isn’t working.”

“The new one?”

“What new one?”

“I had the locks changed right after Margene . . .” He didn’t finish that sentence; he didn’t need to. “I figured you picked up your keys weeks ago. Otherwise how— Oh, sorry. Gotta run, honey. Need to help Mrs. Cappers with some paint.”

The line went dead before I could say anything more.

New keys ?

I vaguely remembered an odd exchange with Luke that first night he found me in the apartment. But it didn’t make sense. I was one hundred and ten percent certain nothing was unlocked. I used keys to get inside both the back door to the store and the apartment inside.

I hurried down the stairs, making a beeline for the front door, ignoring the half dozen questions shot at me by various people as I rushed by them. I went outside, pulled the door closed, and used my key to lock it.

Or tried to.

But it wouldn’t fit in the lock.

“What the hell?” I muttered.

“Kira?” Lotti asked when I cracked open the door to examine the lock mechanism. “Everything okay? You look a little frazzled.”

“Lotti, can you lock this door when I close it?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.” I pulled the door closed, waited for Lotti to flip the deadbolt, and tried my key again.

Same result.

Lotti waited for my signal to unlock it, looking curious as ever.

“You okay?” she asked. “You look a little green.”

“Kira?” Grandma Connie asked.

“When did Dad change the locks? ”

“Right after he found out Margene left town. Almost two months ago, now. Why?”

I felt my body overheating.

It was a really shitty time for a panic attack.

There had to be a logical explanation. But whatever it might be, my overloaded brain just could not process it.

“Nothing.”

I returned to the office and closed the door, leaning my back against it.

I was already overwhelmed. This was just .

. . too much. My breathing was labored, as though I’d been running.

The truth was there, but I couldn’t seem to accept it.

It was one thing to smell Mom’s perfume from time to time.

Quite another to accept she was playing locksmith from the grave.

The edges of a panic attack clawed its way in, but I fought it down.

I would not break down.

Not here, in front of an audience.

I reached for my purse, knocking over a small framed photo on the desk.

When I went to right it, I froze. The gold frame contained a picture of me in my college graduation outfit, Mom next to me.

Her smile beamed so brightly it was damn near blinding.

She was so happy I got a degree in English Lit, even if I had no intention of teaching.

Back then, I only dabbled with the idea of being an author.

I’d drafted some stories, most of them messy and incoherent.

The degree was a frivolity. The accounting minor was what saved me when I searched for jobs.

“Mom, I don’t understand,” I whispered to the frame as tears threatened to fill my eyes.

I waited, hoping the scent of her perfume would tickle my senses and bring me comfort. But the office smelled as it always had—of old books and a hint of lavender from the air diffuser.

Maybe a quiet drive through the mountains would soothe me.

I shouldered my purse, but before I could sneak out the back door, I ran into Grandma Connie.

“I need some air,” I told her.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah. It’s just . . .” A lot . But I couldn’t complete my sentence without falling apart.

“Be careful,” she warned. “The water is extra choppy today.”

“I’m not?—”

Thelma summoned Grandma Connie to the front counter. I took the opportunity to slip out before anyone else expressed concern, and headed to Ghost Lake.