And then—scratching at the front door. Captain? His high-pitched whine a moment later answered that question.

Lilian cocked her head to one side. “Kinda wish I hadn’t just brought up the ghost.”

“There’s no ghost.”

Lilian didn’t roll her eyes this time. “A burglar?”

“Or someone having car trouble.” He started for the stairs, ignoring the prickle of unease weighing his steps. Because there was no reason for it—none at all. It was just the long day getting to him. Or maybe too many long days in a row. Maybe someday he’d actually take a vacation. Take a cue from Wilder, who never had a problem ditching town and gallivanting off on one adventure or another.

Not that the guy was technically gallivanting now. No, he was off in Chicago tracking down a woman named Sydney Rose. Neil halted at the bottom of the stairs. “Did Maggie talk to you about . . .” He wasn’t even sure how to finish that question without doubt crowding every word.

Turned out he didn’t have to. Lilian nodded. “Gonna guess you’re not any more excited about it than I am.”

No, but what could they do? Maggie was everything good and kind and wonderful. But when it came to her lost granddaughter, there was no getting through to her.

He moved through the dim entryway, the car’s headlights cutting circles of muted light through the dark, Captain still scratching from outside. He reached for the door—

But Lilian’s palm on his arm stopped him. “It’s the middle of the night. I’m not sure wandering out there when we don’t know who it is, is smart.”

“We’re not wandering anywhere. You stay here.”

“But—”

He pulled open the door and Captain bounded in. “Hey, buddy. What’s got you so—”

Before the question was out, the engine growled to life again and the car’s tires spun against the gravel drive. It veered in a sharp angle, headlights swinging away from the house, until it jolted forward and disappeared down the road.

Cold air bustled in from outside and Captain brushed against his leg.

“That was . . .” Lilian whispered. “Weird.”

Very weird.

Sydney never should’ve let herself look up Muir Farm.

She couldn’t tug her gaze from her laptop, open in front of her on the bakery counter, her half-eaten caramel roll pushed aside. The yellow house filling her screen was like something from a storybook—large porch and quaint gingerbread eaves, white shutters and trim. And goodness, it was right on the coast. She’d already read the short description below the image three times. Muir Farm—a blueberry farm, of all things.

“You have to go.”

Sydney sputtered on her coffee—Nikola’s signature hazelnut vanilla blend, hot enough to scorch Sydney’s throat, her coughing drawing a gape from the teenage girl working the bakery’s cash register this busy Saturday morning.

How long had Nikola been staring at Sydney staring at her screen?

Her friend’s expression fairly sparkled from the other side of the counter, her thick, black hair braided and coiled around her head and her dark eyeliner emphasizing her gray eyes. “To Maine, I mean. Obviously, you have to go.”