She blanched. “I hate dealing with all those reporters. Sometimes I think they’re more vicious and bloodthirsty than the criminals.”

“Actually, to answer your question, the past few days have been quite relaxing,” I said. “No one’s come in and tried to kill me this week.”

“They’re all focused on McAllister right now,” Bria said. “And with good reason. No matter how many times I listen to his confession, I still can’t quite believe he arranged the museum heist and that he almost got away with it. That he would have gotten away with it, if you hadn’t been there.”

“And if Jillian hadn’t been wearing the same dress as I was,” I said in a soft voice.

Jillian’s face flashed in front of my eyes the way it had so often in the past few days. Her warm eyes, her easy laugh, her soft smile. All gone forever—because of me.

“Yeah,” Bria said. “That too. How are you doing with that?”

I shrugged. “Fletcher always taught me to avoid collateral damage. To focus on my target, hit that person, and not involve anyone else before, during, or after my crime. I know that Jillian dying wasn’t my fault—not really—but I still can’t help but feel responsible for it all the same.”

She nodded. “I can understand that. But this is Ashland, Gin. People get hurt all the time in this city. You can’t save everyone.”

I’d told myself that more than once, but it still didn’t keep me from waking up in the middle of the night, the image of Jillian’s shattered face fresh in my mind, and me fighting the sheets twisted around my body, as if I could save her if only I could get free of them.

“McAllister would have still hired Clementine to rob the museum whether you’d been there or not,” Bria continued. “Maybe Jillian would have gotten caught in the crossfire and still died. Maybe it would have been someone else. There’s no way of knowing.”

“Or maybe nobody would have died,” I countered. “Maybe if I’d realized what Clementine and the others were up to, I could have stopped them before things got so out of hand.”

Bria reached over and squeezed my fingers, telling me that she understood my troubled, turbulent thoughts. We were silent for a few moments, then she let go of my fingers and leaned back. She gestured at the cake stand that featured the dessert of the day: a peach pie.

“Is there any chance of me getting a slice of that?” she asked. “And maybe a few other vittles to whet my whistle with?”

I grinned. Bria knew that cooking always helped take my mind off my troubles, and asking for the food was her way of trying to lighten my mood. “Sure thing, baby sister. One fine meal, coming right up.”