If that keeps up, much bigger sharks than WBBJ will be swimming in our little pond again, trying to take a bite out of me.

I click the link to the GoFundMe and nearly choke on my zucchini.

We’ve already received more than twice our donation goal. Seventeen thousand four hundred dollars, and some change. There’s no way all of that came from the good people of Clifford.

It appears, whether I like it or not, that the Crimson Cryer is a bona fide celebrity.

On the bright side, we have plenty of money for Lullaby Doe’s funeral. And I don’t even care that Sophia Nelson will get credit for the fundraiser.

Wait, yes I do. No one’s accusing her of being a baby killer. A little good press could go a long way for me. But I know better than to push my luck with karma. Or the media.

The front door opens as I’m setting the empty leftover dish in the sink, and my mother comes in dragging her feet.

“Hey!” I call, leaning over the kitchen island so she can see me.

“Hey.” She drops her keys in the bowl on the coffee table, then she comes into the kitchen. “What are you doing up?”

There are bags under her eyes, and those little baby hairs around her face have long since won the battle against whatever product keeps them in place for the first half of her workday.

“Couldn’t sleep. So I thought I’d eat.”

“Oh, to be sixteen again.”

“Careful what you wish for,” I warn her.

When she was sixteen, there was no social media “justice” and no viral death threats.

She sinks onto the right-hand bar stool and scrapes at a dried bit of sauce on the island. “What was this?”

“Lemon garlic chicken with zucchini noodles.”

My mother’s grimace looks eerily familiar. Why is it that I see the resemblance between us only when something unpleasant crosses her mind?

“It was surprisingly good. I just had the last of it. But I’m fine with letting Landry think you ate it.”

“Agreed.” She folds her arms on the island, heedless of the dried sauce, and leans over to lay her forehead on them. “I’m too tired to go to bed.”

“Why were you out so late? Was there a break in the case?”

I don’t expect her to answer. And maybe she’s not planning to. But then I pull out the left-hand bar stool and she looks up, surprised, when I sink onto it.

“Actually, as it turns out, there is no case.”

“What does that mean?”

Her brows dip and she presses her lips together. I can practically see her internal debate as she tries to decide whether or not she can trust me.

“The coroner’s report came back,” she finally says, twisting on her bar stool to face me. “The baby died without ever taking a breath.”