“A long time ago. She said Nana and Grandpa never wanted to talk about it, so she stopped asking. She knows less than I do.” He rubs his hands over his thighs.

“Cade. Is that one of the reasons why you want to do this interview?”

“It won’t help me get answers, so no.” He fixes his gaze on me. “I want to do this because it’s the right thing to do.”

Chapter 27: Cade

“Cade!”

What does Mom want now? I glance away from our moonlit beach toward the limestone cliff and the stairs that lead to the inn. Waves slap against the ice, spraying cold water onto my jeans and jacket. I wanted five minutes to figure out how to tell my parents about the interview with Bethany Beshett, but even here I can’t have peace.

I check the time on my phone. Twelve more hours until the article goes live on the Lake Towns Journal website.

I hear Logan’s voice in my head. “That was amazing. We were amazing!” After the interview, I stood on the sidewalk in front of the library, looking up at Logan dancing on the top step, pumping her fists in victory. My grin hid the dread churning in my stomach, and even her hug goodbye when she dropped me off wasn’t enough to vanquish it.

“CADE!”

“I’m coming,” I call.

“I need you inside RIGHT NOW!!!”

With one more glance at the lake, I turn, sweep my flashlight several feet ahead, and sprint up the path I cleared for the wedding party. I mentally run through the chores I finished, trying to figure out what I might have messed up. I can’t think of anything. Mom opens the door wide, letting me pass.

“What’s all the racket?” Nana asks as I follow Mom into the kitchen.

“It’s nothing, Ma,” she says.

“It’s not nothing if you’re hollering like that. You could wake the dead.”

“Everything’s fine. I just need some computer help, that’s all.”

At the mention of computers, Nana frowns and heads toward her bedroom, but not before she murmurs her disapproval. I smile at her, letting her know I’ve got this. The last time Mom freaked out this much was when we received a negative review on TripAdvisor. It was from a woman who complained about a strand of hair she found on the suite’s bathroom floor. I was the one who carried the cleaning supplies and a basket of complimentary goodies to the room at 10:45 p.m. I was the one who scrubbed the bathroom as the woman stood over me with her arms folded across her chest in her sheer nightgown. And that strand of long black hair on the floor? It was hers. But did I point that out? Of course not.