I nodded again, more slowly this time. Not in complete agreement—because how could you ever be totally and completely one hundred percent sure of anyone other than Rafe?—but I agreed with their basic premise, that Ryan did not rob that bank. And that he didn’t cause the death of that security guard.

When I told them so, their faces lightened the slightest bit. Which broke my heart a little and encouraged me to say, “Matter of fact, I’m so sure Ryan didn’t do anything wrong that I’m going to work on a plan to prove his innocence.”

Mrs. Anderson clapped a hand over her mouth. “You’ll do that?” she asked through her fingers. “For my Ryan?”

I’d do the same thing for anyone I was convinced was innocent of a crime, but sure. “I’ll do what I can,” I promised.

Mrs. Anderson rushed over and gave me a huge hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she whispered into my hair. “You don’t know how much that means to me.”

Keegan said, “Thanks so much. It’s great knowing you’re on our side.”

“I can’t promise anything,” I cautioned.

“Of course not,” Mrs. Anderson said. “But you’re a librarian, so you have to be smart. If you think Ryan’s innocent, then others can’t be far behind.”

“Plus you have Eddie.” Keegan smiled. “And I know he likes Ryan, so that has to be good, right?”

“Sure,” I murmured, trying hard not to laugh hysterically at the notion. “You bet it is.”

And then I started to make a plan.

Chapter 3

It was Sunday night, and I was sitting in the kitchen of Three Seasons, the restaurant owned by my best friend, Kristen. My feet were swinging back and forth and back and forth because the stools were sized to fit the six-foot Kristen and not the five-foot me. Every once in a while the toe of one of my feet would bump the side of the stainless-steel island, which normally would earn me a steely blue-eyed glare. Tonight, however, Kristen was preoccupied with two tasks: finishing our traditional Sunday dessert of crème brûlée and complaining about her physical state.

“How did I get this big?” she asked, slapping her very pregnant midsection with the hand that wasn’t wielding a small flamethrower. “I’m huge! The size of a house.”

I held up my thumb and eyed it, pretending I was an artist making precise perspective measurements. “Have to be a small house.”

She triggered the flame and waved it about. “A cow, then.”

“Cows weigh over a thousand pounds.” At least I was pretty sure they did. If I remembered, I’d look it up later on. “Last I checked you were nowhere near that big.”

“You’re not going to let me wallow in my extra-large-sized despair, are you?”

“Nope.”