Finn slowed, turned into a gravel lot, and parked. I peered out the window at the structure before us. The two-story clapboard building might have been a home or perhaps a hunting cabin, once upon a time. Although it was obviously old, the building sported a fresh coat of white paint, with the shutters trimmed in a pale green.

Smaller, matching outbuildings squatted next to the main structure, connected to it by short, covered walkways.

Wooden steps led up to a front porch that was even wider than Jo-Jo’s. The porch ran the length of all three buildings. Rocking chairs lined either side of the front door, along with barrels topped with checkerboards. The tin sign mounted above the main entrance gleamed like a new nickel in the sun. Country Daze, it read in green paint that matched the shutters. The roofs of all three buildings were also tin, the kind that made a slow, steady rain sound like a classical sonata.

The parking lot—if you wanted to call it that and not just loose gravel, curved around the store like a crescent moon. A stop sign squatted off to the right, and the road came to a T, forcing you to go right or left. One of the road signs pointed the way back to the interstate and declared that this stretch of pavement was part of some scenic, tourist-trap highway. The other sign featured an arrow and the words Dawson No. 3. Less than a mile away. Interesting. I might have to go check out the coal mine, after I met the illustrious Warren T. Fox.

We got out of the car. Underneath my boots, the parking lot gravel vibrated with the sounds of traffic and tires continually rolling across it. A low growl that told me the stones had seen a lot of people and cars go by in their time. Nothing sinister, just the everyday facts of life.

A smile brightened Violet Fox’s face and softened her eyes, chasing away some of the lingering shadows from last night.

“You really love this place, don’t you?” I asked.

She nodded. “My parents died when I was ten. My grandfather took me in and raised me. I’ve been helping him with the store ever since. It’s like my second home, you know?”

Violet Fox and I were more alike than she realized, because I did know. Because I felt the same way about the Pork Pit. That’s why I’d reacted so badly, so defensively, when Jonah McAllister had come calling today—because he wasn’t just threatening my business, my livelihood, he was threatening my home as well. A piece of my heart. The last piece of Fletcher Lane that I had, since the old man was dead and gone and had left me nothing else but riddles to solve.

Violet started to walk ahead to the store, but I grabbed her arm.

“Stay behind me.”

“Why?” she asked.