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feeling of dread creeping into my gut. “Has something happened?”
    Paul stood there a long moment. He’d taken off his hat and was fiddling with it. The brown of his hair was slowly turning a dirty blond during these warmer months. What I wouldn’t give to run my fingers through that hair. Maybe once he delivered the bad news, he could make me feel better by taking me to my morning shower.
    Instead, he just stood there, staring at his hat. He opened his mouth a few times as if he was going to speak, but nothing came out. Definitely not a good sign.
    â€œPaul?” I said. My hands were starting to shake. “Is everything all right?”
    He shook his head.
    My mind wanted to go to the worst possible places, but then I remembered Cardboard Dad sitting in my bedroom. A smile found its way onto my face as my shoulders eased.
    â€œLook, I can explain . . .”
    Paul held up a hand. “Don’t,” he said. “Not yet. Not here.”
    I frowned. I mean, how much trouble could one person get into for stealing a cardboard cutout from her own store? I knew Rita loved the thing a little more than what was healthy, but to call the police over it? It didn’t make sense.
    â€œKrissy,” he said with a heavy sigh that seemed to take all of the strength right out of him. “I’m going to have to ask you to come down to the station.”
    â€œWhat?” I gawped at him. “It’s not that big of a deal!”
    He looked up at me. “Don’t say anything until we get there, okay?”
    I nodded, feeling light-headed. He held a hand out to me and I walked over. He gently took my arm and started to lead me to the front door, despite the fact I wasn’t wearing shoes.
    This can’t be good.
    â€œCan you at least tell me what’s going on?” I asked as we stepped outside.
    Paul led me over to the cruiser and opened the back door for me—the back! I slid inside without protest.
    â€œThere’s been a murder,” he said. “And it happened at Death by Coffee.”

4
    There’s something unnerving about sitting alone in a police interrogation room—even if it does look more like a lounge than a place where hardened criminals are questioned. My foot jiggled up and down, and I kept looking at the wall behind me as if there was something more than a dartboard there. I swear I could feel eyes on me. Did they make see-through walls like those one-way mirrors? It sure felt like it.
    Paul didn’t zip strip me up like I thought he would. He didn’t answer my questions on the ride over, either. After I gave up trying to talk, we rode all the way to the police station in silence. He spoke to me again only once we were inside the interrogation room, where he told me to sit tight before walking out.
    I eyed the coffee machine across the room. The pot was halfway empty, and I knew it had probably sat there for the last two hours, but I was thirsty and headachy. I hadn’t had time for my morning coffee, which was usually a recipe for disaster.
    Eventually, the door opened and Chief Patricia Dalton entered. She was flanked by her son, Paul, and the one cop in the entire world I didn’t want to see right then, Officer John Buchannan. He was grinning as if he’d been the one to apprehend me, which seemed to be his normal expression anytime I got myself into trouble. He’d caught not just me, but Paul, at the scene of a crime, poking around where we shouldn’t have been. He’d arrested us with much gusto, but we’d gotten off pretty easily—probably because Paul is the chief’s son—which had to rankle Buchannan to no end. Ever since then, he’d had it in for me.
    I stood as they entered, and opened my mouth to speak but had no idea what to say. Proclaiming my innocence right off the bat was probably the wrong thing to do, especially since I had no idea whether they viewed me as a suspect or not. As far as