The sooner she could escape from all of it.

Despite her time in the shower, the whirr of the blow dryer, and then the rattle she made in the kitchen getting coffee and toast, neither mother nor even sound emerged from the master bedroom. Once dressed, complete with Christmas apron and striped stocking cap, Bailey let herself out the front door, resigned to the next resort of spending yet another day in sole charge of the store.

Her feet stuttered to a halt. The next resort would have to wait until she first made contact with the nitwit who’d left a refrigerator-sized wooden carton on the street, directly behind her Passat.

The folded invoice inside the plastic sleeve stapled to the pine slats confirmed her unluck was holding…the address was that of Mrs. Jacobson. If Bailey was going to do all that getting on and tackling she had planned, she first would have to knock on the one door she particularly didn’t want to open.

Her feet dragged as she headed down the sidewalk and up the front walk of the other house. She might have excused herself that it was too early in the morning to disturb any occupants, but the unmistakable mingled scent of coffee and bacon had made its way to the front porch. Someone was up and cooking breakfast at the Jacobsons’.

Taking a breath, Bailey rapped on the wood. It didn’t take long to hear the approach of footsteps on the other side. The door swung open.

Itwon’tbeFinn itwon’tbeFinn itwon’tbeFinn.

It…wasn’t?

The T-shirt was the same, the broken-down blue jeans, the battered motorcycle boots. But this wasn’t a teenage juvenile delinquent. This looked more like an adult delinquent, someone who spent time on a chain gang, or bounced other bad guys out of rowdy bars, or ran security for Hell’s Angels events.