The parents always time their tactics with surgical precision.

Mrs. Hale pulls me inside but not before I catch a snippet of their conversation.

“You must be Jared.” Mother stops him with a gentle hand on his arm, the smile on her face lighting up her eyes. “I’m Ruby’s aunt Leah, and this is my husband, David.”

Jared’s brows lift and then Mrs. Hale is taking my arm and handing me a tray of cookies, forcing me to look away. They’re pudding cookies, she tells me—but she calls them “puddin’ cookies.”

I play it cool, like everything is perfectly normal, while talking to Mrs. Hale and simultaneously eavesdropping on the conversational disaster happening just outside the open door.

In my imagination they’re telling him the truth—well, their version of the truth—about all of my lies and deceptions, begging him to help them get back their daughter while Jared gapes at me in horror. But that’s just my imagination. In reality, the words are normal chitchat and introductions.

Mrs. Hale tells me she’s baking again. A fleeting glimmer of pride flickers through me despite my inattention and anxiety. I know she hasn’t baked since her husband died because of the guilt she felt. She’s finally moving on, and I wonder if I had something to do with her progress. The feeling is short-lived.

“Ruby, darling, you didn’t tell us you had so many wonderful friends.” Mother steps up next to me, putting an arm around my shoulders and squeezing me lightly, the sincerest smile covering her face.

She introduces herself to Mrs. Hale and I meet Jared’s eyes.

He has a question in his gaze, probably wondering why I didn’t mention my relatives were in town, or why I haven’t mentioned them at all, ever.

I try to view them through his eyes, what details he must be taking in.

They’ve dressed the part of rich, middle-aged tourists. Mother’s linen pants are professionally pressed and spotless, her shoulder-length dark hair flowing softly around her face. Father’s polo shirt is appropriately expensive—as are the brand-name sunglasses perched on his head, covering some of his salt-and-pepper hair.

If I didn’t know them so well, I might think they were an attractive couple.

“I have to get to work,” Jared finally says, releasing me from the misery of being in the same room with him and them. “It was nice to meet you both.” He gives me a small smile and a nod but doesn’t have a chance to say anything further because Father speaks.

“We have to get together soon for dinner or drinks. Do you play golf?” He claps a hand on Jared’s upper back, like they’re already friends or something, and walks with him to the door.

Meanwhile, Mother is schmoozing with Mrs. Hale. She’s already helped herself to a cookie, and she’s savoring it and gushing about how amazing it is and how Mrs. Hale simply must share the recipe.

Poor Mrs. Hale, she hardly knows what’s hit her. She takes the compliments with a bright smile and flushing face. She’s already so much under Mother’s spell she thinks it’s her own idea to leave the shop and let the family do their catching up, and then she’s out the door, still smiling while she walks away.

Once Jared and Mrs. Hale are gone, I turn to the elephants in the room. Except they’re less like elephants and more like hyenas, eating their young and killing for sport.

“What do you want?” I ask from behind the cash register, putting the counter between us like it’ll protect me.

“Is that any way to greet your dearest parents?” Father asks, his expression wounded.

“The place is . . . cozy.” Mother flicks an invisible piece of dust from her arm. “You couldn’t have done better?” One perfectly plucked brow lifts in my direction.

I remain silent. They wouldn’t understand.

Father sidles over to my side, leaning over the counter and getting a look at the cash register. “As far as cons go, this psychic farce isn’t the best deal.” He frowns at the antique-looking setup and then turns his head to face me. “Although hooking up with the cop will be good for us. We’ll have an in on the local crime scene.”

“Is he doing any business on the side?” She’s asking if he’s using his position of authority to make extra money. Illegally.

I don’t answer.

“You didn’t tell your little boyfriend about us.” Father pulls a small metal case out of his pocket and flicks it open, pulling out a toothpick.

“I haven’t had time.”

He sticks the toothpick in the corner of his mouth. A habit he’s had for as long as I can remember. If he’s not smoking, he has one of those damn mint toothpicks in his mouth. “Really? Even though you spent all yesterday together? It was what you promised to do, when we let you take Paige, you remember.”

“I remember.”

“It doesn’t matter. We’ll tell you now.”

Mother cuts in. “Since you spent all day yesterday prancing around the beach with the cop, we’ve been doing a bit of work around town. There’re so many options here. Really, this town is perfect. Ninety percent of the population is retired.”

“Like your neighbor.” Father nods in the direction of Mr. Bingel’s, but his eyes stay focused on me, gauging my reaction.

“He doesn’t have any money,” I say.

“Sure he does. Not like our normal marks, maybe, but he’s got enough. He’s a retired widower. No living children. And his son was in the military. They pay pretty well when someone dies on active duty. I bet that house is completely paid off. He’s got something stashed away.”

I struggle to maintain a blank expression, not wanting them to see how their words affect me. Mr. Bingel isn’t some haughty millionaire or faceless mark. He’s my friend. “He just adopted a couple of kids. I bet there’s not much money left.”

It’s a weak argument, and I know I’ve made a mistake as soon as the words leave my mouth. He’s circling the pack and hunting for the lame, the isolated, the weak. And by trying to protect Mr. Bingel, I’ve just put my head between his bone-crushing teeth.

Father’s face is hard, his eyes sharp and assessing. “You don’t get to debate this. We’re going to tell you what you’re going to do, and you’re going to do it. Or we expose you and take Paige. Even if you don’t serve jail time, you definitely won’t see Paige ever again. Courts favor parents in these circumstances, and even though we tried so hard to help you . . .” He tsks and shakes his head. “You just won’t change. Lying, stealing, and kidnapping your sister. They won’t let you live within a mile of a school once we’re done with you.”

“Crossing state lines with a minor you don’t have custody of is a federal charge,” Mother puts in, her face smug. “And that’s all before they realize you’re not Ruby. You’ve been defrauding the cops. No one will believe you’re not the bad guy.”

My stomach drops with their words. There has to be some way out of this.

“Are you going to tell me what you want me to do then? The neighbor isn’t going to be enough for you, I’m sure.” I take a slow breath, bracing myself for their verdict.

They exchange another glance and then Father speaks. “He isn’t. But if you multiply it by a hundred.” He tilts his head and nods. “Then we might be getting somewhere. The cover story is we’re running a private non-profit that organizes charity events and fundraisers for various causes. Your job is to help us set it up here locally and get the townspeople involved. We need you to extend the trust they have for you to us.”

“So that’s it? Tell people about you so they trust you?”

“For now.” Father smiles at me.

“Fine. Will you answer a question for me, then?”

“What’s your question?” Father asks.

“How did you find us?”

They exchange a glance.

“It wasn’t hard to find the dealer where you bought the car,” Mother says.

“And then it was only a matter of tracking two girls traveling alone together in a crap car across the country,” Father says. “It wasn’t hard. People tend to remember two pretty girls like you. Especially when you tell them the youngest has been kidnapped.”

My jaw clenches at the word.

“But it’s cute you tried.”

There’s more to the story than what they’re telling me. They didn’t track me across the country on their own. They’re great at reading and working people, but they aren’t technologically savvy and they aren’t trackers. Someone they hired, maybe?

“We’ll be in touch.”

They leave. As they slide into the sleek black Mercedes parked across the street and pull away from the curb, all the tension leaves my body and I slump against the counter.

It’s just like them to draw out the terror as long as they possibly can.

I can’t let them get away with this. But what do I do?

I have to think, but it’s so hard to form coherent thoughts when my heart is racing and my world is ending.

This whole thing . . . it isn’t quite like them. Even with my involvement and the trust I’ve gained within the community, it will still have to be a quick con. Rushing makes people sloppy and that’s when the cops swoop in. They taught me that. So why the rush? Why do they need money so quickly? To pay someone off? Someone scarier than them? They have developed some shady friends along the way, and it wouldn’t surprise me to learn they owe someone a debt or that they’ve finally pissed the wrong person off.

They even came inside the shop and talked openly about their scheme. They never do that. Ever. They’re always worried about bugs indoors—and not the creepy-crawly kind. See? Sloppy. But this time, I’ll be the one swooping in, not the cops. If they’re so rushed that they’re hatching their nefarious plans here in the shop, I’ll bug Ruby’s shop myself.

The bell over the door jangles, and I start at the noise.

“Why didn’t you tell me you and Jared had gone public?” It’s Tabby. She’s wearing a sundress and a white floppy hat with giant sunglasses.

“Um.” My brain is still catching up with everything.

She moves toward me, taking off her hat and glasses and tossing them on the counter. “Why did I have to hear about you canoodling on the beach with Jared from Mrs. Olsen?”

I swallow and take a few quick seconds to pull myself together.

I can compartmentalize with the best of them.

Act normal.

“We were hardly canoodling. What does that word even mean anyway?”

Her eyes roll upward and she sighs. “You know, smooching, necking, snogging, petting—”

“Okay, there was absolutely no petting happening on the beach. Paige was there.”

“So petting would have been on the table if she wasn’t?”

“Petting in public is never on the table.”

“Such a prude.” She wrinkles her nose at me. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Um.” I’m surprised at the subject change. “Don’t you want to hear about Jared?”

“I get it.” She shrugs. “You’re in love. It’s obvious.”

I laugh and avoid eye contact while heat creeps up my face. “We’re hardly in love. We aren’t even officially dating.”

“You’re not even officially dating? What do you mean?”

“I mean we haven’t even talked about that.”

She sighs and shakes her head. “Men are so dumb sometimes.”

“It’s okay. We’re just, you know, hanging out or whatever.”

“Right.” She snorts. “Like Ben and I were hanging out? Take it from someone who’s been there. Get the man to commit before you give up your cookies.”

I flush.

Her mouth pops open. “It’s too late, isn’t it? He already ate the cookies.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Amongst other things.”

Her eyes nearly bug out of her head. “Did he eat the cookies with the milk?”

“Wait, what are we talking about here? I thought I understood your euphemisms but now I’m lost. What’s the difference between the cookies and the milk?”

“If you have to ask, then there’s no point in explaining it. So, are you free tonight or will you be too busy with the free cookie handouts?”

I have no idea. Jared hasn’t said anything about hanging out tonight. He might not want to come over. We’ve already spent the last few nights and days together. What if he’s sick of me?

When I don’t immediately answer, Tabby talks into my silence. “Awesome. We’re going out.”

“We are?”

“Yep. I’ll come by at six to get ready.”

“Are we going to Ben’s?”

“Hell no.”

“What happened? Didn’t you guys have a date?” I almost forgot about it, with all of the craziness of the last few days. Ben asked Tabby out on mocktail night and she had been excited to go on a real date with him.

“Dude.” She holds up her hands. “Our date? Our first date? He took me bowling.”

“What’s wrong with bowling?”

“A better question would be what isn’t wrong with bowling? I mean, for a first date, it’s just not done.”

“It’s not?”

“No.” She looks at me like I’ve got a bowling ball for a brain. “The food is terrible, it’s loud, and you have to wear those shoes that don’t go with anything and make you look like a clown.”

“I guess that isn’t so fun then.”

“It’s not. But it’s okay. We’re not fighting. After we went bowling,” she grimaces, “he said he would take me somewhere nicer next time, but I’m making him work for it. Basically, he’s wooing me and I’m being appropriately unavailable.”

“Ah. Like in the wild. The male chases the female, and the female does some kind of dance ritual so he has to catch her.”

“This isn’t a dance ritual. It’s more of a, you-deserve-to-suffer-for-being-such-an-asshole ritual.”

“Well done.”

Our conversation is cut short when some customers come in. Tabby lingers for a few minutes to chat when I’m not ringing up purchases or answering questions. Eventually, she leaves, promising to return around six.

Once the rush of shoppers dies down, I’m left alone again with thoughts of the parents and what I’m going to do. I run through our conversation in my head, trying to remember their exact words and motions. Was there anything I missed? Did they drop any hints about what they’ve been up to? Other than this lame charity scam. They want to organize some kind of donation and take people’s money, but it’s got to be more than that. I wonder if there’s a way I can gain some more insight about what they’re planning.

Children’s laughter filters in from behind the house.

When I peek out the back window, Mr. Bingel and the boys are in his backyard. The boys are running through the sprinklers, squealing and laughing, while Mr. Bingel sits in a lawn chair with a book on his lap, occasionally glancing up when the boys yell at him.

I smile. They look like they’re having fun.

How did the parents know anything about Mr. Bingel and his circumstances? Have they spoken with him?

I leave the back door open so I can hear the bell above the shop door if anyone comes in.

“Hey, Mr. Bingel,” I call over our shared fence. It’s not a tall fence, maybe four feet. The white paint is chipped and peeling. His chair isn’t far from me, only a few feet from the fence line.

He nods in my direction, as stoic as ever.

“Hi, Miss Ruby!” Gary calls out. Both boys wave in my direction, their dark hair soaked and dripping.

“Watch what I can do!” Gary proceeds to do a cartwheel through the water spurting out of the sprinkler, his legs flailing uncertainly in the air before he lands on wobbly feet.

“Nice job!” I call out. I stand there for a minute.

Mr. Bingel is giving me the silent treatment, again.

I can see I’ll have to work the information out of him. “How have you been, Mr. Bingel?”

“Just fine, thank you.”

And we drop back into silence. “I’ve been fine, thanks for asking.”

He scowls.

“The shop’s been busy,” I continue. “Lots of new people. Mostly tourists here for the summer.”

We’re quiet again for a minute, but the boys shrieking and playing in the background help ease the silence.

Drawing conversation from Mr. Bingel—without Jared present—is like trying to conjure a master key for the Federal Reserve out of thin air. But I’m not going to let it stand in my way.

Since beating around the bush with small talk isn’t working, I jump right to it. I need to get to the point before more customers show up at the shop.

“My aunt and uncle are in town for a bit. They mentioned meeting someone older with two small children, and I thought it might be you. Do you remember meeting them? They’re both good-looking, midforties. She has dark hair and he looks sort of like a younger Liam Neeson.”

“Oh, yes. Leah and David.”

Bingo. “So you’ve met.”

“They came over to introduce themselves the other day and invited me to help with their charity project.”

“That’s so . . . generous of them. So like them.” The words are like dirt in my mouth. “They’re really involved in their causes.” I notice his word choice. They invited him to help. Classic con move, making someone feel like they’re needed.

“It was interesting. I’d never heard of a nonprofit that acts as a clearinghouse for other charities, raising money for local and national causes all at once. But they told me their real money goes to the injured veteran’s project.”

For a second I think I might lose my cool, but I manage to rein it in.

The scam itself is pretty disgusting, but even more concerning is how much they know.

They know about Mr. Bingel’s son, how he died in the military, and they’re using it against him.

Of course they are.

Why do I have to be related to them? They’re going to prey on the kindness of the people of Castle Cove. I can see it now. They have set it up perfectly. They can pick and choose who to target and how to sock them right where it hurts the most, right where they care. With their expensive clothes and charming personalities—trotted out whenever it’s advantageous to them—they’ll have everyone opening their wallets in no time at all.

With my assistance.

“Wow,” I say. “That’s so cool.”

I doubt there’s any more information I can glean from him, and I can’t continue this line of conversation without punching something, so I change the subject to the weather and the boys and what they’ll be doing over summer break.

When the bell of the shop door rings in the distance, I make my excuses and hustle back. I’m not sure what to do with this new information, but I know I can’t let them get away with this.