Page 78 of Trigger Happy

I know what I use bleach for, so I do a quick search on my phone. Do you use bleach to make candles? And click the first online forum. CandleCurious90210 says, DON’T. Bleach is chlorine and chlorine fumes become deadly when heated.

“If you’ve been making candles your whole life, you’d probably know that, Bobbi,” I say, crouching down to study the floor. I sniff the air until I find where the scent is strongest. There’s a stainless-steel drain right in the center of the workshop that’s sloped toward the ground.

“What would she be draining?” I say, smelling the metal grate. My eyes start watering because of how strong the bleach scent is there.

I pull out my phone and open Onyx. There are no new messages, just the same note in the encrypted messaging thread.

Need more evidence.

I exhale through my nose, angle the camera, and take a few photos of the candle mason jars. I’m uploading them when my phone vibrates with a text.

HUBS

I checked it out online and our fave jewelry place is closed for Livestock Appreciation Day. You can’t make this shit up. They open again on Tuesday. Want a running partner?

Irritation fizzles under my skin. The shop is closed until Tuesday? I mean, yes, it’s the shoulder season, but they don’t even open on Monday? At least he’s sticking to the code, but I don’t want his help. Not after this morning.

ME

No.

And because I don’t want him to think I’m still irritated, I add: thx

The delivered bubble pops up, but there’s no read receipt. It’s infuriating how he never turns them on.

HUBS

that’s all I get? Not even a thanks all spelled out?

I don’t bother responding, but he texts back anyway.

HUBS

Fine. Going fishing with Arch instead. Text if you need more black lace panties

With a huff, I go back to my snooping, checking every nook and cranny for trapdoors or hidden levers, but of course it’s not that easy. Except, that drain has to go somewhere, so I head back outside and examine the flower beds again.

“Wait…” I muse, remembering what she said.

I hate gardening. It hurts my knees, and the dirt is such a pain to get out from under your nails.

“If she hates it so much, why plant flowers?”

Sprigs of wiry fresh herbs shoot out in every direction. I pick some, rubbing them between my fingers before I give it a sniff.

Rosemary. Sage. Another sniff. Oregano?

Bobbi could use these for her candles. It would make sense. Still, I peer closer. There’s one spot without any flowers. No grass either. Only mulch. It could be nothing.

Or not.

I step through the rosemary bushes, careful to cover up my footprints in the mulch, and snap on the plastic gloves I packed before kneeling to dig. I scoop away dirt until my nails scrape something hard. I brush the dirt aside using both my hands until stainless steel gleams up at me. There’s a lever set into the cold surface.

A hatch door.

My eyes turn to slits.

I study the stainless-steel hatch. The hair on the back of my neck prickles, so I glance over my shoulder, slowly scanning the rustling pines.