Light burst across the room, exploding in a shower of sparks.
Chaimon lowered his pen and glanced up from the treaty spread across his desk. Ah, he’s back.
When the sparks faded, a familiar figure materialized. Dressed in a black coat and matching fedora, his outfit looked out of place in the castle’s study where Chaimon’s sword collection covered the stone walls. Then again, a time traveler couldn’t help obscurity.
I haven’t killed anyone, I swear.
But everyone else thinks otherwise. Even my defense attorney isn’t sold. Now that I’m on the defendant stand, it feels like the whole world has turned on me.
“Blake Lawrence,” Judge McGrath booms, “you are on trial for the murder of your girlfriend, Lillian Torsten. How do you plead?”
No hesitation. “Innocent, Your Honor.”
“You wanted to see me?” I tried not to fidget, but anxiety hit every time I got called into the restaurant’s office.
“Where’s the silverware?” Mr. Jones glared at me, his already small eyes squinted.
“What silverware?” I smoothed the front of my uniform, an ankle-length black dress with a lace-edged white apron.
I checked the numbers again, but they still didn’t add up. Even a mathematically challenged amateur sleuth like me could see the glaring discrepancies. How could candy companies be showing record high profits when the nation was experiencing record low candy sales?
Read it now
“You’d be suspicious if you filled a bin with glass jars then came back two hours later to find it almost empty.”
“Maybe the pickup came early.” I headed for the mail boxes.
“Almost empty, almost.” Mr. Hammond hobbled after me. “They don’t pick up half a bin at a time.”
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