I should've showered. That's the thought that pops into my head as I park on Birch Street and stake out the Bed & Breakfast. My first day as a plumber saw me repiping a client's entire remodeled guest bathroom, a task that took me half the day.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat and readjust my grip on the steering wheel. Everything hurts. My hands, my shoulders, my lower back. I stopped at a drive thru to pick up a late lunch, but not even a strawberry milkshake paired with painkillers can touch how lousy I feel. It doesn't matter, though. It'll all be worth it once payday rolls around. I've already found an apartment I can swing as soon as I save up enough for first and last month's rent, plus the security deposit. I sigh, rolling my neck, the joints cracking. I work a bit of brown gunk out from under my nail. It looks like rust. At least I hope it's rust.

The Birch Street Bed & Breakfast is a charming three story brick building with tall, rectangular windows and matte black shutters. The street it sits on is lined with ancient oak trees doused in moss, spacious sidewalks, and vintage gas streetlamps. It's as inviting as it is charming. So why am I having trouble leaving my car? I grab my purse from the passenger seat with Emily's wallet stowed inside and clutch it to my chest, steeling myself. This is it. You're going to climb out of this car, cross the street, and return this thing to the grieving family.

Only I don't move. My butt is planted firmly in place as if glued to the seat. Thousands of scenarios are running through my mind. Will they thank me and invite me to stay for dinner and I'll have no other choice but to accept and then I'll just sit there awkwardly as they tell me stories about the woman who died in my arms only a week ago? Or will they think I'm a thief and call the police on me and I'll have to be on the run and eventually change my identity and build a whole new life in Croatia or Sweden or Zimbabwe?

I crack open the car door and my ballet flat connects with the asphalt. Come on, Vi. You're overthinking things again. As Shia LaBeouf would say, just do it.

I look both ways before sprinting across the street and up the Bed & Breakfast's stoop. I'm hugging my purse tighter now. Wearing it like armor.

My heart thuds in my chest as I reach the front door, and even harder when I slip into the foyer and see her. There's a blown up photograph of Emily set in the entrance with her birth and death date printed along the bottom. I hold my breath as I move closer, peering into her big brown eyes. On the side table nearby, the flowers I purchased for the family—white lilies sent anonymously—are displayed along with the other bouquets.

A wave of emotion overcomes me and it takes everything in me to swallow the growing lump in my throat and walk toward the reception area. It's empty. There's no one seated at the desk. Actually, there seems to be no one here at all. I look around and ding the bell sitting beside the sign-in sheet. "H-Hello?" I call, my voice shaking with nerves. I drop a hand to my stained mom jeans and pick at the elastic waistband, tugging and readjusting, my anxiety climbing. I ding the bell again. "Hello?"

There's no answer.

I peer down the hall. This is a B&B, right? They're meant to receive guests. Was I supposed to call ahead?

I wander past the reception desk and into the formal dining room, raising my brows. It's pretty classy in here. Glossy hardwood floors. A crystal chandelier. Parisian-style furniture. The table is stacked with platters of baked goods—cookies, brownies, cupcakes. And there's a coffee carafe set beside a stack of porcelain mugs. I touch careful fingers to the stainless steel. Still hot.

Two cups of coffee later, and there's still nobody. I bite into a cupcake, considering my next move. I suppose I could just leave it here...with a thoughtful note...and a small tip as a thank you for the snack bar I helped myself to...

I'm about to walk over and set Emily's wallet on the side table in the foyer, next to the flowers, when I stop short. From where I'm standing, I can see the second story landing, and a door with Emily's name spelled out in hand painted rainbow letters. Better yet, I can put the wallet in her bedroom. No awkward conversations with the family. No one suspecting I'm a thief. I can be in and out without anyone ever realizing I was here.

I head upstairs, tiptoeing carefully and checking over my shoulder, before sneaking into her room. It's not at all what I expect. Emily looked so punk. This room is an explosion of pink and baby unicorns. A childhood bedroom in serious need of updating. I gulp the lump in my throat as soon as it reemerges, realizing it's too late for that now.

I leave the door cracked open and spin around, searching for the right place to leave the wallet, but my eyes are drawn to a corkboard on the wall pinned with polaroid photographs. Emily with her family and friends. She looked so happy and full of life. I chew on my bottom lip, the cupcake in my stomach churning as I pluck a photo from the board.

Emily poses with a friend at her college graduation. Her friend has blonde hair with stripes of pink and sharp green eyes that pierce straight through me. I turn the photo over and read the handwritten caption. Ready to take on the world? Love you to the moon and back, Emmibear. Hugs and kisses, Kaylee.

I smile. Cute.

"What the hell are you doing in here?"

I gasp, whirling around, the photo slipping out of my hands and landing halfway under the bed. A naked man stands in the doorway, glaring at me, a small white towel draped around his hips. Water drips from his hair. I realize he must've been in the shower. The man's eyes flick to the photo lying on the ground and then he narrows his eyes at me. "We already told you vultures. We don't want any journalists snooping around here."

I swallow, shaking my head fiercely. "No, I would never. Snoop, I mean. And I'm not a journalist! Not an employed one, anyway..."

The man shakes his head. "Huh?" Then his expression changes and he straightens, the towel barely managing to cover anything. I blink at his muscular legs and toned body, and blush. He searches my face, unfazed. "You're not a guest, are you?"

"No..."

"Then who are you and what are you doing in my sister's room?"

"I...um..." I scratch anxiously at the back of my head before hastily collecting the fallen photograph from the ground and sticking it back to the board with trembling fingers. "I..."

"Well?" His nose scrunches up as he sniffs the air. "And what is that smell?"

I glance down at my stained jeans. My nose has practically stopped smelling it at this point. Embarrassed, I reach into my purse, fishing out the wallet, and shove it into the naked man's hands. "Here." I manage to sidestep around him while he's looking at it and dart for the stairs.

"Hold on. Wait a second!" I hear him calling after me as I stumble into the foyer, almost colliding with a police officer. I gasp, shrinking, shielding myself again with my purse. This officer is huge. Not only in weight, but in height, too. He must be over 6'5, and his badge is as shiny as his bald head. The word PAROLE stretches across his bullet proof vest.

"Is Finnegan Hayes here?" the officer asks me. I can see my own worried expression in his aviators as he lowers them down his nose and narrows his dark eyes at me.

I point wordlessly to the stairs just as the naked man is padding down them. "Hey, Ty. You're early."

"Check the clock, Finn. I'm right on time. As usual." He makes a face. "Where are your clothes?"

"Why? You enjoying the view?"

"You're about to view the inside of a jail cell if you don't quit playing." Officer Ty grins. "You're looking buff. You been working out? What's your secret?"

"Running from guys like you." Finn shrugs. "It's good cardio." Officer Ty chuckles, and I inch closer to the door. "I'll be right down. Let me get dressed. Help yourself to the cookies. Whatever you want. Make yourself at home." Finn nods at me and I back up, slamming into the door, the knob bruising my tailbone. I wince. "Hey, you wait here, too." He holds up the wallet and waves it at me, his curls still dripping wet. "I want to ask you about this."

I nod, though I'm already reaching for the knob. Officer Ty crinkles up his nose and looks around. "Phew. What is that smell?" He turns to me. "Do you smell that?"

"Oh, yeah, it smells like a sewer," I agree, fanning the air. This only seems to distribute the stench more. "Honestly, it's making me kind of sick. I think I'm going to step outside and get some fresh air. Excuse me..." I can't get to my car fast enough. I practically jog across the street, jumping in and stepping on the gas. My introvert heart thuds frantically in my chest as I obsess over every awkward move I made and everything that was said. At least I finally returned the wallet...

Thank God I'll never see them again.

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A/N:

I just realized I have to edit my banners now!!

Hope everyone is enjoying the story so far. I promise there are plenty of twists to come and things are about to get a little spicier!

What would you do if you were left with Emily's wallet? Return it to the police or to the family?  Would you want to stay at The Birch Street Bed & Breakfast?