Harold coughed again. “Yes, dear. I know it’s late, but I need your help.”
    A tingle of worry spread through Vivian’s chest at his ominous tone. “Are you okay?”
    “Oh, yes, dear.” He cleared his throat. “They used quite a lot of pyrotechnics at the game. Some of the smoke must be bothering my throat. I’ll be at the house in ten minutes.”
    “Harold, are you sure this can’t wait until tomorrow? I’ll even stop by the Way Station Cafè and pick up some cinnamon rolls. Plus, since Carol’s out of town, you won’t get into trouble.”
    Harold laughed, but it came out choked. “I’ve got a marmalade dropper, and I think . . . I think it’s the story you’ve been waiting on.”
    Vivian sat forward. “Marmalade dropper” was Harold’s unique way to tell her he had a story. A big one. But even if he hadn’t used his familiar phrase, the fact that he suggested this was her story captured her curiosity instantly.
    “Why? What’s the story?”
    “Vivi, I’ll tell you at the house. Please.”
    Her heart pulled at the sound of the nickname Harold had dubbed her with almost as soon as she began working for him—ignoring her insistence that her name was “just Vivian.” Nicknames were familiar. Familiarity meant affection. And affection was harmful. Still, she couldn’t ignore the strain in his voice.
    “Fine.” She closed her laptop and grabbed her keys. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
    Ford Avenue was congested with game-night traffic. Vehicles covered in cheers for the Cougars written in shoe polish on their windows honked playfully at residents young and old as they waved their red and silver banners in the air. Kids with faces painted like the school mascot rode on their dads’ shoulders or tugged their moms in the direction of Sandy’s Ice Cream Shop, which apparently had extended its hours in honor of the win. The town was alive with celebration.
    It was all a pitiful reminder of just how lame Vivian was.
    Several blocks farther down, Vivian turned into The Landing, a subdivision of stately homes with wraparound porches and wide lawns manicured to HOA standards. She parked behind Harold’s white Volvo on Marshford Avenue, the light from his living room illuminating the path up to his porch.
    Vivian knocked on the door. What kind of marmalade was important enough for her to be standing here this late at night? She didn’t have a clue. This was Walton, Georgia, where people lived happily ever after. The words she had typed earlier came back to her. She’d been in the news industry long enough to know there was no such thing.
    Vivian knocked again, then moved to the front window and peeked in. Her heart stopped at the sight of his body crumpled on the floor.