Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder (Happily Ever Homicide, #1)

by Gracie Ruth Mitchell

“Who the cuss is Solomon the Spud?”

Snort

“A library, a cathedral,” she murmurs, and it seems more like she’s talking to herself than to me, so I keep my mouth shut. “A sanctuary of knowledge. But this corner is different. Pews made of paper, altars of memory—on my knees in front of the ones who came before me.”

My eyes dart hungrily over every Post-it I can find, devouring her words. They’re stark and blunt in places, meandering in others, full of visceral imagery. It’s her naked mind on display, both light and dark, strange and familiar, and she’s done something incredible with it. She sees her shadows; she weaves them through her fingers. She knows their value. But she doesn’t drown in them. She remains sunshine—not soft, gentle sunshine, but abrasive sunshine with sharp edges. That’s how she channels her demons, both in her poetry and her life: she uses them to make her light shine brighter in contrast. I read them all. Lines and stanzas and snippets of phrases, words that rise and words that fall, melodic and dreamy and evocatively beautiful. And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but—I rest one hand on my chest, feeling my heart race—I have never been more attracted to anyone in my life than I am to her, here and now, in this moment.

“Hey!” she screams—and I do mean screams. “I am the fruit of your womb! You can’t stab me—give me that. Give me that!”