“Steve what?” I shrugged. “He didn’t say. But he’s coming back to get ice cream. Mud pie ice cream, so I have to find the recipe.” I started to open the box, but she put her hand over it. “What did this guy look like?” she asked suspiciously. “I don’t know.” I hunched my shoulders. “He had graying hair. Deep blue eyes—” “And dimples!” Her words came out with fire. “Uhm . . . yeah. Dimples. Because why?” “Stephen Bayard! That’s who that was. That no-good scoundrel.” “What?” I asked, confused. “His name is Stephen Bayard. He didn’t eat mud pie ice cream here. What he did was drag us through the
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