Kate Logan pushed aside the yellow crime scene tape. She didn’t waste time pondering her options. Not many to consider. Her fingers tightened over the shattered wood frame of her boutique’s backdoor. It was going to take divine intervention to make things right in time for the festival. She didn’t need the nasty splinter stabbing into her thumb as confirmation.

“Darn it.” Finger in mouth, the metallic taste of blood on her tongue, she navigated the destruction in search of the tissue box. Files, catalogues, and broken shelving units littered the floor. Her desk was a ruined mess. Hacked apart. By an axe.

An. Axe.

Nothing terrifying about that. She shuddered. So was the thought of paying to fix it all. With her bank account sitting next to zero and her line of credit tapped, repairing the break-in damage was an expense she didn’t need and couldn’t afford. Sure, she had insurance but collecting took time, hassle, and energy she didn’t have. Tissues found, she ripped one free and pressed it against her fingertip.

An axe.

Aspen Lake was a small prairie resort town, a treed oasis in the middle of farming country boasting three thousand year-round residents. During the tourist season, the numbers swelled due to the influx of cottage owners and seasonal campers. Break-ins happened, not frequently, but often enough. But this? This was extreme. And big news.

This was tasty enough to coax any small-towner out of his or her comfiest lazy-chair. They would come. The curious and well meaning. The gloaters. The haters. The ones certain she was a designer handbag short of a full closet. All with a varying degree of poor, poor, pitiful Kate plastered on their faces. Here’s hoping the gawkers were also spenders. So long as they walked out with a black plastic bag emblazoned with her string of pearls logo and the words Kate’s Closet what did she care? Respect wasn’t a purchase requirement.

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