Panic Button by Kylie Logan

it mattered. On
     the other, if I didn’t say a word and it turned out that it actually did matter…
    I grumbled under my breath, and when the light turned green, I eased the car forward.
     “He’s not answering his phone,” I said.
    “You mean Kaz?” Stan scratched one finger along the side of his nose. “When did you
     call?”
    “Thursday, and Friday.” I made a face, and as if it wouldn’t actually make me look
     pathetic—or worse, like some kind of stalker—I added quickly, “And Saturday and Sunday.
     It’s not like I care what he’s up to or anything—”
    “I get it, no need to make excuses. You’re just curious.”
    I would have been happy to settle for curious, but while it was the truth, it wasn’t
     the whole truth. If I didn’t admit it now, Stan would only figure it out himself eventually.
     And then the way I was behaving would look more suspicious than ever.
    “I’m worried,” I said.
    “About Kaz?”
    OK, admitting that I cared enough to even think aboutKaz was an odd thing to confess, but Stan didn’t have to make it sound like I was
     some sort of deviant.
    “He hasn’t called,” I said. “He hasn’t stopped to see me.”
    “I thought we decided that was a good thing.”
    “It is. Except it’s weird. And unusual. And now he’s not answering his phone and…oh
     my goodness!”
    These last words rushed out of me at the end of a breath of pure astonishment.
    But then, we’d just driven past a gorgeous wooden sign painted blue with the town’s
     name highlighted in gold, and I’d just gotten my first look at Ardent Lake, Illinois.
    Wide streets lined with trees that were just beginning to sprout and added touches
     of fresh green to the landscape.
    Redbrick sidewalks.
    Houses set beyond neatly trimmed lawns and bordered with bright swaths of spring flowers.
    Daffodils in front of the first house.
    Crocuses (in gorgeous shades of purple and yellow) in front of the next.
    Early tulips—pink and white—bordering the front walk of the third.
    In fact, everywhere I looked, there were bushes springing to life, and flowers poking
     their heads out of the earth and Victorian homes the likes of which I’d never seen
     anywhere.
    “It’s like something out of a storybook! Look at the gingerbread on that house, Stan.”
     I let go of the steering wheel just long enough to point. “And the wraparoundporch on the one next door. Honest to goodness…isn’t it amazing?”
    “Humph.” Stan crossed his arms over his chest just as we drove past an ice cream parlor
     with a brightly colored red and white striped awning and one of those old-fashioned
     popcorn carts outside the front door. “All this Victorian bric-a-brac. Seems awful
     fussy, don’t you think?”
    “Awfully wonderful.” My GPS told me to turn right, and I did, onto a street lined
     with houses that looked like they’d come out of the pages of an architectural magazine.
     Turrets, porches, more gingerbread…I am not usually one for frills, but it was all
     done so tastefully. And it was color-coordinated, too.
    “You suppose they had some big town meeting and all went out and bought paint together?”
     Stan was thinking what I was thinking and he must have been looking where I was looking,
     too, at perfectly tended house after perfectly tended house, each painted a soft pastel
     color that coordinated—perfectly, of course—with the one next door to it. Soft gray
     accented with taupe and grape. Blush pink touched with white and steel. Lilac made
     to look all the more delicious with eaves painted pewter and a mauve gazebo out back.
    “What amazes me is the way it’s all preserved and maintained,” I said. “Imagine every
     Victorian building in town restored to perfection. No wonder the historical society
     was so interested in Angela’s button string. It was made for a place like this, and
     it would obviously be appreciated by the folks here. The whole town is simply amazing.
     And you…” Again,