Dear readers, Roxie writes from her cozy corner at Maxx House, seated at the antique desk that once belonged to her grandmother Roxanne. The winter light casts long shadows across her notebook, and somewhere in the walls, something just creaked in a way that was probably not a ghost. Probably. It's fine. Everything is fine. This house is absolutely not haunted. Roxie is choosing to believe this.

The characters of Whiskey Pines have been particularly demanding this week. Roxie has explained to them, multiple times, that she cannot write faster just because they have opinions about their storylines. They do not listen. They never listen. If you've ever tried to explain something reasonable to someone who has already decided they know better, you understand the struggle. Fictional characters are, somehow, worse.

Kenzie has claimed the velvet footstool beside the desk as her personal throne, from which she dispenses unsolicited advice on plot developments, nap schedules, and the suspicious activities of everyone who walks past the window. Her opinions on character motivations are surprisingly astute for someone who also believes the mailman is a criminal mastermind, the neighbor's cat is plotting something, and that Roxie's lunch should be shared immediately.

"The butler didn't do it," she sent this morning, her fluffy head tilted at a knowing angle. "It's always the one who seems the nicest. Also, I would like a biscuit. Two biscuits. The good ones, not the ones that taste like cardboard and disappointment. Don't pretend you don't know which ones I mean."

Roxie pointed out that Kenzie had already received her morning treat. Kenzie pointed out that Roxie was a liar, that her bowl looked empty from certain angles, and that memory is unreliable anyway so who's to say what really happened this morning? The angles were lies. The logic was lies. But Kenzie committed to them fully, because that's what you do when you want biscuits.

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Work continues on the next Whiskey Pines mystery, and Roxie can promise readers that secrets long buried are about to come to light. The tunnels beneath the town hold more than dusty bottles and forgotten memories. And if Grandmother Roxanne's spirit has any opinions about how this story should end, she's been uncharacteristically quiet about it. Which is suspicious. Everything in this town is suspicious. Even the nice things. Especially the nice things.

Thank you for reading, for caring about these stories, and for being here. Roxie means that. Even on the hard writing days, knowing you're out there makes the work worth doing. Now if you'll excuse her, someone is staring at her very intently and it's definitely about biscuits.