Present day…

I stepped away from the window but kept my focus on Owen. He continued his conversation with Dad, listening to the older man intently between bouts of hand gestures. Eventually, he slung the tool belt around his narrow hips, shoved the car keys into his pocket, and disappeared around the backside of the house.

Once again, I debated the wisdom of moving here. With the proceeds from my last photo assignment dwindling, this house had seemed like a godsend. My original plan was to renovate and sell when the market rebounded from its current slump. In the meantime, the rolling cornfields and lush forests would provide plenty of inspiration for my art. None of these plans had included a convict with muscles for days and dreamboat eyes. Just thinking about his full lips made my belly somersault.

Michael yelled from the kitchen. “Stella? I’ve got to get going.”

“Coming.” I grabbed my camera and barreled down the stairs.

“Give me a quick tour, and then I’m out of here.”

I snapped a photo of his handsome face then slipped a hand through his and led him through the house—five bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a full basement. His discerning gaze took in every detail as I chatted about my plans to restore the crown moldings, the leaded glass transoms, and the hardwood floors. We circled the entire interior and ended in the kitchen.

“It’s a lot of work,” he said at the end of the tour, his voice quiet. Lines of concern etched his forehead. “Not to mention the amount of money.”

“I know.” The negativity in his tone dampened my enthusiasm.

“I don’t think you realize what you’ve gotten yourself into.” His hand rubbed my back, patronizingly, like a disapproving parent.

I stiffened and lifted my chin. “You don’t think I can do this.”

“You can do anything you set your mind to. I just don’t understand why.”

Why? I’d asked myself the same thing a million times since accepting the property. Maybe it was for Stan. Despite his drinking, he’d been the one positive influence in my life. The only person besides Owen who ever thought I had potential. Or maybe I was doing it for myself because I was tired of living out of a suitcase, wandering the world, and watching my life speed past in a blur of strange hotels and airports.

“I have my reasons.” I could tell by the narrowing of his eyes that my evasive answer annoyed him. To avoid more questions, I retreated toward the living room. As I rounded the corner, I ran into a hard wall of muscle. Owen’s warm hands wrapped around my biceps to keep us both from toppling. The scent of soap, leather, and musky male enveloped me. I’d read a National Geographic article about the relation of smells and memories, how a particular odor could evoke recollections. One deep inhalation proved the theory. I recalled everything about the way we’d been together—his gentle kisses, the callouses on his fingertips, the way his breath hitched whenever I touched him.

“Sorry.” A frisson of fear and attraction traveled up my spine. We sprang apart. Owen’s hands fell to his sides. My gaze met his soft hazel eyes, their hue more green than gray and flecked with brown. I glanced to the side before he could see all the truths I’d carefully tucked away for so many years. My blood felt too hot for my veins as it raced through my body.

“Stell.” The nickname whispered from his lips, soft and intimate, for my ears alone. He’d been the only person to call me that, and the notion shattered my composure.

I gripped the strap of my camera bag to hide the trembling of my hands. “Owen. How are you?” The question sounded inadequate, almost insulting, given the way we’d left things eighteen years ago. Anger followed swiftly on the heels of guilt and remorse and hurt. A dozen lies and misunderstandings formed a barrier between us. I shifted my focus to the floor. Silver duct tape circled the toe of his boot. The sight brought a lump to my throat.

“Can’t complain.” His voice had always been deep, but maturity had given it a richness that made my knees weak. “Dad sent me in here to look at your water heater.”

“You two know each other?” Michael’s question burst the bubble of nostalgia. Standing beside Owen, he peered at us over the rim of his Styrofoam coffee cup.

“No.” Owen and I replied in tandem.

Their proximity exaggerated the differences between the two men. I didn’t want to make comparisons but found it impossible to stop. My past and my future had collided in the most unwelcome way. Owen tugged on the waistband of his over-washed jeans, a predatory glint in his eyes as he took in my sort-of-kind-of-but-not-really boyfriend. Michael returned his stare and adjusted the knot of his designer tie. The crisp lines of his Hugo Boss suit enhanced his gym-trained physique. But Owen didn’t need padding or custom tailoring. Beneath his white cotton T-shirt, his shoulders were as broad as the door, each muscle taut and lean and visible through the tight fabric.

The three of us stared at each other in awkward silence. A dull sheen slid over Owen’s eyes, shielding his thoughts. His jaw tensed, proud and defiant. Despite his efforts to hide his feelings, I felt his hurt and hated myself all over again. I cleared my throat to answer Michael’s inquiry. “Yes, I mean, sort of.”

“We went to the same high school.” Owen’s fingers clenched at his side then slowly relaxed. He shifted to the left, and my body shifted with him, mirroring the motion, still drawn to him after all these years by an invisible magnetic attraction

“Really? That’s interesting.” Michael set his coffee on the counter and cocked his head to one side. By the pinched corners of his mouth, he didn’t approve of Owen. I could see the wheels turning inside his inquisitive mind and braced for a litany of questions.

“Our paths crossed a few times. It’s a small town.” I met and held Michael’s gaze, silently willing him to stop the inquisition. “We shared an English class, I think.”

“Calculus,” Owen interjected, although I knew damn good and well it had been English. We’d walked to class together every day, had sat next to each other, his long legs stretching beneath my desk, him toying with a lock of my hair until the teacher reprimanded us.

“I thought you didn’t know anyone from here.” Michael lowered his coffee cup and studied me, more intently this time.

“Did I say that?” I shrugged to minimize the deception. “Not anymore. I was only here for a few months. You lived down the street, didn’t you, Evan?” Damn, I was a smooth liar. Years of practice had helped perfect the skill. Whenever someone asked about my childhood, I deflected their attention because I hated the look of pity on their faces when they learned the truth.

“It’s Owen.” A tiny flicker of amusement twitched the corner of his mouth. “Della, right?”

“Stella. Stella Valentine.” This cocky, smart-ass attitude belonged to the boy I’d loved and rocked my poise. Part of me wanted to run to him, throw my arms around his neck, and thank him for everything he’d done to save me. The other part, the wounded, heartbroken teenager, wanted to slap him across the face. And a third, smaller part feared the way years of incarceration had changed him. Instead, I forced a fake smile.

Michael’s phone beeped. Internally, I heaved a sigh of relief to be free from his scrutiny. He scrolled through his text messages and frowned. “I hate to break up your reunion, but I’ve got to get on the road.” In a split second, he snapped into business mode. “Walk me to the car, Stella.”

Owen stepped aside, allowing us to pass. I caught a glimpse of his strong, square jaw and the stubble covering it. In high school, he’d had to shave twice a day. The random thought brought a blush to my cheeks. Michael gave him a dismissive nod. I steeled my nerves as I passed Owen’s broad chest, catching a whiff of his clean soap-and-water scent, thinking my knees might give out. One of my feet had crossed the threshold when he spoke again.

“Stell?”

“Yes?” I couldn’t turn around. Instead, I squeezed my eyes shut. If he asked me to come back, screamed at me for being a ruthless, selfish bitch, demanded that I lick his boots and grovel—I’d do it. All of it.

“You look good.”

“Thanks. You too.” Tears prickled the corners of my eyes. His compliment only made me feel worse. I wanted to run, to get in my car and drive until Owen and this place were nothing but hazy memories. No matter how far I traveled, however, I couldn’t outrun my past. I’d already tried and failed.

When we reached his car, Michael put a hand on my shoulder. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’re white as a sheet.”

“I’m fine.” Or I would be once I got my shit together and hashed things out with Owen.

“You’re such a mystery.” He cocked his head to the side. “You never talk about your past. I don’t know anything about you. Not really. When are you going to open up to me, Stella Valentine?”

My mind spun in circles. Owen. This house. Murder. The images pummeled me until I wanted to scream. I wrapped my arms around my waist and pulled away from his searching gaze. “There’s nothing to tell, really. I’ve led a very boring life.” Another lie added to the pile of secrets at my feet.

“Alright. Whatever you say.” He chucked me under the chin before climbing into the car. “One of these days, I’m going to break through your defenses, and you’re going to tell me everything.”

“Someday.” I drew a circle in the dusty street with my toe then erased it. When hell freezes over.

Once Michael’s car disappeared down the street, I sprinted upstairs, carefully avoiding the utility room and Owen. With my phone in hand, I locked myself into the adjoining bathroom and scrolled to Lanie’s number in my contact list. She answered on the second ring.

“Hey, sis. What’s up?” Her cheerful voice irritated me. If only I could go through life oblivious to my problems, the way she did. Apparently, she’d inherited the positive genes in our family, while I’d been the unlucky recipient of a jaded outlook.

“He’s here,” I said.

“Who?” She didn’t bother to cover the phone while she yelled at her kids. “No running in the house. Don’t make me tell you again.”

“Owen.”

“Owen who?” When I didn’t answer right away, her tone sharpened, instantly alert. “Oh. You mean that Owen?”

“Who else would I mean? Come on, Lanie. I’m dying here.”

“Why are you whispering? Is he in the room with you?” The pitch of her voice climbed higher. “Hang on. This needs my full attention.” Cabinet doors banged shut. I pressed a hand to my chest and waited while her footsteps echoed into the phone. “Okay. Tell me again. I thought you said Owen’s there.”

“Yes. I’m in the bathroom. He’s downstairs, working on the water heater.”

“Are you crazy? Why would you invite him into your house? He’s a murderer, Stella.”

The questions rattled around in my head. Why indeed? In my heart, I knew the answer. “He didn’t do it.”

Although I couldn’t see her, I felt her eyes roll at my statement. “Of course, he did. He confessed.”

There it was. The truth laid out in front of me, a truth I’d never been able to accept. The Owen of my youth would never hurt anyone. He’d been kind and sweet and gentle. The only time he’d lost his temper in my presence had been with Chris, the day before his death. I gripped my forehead with my free hand and tried to make sense of it. Thinking made my head hurt worse. There was no rationalizing the death of an eighteen-year-old boy at the hands of his brother.

“I know he’s innocent,” I whispered.

“Really? How do you know that? Were you there, Stella?” Lanie’s harsh words broke my confusion.

“I just know.” The late summer heat intensified between the walls of the bathroom. Sweat beaded on my upper lip. I opened the door and gulped down fresh air.

“How did he get on your construction crew anyway? Didn’t you check out the contractor before hiring him?”

“Of course, I did.” My frustration climbed at both the situation and her lack of empathy. The walls of the bathroom closed in around me. I headed for the window, hoping for a cool breeze. “Excuse me for not adding that to my list of requirements for a reputable contractor.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“Not really. I might have freaked a little. Michael was here, and I didn’t want him asking questions.” Usually, I was the calm one, the one who soothed her anxieties and told her everything would be okay. Lanie had always been the sister who loved drama and chaos while I preferred stability and quiet.

“Okay. Give me a second. I’m trying to think.” The chattering, childish voices of my niece and nephews warmed the background. I could picture Lanie twisting her hair, brow furrowing in concentration. “Here’s what you do. Pull him aside. Tell him to keep his mouth shut and stay away from you. No, wait. Don’t do that. Just avoid him.”

By unspoken agreement, Lanie and I never talked about Owen or Chris. The one time I’d tried to talk to her about what she knew, she’d gone into fits of hysteria. To keep the peace, I’d kept my worries and questions to myself. We’d picked up the tattered shreds of our existence following Chris’s murder and had gone on, one day at a time, never looking back. The unfortunate events in our lives had allowed little time for retrospection. If we paused to reflect on all the ways fate had failed us, we’d never get through another day.

“I can’t avoid him. Did you hear what I said? He’s in my house.”

“I told you moving there was a mistake. It’s going to dredge everything up again.”

Her words sent an ominous shiver up my back. “What did you want me to do? Refuse the inheritance? Besides, it was a long time ago. No one remembers us.” I scanned the walls, the built-in bookcases, and the bay window with its window seat where I’d read so many of Marianne’s books. Those stolen moments had been the only peaceful time in my life. I’d worn thin the memories of those precious days.

“You need to sell that disaster.” Lanie’s lack of sentimentality grated over my nerves. “Sell it now and get the heck out of there.”

“No one is going to buy it in this condition. Houses here are taking an average of fourteen months to sell. In another year, it’s going to look even worse.” As a kid, I’d dreamed of restoring it to its former glory. If I let the house fall to ruin, I’d be disappointing Stan and my teenage self. “It makes financial sense to live here until it sells. Besides, I can’t keep sleeping on your couch. I’m thirty-four. I want a place of my own.”

“I’m all about getting you out of my apartment,” she said, her tone teasing and affectionate. “Take some of that money you’ve been stockpiling and buy something here—something that isn’t going to bleed you dry.”

“Um, I think you’ve got me confused with someone else—someone with a fat bank account.” Silence rewarded my comment. I’d been supporting her and the kids for the past year, since her latest boyfriend had split. She’d unwittingly followed in our mother’s footsteps with her bad decisions and poor choices in men, but then, Lanie had always been a sucker for a winning smile and a tight ass.

“I suppose this is a bad time to ask you for a loan,” she said, her tone acerbic, like I’d done something wrong. “I’m a little short on rent this month.”

“What happened to the money I gave you last month?” Tension tightened the muscles across my forehead.

“Mick didn’t pay child support last month. He’s disappeared again.”

“We can’t keep doing this. You’re an adult, Lanie. You need to step up.” Although I sympathized with her plight, she’d gotten herself into this mess and had done nothing to better her situation. While I’d been busy working two jobs and going to college, Lanie had dropped out of high school to have her first child. Her lack of education severely limited the pool of jobs available to her. Even if she had a job, she couldn’t afford daycare on minimum wage. “Your lease is up in a few months. I think you should come live here.”

“No way. I’m never going back there.” Her voice trembled, as if a shiver had run down her spine.

“You’ve got four people in a one-bedroom apartment. This place has five bedrooms and three bathrooms. The kids can run and play outside. And the cost of living is half of what it is in Cleveland.”

“Whatever.” Her clipped reply signaled that our conversation was either going to end in an argument or a lot of hurt feelings. One of the children wailed for her. Lanie shifted into mom mode. “I’ve got to go. Colton, how many times do I have to tell you? Don’t put that in your mouth. Look, Stella, I’ll talk to you later, okay? Don’t forget the money.”

“Bye.” I ended the call and stuffed the phone into my pocket. The amount of dysfunction in our relationship could fill an ocean liner. No matter how many years passed, I continued to feel responsible for her well-being, sometimes to the detriment of my own. As much as I loved her, I wanted to wring her neck for her reckless behavior, especially now that she had children.

Owen’s deep voice floated up through the floor register as he discussed something with Dad. Had he heard my conversation? A flush of mortification burned up my neck. I held my breath, listening to his quiet words, feeling the tiny hairs on my body stand at attention. He’d had that effect on me from the very start. His moody, brooding stare had reeled me in when he’d tripped over my feet in front of the principal’s office, and I’d never been able to forget him since then. The way he used to tuck my hair behind my ear. His lazy smiles when I said something funny. The gentleness of his fingertips sliding beneath my shirt and up my belly. Our relationship may have ended in tragedy, but our lives would always be entwined by the love we’d once shared.