I sit down in front of my open laptop again, doing another search. This time, I’m looking for any available information on Michelle Barton. Who was she? What sort of things was she into? Was she wrapped up in the club, or just an outsider?

 

I remember the tattoo I saw on Derrick’s chest, just like the one on Christopher’s. He’s a member of the club, too—or at the very least, he was at one time. Odds are she had something to do with the club, too, outside of being married to Christopher. Maybe it ran in the family. Maybe her father was a member, or an uncle. Or maybe she got involved with the guys in the club after her brother joined.

 

Maybe she was never involved at all. Just an innocent party. Like me.

 

I can’t think about that now.

 

There’s not much on Michelle, or her murder. I was sure there would be a million articles about it, especially seeing as how the town hates the club. From what I’d already read, one of the guys could sneeze and it would make the news. I was certain I’d find all sorts of salacious details on the murder of the wife of a club member—a prominent one, if what Derrick said was true.

 

Michelle is a mystery, it seems. I think about the way she decorated the house in which Christopher still lives. She was a simple, sweet person, I think. Not fancy. Homey, cozy. She wanted to create a refuge for her man. I can understand the impulse, having had it myself. Why else would I have been driven to bake cookies for Christopher when I hardly knew him?

 

She didn’t deserve to die the way she did, alone in the woods, left there to rot, going by the way Derrick had described. I remember the pain in his voice when he talked about her. Now that I’ve met him, I get the idea he only let himself go after she died. He’s drinking himself into an early grave.

 

I understand what pain like that can do to a person. He’s desperate for an answer to how his sister’s life ended. He wants to pin the crime on any convenient person. Christopher is just the most convenient.

 

It doesn’t help the bullet matched the gun he carried. I can understand why Derrick would jump to conclusions when that’s the case.

 

I can’t believe it, though. I won’t believe it. Christopher is innocent.

 

No, he’s not. He’s not innocent. Maybe of his wife’s murder. But not of other things.

 

I accept that. A person can make mistakes. They can also move on from them. They deserve the chance to.

 

I have to talk this out with somebody. If I hang around the house like this, I’ll go crazy. Just going over and over it in my head until I lose it. I’m still nervous about leaving the house, but I need to take the chance.

 

Minutes later, I’m at the coffee shop. It’s lunchtime as a handful of employees of the little shops up and down Main Street start coming in for a cup of coffee or dessert on their break. I walk in, saying hi to everyone.

 

“I thought you were sick!” Carly’s behind the counter, busy as a bee. I notice her voice sounds higher-pitched than usual. Unnatural.

 

Shit. Everybody knows Christopher was at my house, and I conveniently happened to call out sick. I’m sure people have been jumping to conclusions all morning. How much whispering has been going on right here in my own shop?

 

“I’m feeling better, so I thought I’d come in for a while. You know how it is, you wake up feeling lousy, but once you get moving, it’s not so bad anymore.” I wash my hands and tie on an apron, diving in alongside my friend as though there’s nothing out of the ordinary. Anything to take my mind off the mess for a while. If Lucas’s out there somewhere, he wouldn’t dare try something now. Not while I’m surrounded by people. Would he?

 

Once things quiet down, I lean against the counter, facing Carly. “I have to ask you something.”

 

“Sure. What’s up?”

 

I take her by the elbow, leading her to a quiet corner where I can still keep an eye on things in the shop. “Do you know anything else about the murder of Christopher’s wife? You know, something you heard people gossiping about, maybe?”

 

“What happened? Why are you asking me this?”

 

I wonder if I can trust her. I love her and she’s become my closest friend even though she started out as an employee. But she’s a talker, very social and bubbly. No, I need to trust my gut. At the end of the day, she’s also reliable. “I know I can trust you. I have to tell you what happened earlier today.” I give her the brief rundown, explaining what went on with Derrick. I’ve been glancing over at the customers every once in a while as I speak, and I can’t miss their eyes on me. I remember now what Derrick said, about people talking when Christopher’s motorcycle was seen outside my house. Are they whispering about me now?

 

“Wow, Amanda. I can’t believe it.”

 

I nod my head. “I wanted to see if there was anything else online about Michelle’s murder, but there’s nothing. I mean not a single thing! Don’t you think that’s odd?”

 

“We’re still a small town. News flares up, but it dies down quickly.”

 

“Not gossip, though. That’s why I was wondering if you knew anything I wouldn’t otherwise be able to find.”

 

She looks uncomfortable.

 

“You can tell me, Carly. It won’t hurt me. Not knowing the truth hurts more than anything else, I think.”

 

“I guess you’re right.” She looks around—there are only two people still drinking coffee and reading their papers. “Well, I’ll tell you this first: people try to make Michelle out to be a saint now that she’s dead. I don’t think that was the case, not really.”

 

“No? I remember hearing people talking about what a nice girl she was, how they didn’t know why she would have married Christopher in the first place.”

 

“She might have started out like that. Who’s to say? I didn’t know her back then, or very well after they were married. But from what I hear…” she looks around again, “…she was into drugs. Both before and after they were married.”

 

“Drugs? Oh, no.” Derrick hadn’t said anything about that, but then why would he? No family member wants to admit things like that about a deceased loved one, especially if the death tore them up inside the way Michelle’s clearly had.

 

“Yeah, lightweight stuff at first. Kid stuff. Pot, pills. She stopped for a while when they were first married—I heard he insisted—but she started up again at some point. The word heroin was used.”

 

“No way. I guess people blame Christopher for it.”

 

“Are you kidding? She could have been hit by lightning and they’d blame him.”

 

I imagine how awful it must have been for Christopher, watching his wife fall deeper into drugs. I’ve never personally known a heroin addict, but I know how increasingly common it’s becoming.

 

“Then there was the whole scandal that went on with the Wicked Angels around that time.”

 

“What scandal?”

 

“Illegal weapons. Gun running, specifically. They were under suspicion. The cops were watching their every move. It was a crazy time. Every day, the rest of the town wondered when the club would be taken down, and whether there would be some big shoot-out when they were. We held our breath every day. It felt like living in a war zone just waiting for the first shot to be fired.” She shivers, rubbing her arms.

 

“Did anything ever happen?”

 

“No. There was never enough evidence to arrest them. Those guys are smart. Imagine what they could have done with their lives if they hadn’t turned to crime. Anyway, another theory around that time was that a rival gun runner was responsible for Michelle’s murder.”

 

“I guess that makes sense. Like a message, or payback or something?”

 

“Right.” She shrugs. “That’s all the news that’s fit to print, my love. I don’t know anything else.”

 

“Believe me, you’ve told me plenty. I needed a little bit of context. It’s hard knowing what to believe sometimes.”

 

Carly’s hand touches my arm. “Listen. No matter what the real, full story is, there’s one thing that applies no matter what version you’re listening to.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“The club had something to do with it. Either Christopher did it, or somebody related to the club business. And let’s be honest, if she were on drugs, where do you think they came from?”

 

She’s right. I can’t deny it.

 

“I say this to warn you, is all. Don’t get too involved with the club, especially now that they’re back in town. Nothing good comes from it. These are not good people. You’re a good person. You deserve better.”

 

I know she cares, which is why I give her a hug. I can’t take her advice, though. Maybe I’m being naïve, but it’s not the club I’m getting involved with. It’s Christopher. It’s clear to me he wants to put space between himself and the rest of them. I’m not afraid.

 

At least, not of The Wicked Angels. Or their enemies.

 

The shop is empty now, save for Carly and me. She starts cleaning up the tables while I take my phone from my purse to call Christopher. I have to get through to him somehow.

 

Before I go to the back for a little privacy, I turn to where Carly’s wiping down tabletops.

 

“Hey, was there any talk about me in here? This morning, I mean?”

 

She doesn’t know what to say, which is all the answer I need. I nod, understanding, then go through the door leading to the pantry. I’ll have to tackle the gossip issue somehow, but now’s not the time. The town deserves to know what a good man Christopher is, and Christopher deserves to be treated better.

 

I call him, hoping he’s home and in a better mood. The phone rings five…six…seven times before the voicemail picks up.

 

“Hi, this is Christopher. Leave a message.” Short, to the point. So typical.

 

“Christopher, it’s me. I wish you’d answer your phone. Now I know how you felt when I wouldn’t answer for you. Anyway…I want to talk to you. I want you to understand I wasn’t blaming you for anything today. I’m on your side, always. I swear it. I know you didn’t kill her. Nothing Derrick said made a difference in what I think or how I feel about you. Please call me back.”

 

I hang up, leaning my back against the rack and the phone pressed to my forehead.

 

He has to call me back.

 

I can’t imagine living without him now.