Present Day

The next day, I headed downtown for groceries and lunch. Thunder promised rain, but the clouds never delivered. Splotches of brown grass dotted the neighborhood lawns, and a thick coat of dust covered the cars parked along the street. I marveled at how very little the town had changed. Small independent shops lined the main street. A bubbling fountain splashed in the center of the town square. Pedestrians stared as I drove my Jeep along the tree-lined avenue. A wave of nostalgia brought a lump to my throat. I’d never been particularly sentimental, but the familiar sites awakened something dead inside me. My childhood had been full of upheaval and constant shuffling between foster homes. I’d spent my adult life circumventing the globe. During those years, I’d scoffed at the need to put down roots, and I couldn’t help wondering if I’d been wrong. This place felt like home.

After tucking the emotions deep inside my soul for inspection later, I parked in front of the post office. The bell tinkled above the door as I pushed inside. It was like rocketing back in time. Wrought iron scrollwork surrounded the clerk’s window. Dozens of tiny glass postal boxes stretched from floor to ceiling on either side, their doors adorned with antique combination locks. A round-faced woman with silver hair and enormous chandelier earrings appeared from the back room wearing a friendly smile.

“Ah, our newest resident,” she said. “We were wondering when you’d pay us a visit, Stella Valentine. It’s good to meet you. I’m Marjorie.” I’d forgotten how quickly news raced around small towns. The residents probably had known my name before I’d first unlocked the front door of my house.

A second woman, younger, with helmet-shaped brown hair, nudged between Marjorie and the counter. “Hi. I’m Karen Dowdy, from over by Parker’s Lake.” I had no idea where that was, but I nodded anyway. “My daughter loves your work.”

“Thanks. It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

“She’s an amateur photographer herself. She got a camera for Christmas, and she’s been taking pictures nonstop ever since. Maybe you’d give her some pointers? She’d just love that,” Karen said.

“Sure. Maybe.” The request gave me a sudden case of nerves. I’d been hoping to lay low for a few weeks before entering the town social life.

“You’re kind of a celebrity around here,” Marjorie said. “The town could use a little good publicity.”

“Well, I’m not a celebrity, but I’m happy to be here,” I said. Uncomfortable with the choice of subject matter, I cleared my throat and steered the topic back to business. “I believe I have a package.”

“Let me check.” While Marjorie searched in the back for my delivery, I wandered the small lobby. According to the bulletin board, the local elementary school was holding a chili supper on Saturday. I made a mental note to stop by if I had time, mostly for the free food. Above the notice, a poster of a missing child caught my eye. A shiver ran down my back. With a fingertip, I traced the oval curve of the young girl’s face.

“Here you go.” The woman hoisted the box onto the counter, catching me in the act. “Such a shame about the Cartwright girl. Her family never gave up looking for her.”

“Did you know her?” I asked, withdrawing my hand. The girl’s fair skin and russet hair reminded me of Lanie at that age.

“I’ve known her mother since third grade. The Cartwrights have been my neighbors for years.” The woman scanned the box then tapped the receipt for a signature.

“She’s not the first to go missing.” Karen stared at me, taking in my tattered jeans and faded T-shirt. I smoothed a hand over the frizz around my temples. Compared to her loose flowered dress and smooth hair, I felt disheveled.

“If you ask me, someone needs to question him about it.” I lifted my eyes to follow the tilt of Marjorie’s head. Across the street, Owen unfolded his long legs from the driver’s seat of his truck and headed into the hardware store. “That man’s a monster.”

“He might be the devil himself, but he’s one fine-looking specimen,” Karen observed.

“He killed his brother, you know,” Marjorie said.

Bile burned the back of my throat. I placed a hand on my stomach to ease the wave of nausea. Karen nodded. “It’s hard to believe such a beautiful man could do something so horrific. His family disowned him—not that you can blame them—but they’re all criminals too, if you ask me. The sheriff’s been trying to run Owen out of town since he came back here, but Dad won’t let them.”

“Dad’s a good man,” Marjorie added. “But he’s always taking in strays. He’s messed up in some program for rehabilitation of ex-convicts. I don’t know how his family lives with all those criminals in their midst. Especially one like Owen Henry. I’d be afraid he might slit my throat while I’m sleeping.”

“I’m late. Thanks for the help.” I grabbed the package and sprinted out of the post office before I gave them a piece of my mind. Breaking my silence after so many years wasn’t an option. Instead, I shoved the box into my car and took a second to regain my composure. Of course, everyone in town knew about Owen. The story had been front page news for months. With shaking hands, I stuffed the front hem of my T-shirt into the waistband of my jeans and tried to tidy my wayward hair. If I was going to survive in this town, I needed to thicken my skin.

After a mental lecture, I entered Etta Mae’s Café, head held high and shoulders back. Comforting aromas wrapped around me—freshly baked pies, grilling meats, and spices. The hum of conversation stopped. My sandals clicked across the worn linoleum floor. It was like being the new kid in school all over again, something I’d done dozens of times. I chose a seat by the window where I could peer through the red gingham curtains onto the street. After a few seconds, people lost interest in me and resumed eating.

A gum-snapping waitress brought over a menu and water. The front door opened again. Owen’s tall figure cast a long shadow across the dining room. The conversation stopped once more, but this time it resumed in hushed whispers. He slid behind a table on the far wall. The man sitting at the adjacent booth tossed a ten-dollar bill beside his plate and left. Several others shifted places to the opposite side of the room. Owen stared at his menu, brows lowered and jaw tensed. The blatant snub made my blood boil. I pushed back my chair, legs scraping loudly over the floor, went to Owen’s side, and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Yeah?” The deep growl of his voice might have intimidated a lesser person. He glanced over his shoulder at me, the lines between his eyes smoothing. “What?”

“May I join you?”

“No.” His terse refusal stung more than I cared to admit.

“I insist.” I gathered my things and claimed the chair across from him. He sighed heavily and shook his head.

“We shouldn’t be seen together like this.” He started to push away from the table. I placed my hand over his, intending to stop him. He flinched. The meeting of my palm with his skin sent a jolt of awareness up my arm. Our eyes connected over the top of a green plastic vase filled with daisies. I dropped my hand into my lap, curling and uncurling my fingers to dull the buzzing.

“What can I get for you?” The waitress tossed her long ponytail over her shoulder and tapped her pen on the order pad.

“I’ll have the special and sweet iced tea with lemon,” I said.

“Me too.” Owen continued to stare at me. I wanted to look away but was trapped in the depths of those eyes with their inky lashes. It was so unfair to see lashes like that on a man. He shifted back in his chair, stretching his legs beneath the table, carefully avoiding my feet. When the waitress left, he said, “People are going to talk.”

“Calm down. It’s just lunch.”

“I don’t give two shits what people say about me, but you don’t want to be associated with an ex-convict.”

“You have no idea what I want.” I’d been on the wrong side of gossip my entire life. People judged me for my upbringing, my wardrobe, the stud in my nose and my nomadic lifestyle—pretty much anything that made me different from them. “If anyone asks, I’ll say you’re working at my house, and we were discussing changes.” I paused to let the waitress drop off a plate of rolls and our iced tea. “What’s the deal with Officer Coley? Dad says that happens a lot.”

“He doesn’t like me. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly Mr. Popularity in this town.” His mild tone belied the sparks in his eyes. “People don’t like having a convicted murderer in their midst.”

“Then why did you come back here? You could have gone anywhere—started a new life in a new town.” At the narrowing of Owen’s eyes, I lowered my voice a notch and tried to loosen my grimace into something more pleasant. “You always hated this place.”

“You mean why did I come back here and ruin your life?” This time, he didn’t try to hide the animosity in his voice. “I told you. I had no idea you lived in Corbett.” He picked up the butter knife beside his plate. Sunlight glinted off the silver blade, momentarily blinding me. I flinched at the sight of his fingers on the knife, remembering Chris and the way he’d died. “News flash, Stella. Not everything is about you.”

“Don’t you blame me for your situation.” Of course, he blamed me. I blamed myself. “You confessed to killing Chris. You caused this situation. Not me.” The amount of anger bubbling up from my core caught me by surprise.

“You’re pissed?” He snorted and shook his head, like I’d said the most amusing thing in the world. “Go ahead. Get it off your chest. You won’t be the first or last person in line to take a poke at me.”

“I’m not pissed.” But it was a lie. I was angry with him—angry for going to prison, for dumping me, for showing up on my doorstep and threatening the fragile happiness I’d built. Because now I questioned everything—my feelings for him and for Michael and the sensibility of moving back to a place with so many turbulent memories. The selfishness of my thoughts brought a lump to my throat. “I just want answers. I need closure.”

“Don’t worry. I have no intention of screwing up your life.” The thick vein running up his arm pulsed with each beat of his heart.

“You screwed up my life when you refused to talk to me eighteen years ago.” We glared at each other. He hadn’t shaved this morning, and sparks of red glistened in the dark stubble on the sharp line of his jaw. I searched for traces of the boy I’d once loved in the chiseled features of this man. A small scar nicked one thick eyebrow. That was new. His lips were fuller but still had the same sensitive Cupid’s bow. Once upon a time, I’d loved to kiss that mouth. The memory took the edge off my anger.

“Keep your voice down,” he growled and shoved his chair in reverse. “Peggy, I’ll take my lunch to go.” Our legs tangled beneath the table. His knee slid along the inside of my thigh. I hissed at the ensuing flutter of desire. The motion in the room ground to a halt. The voices dissipated until we were alone. Him. Me. And the fucked-up mess of our pasts.

“Go ahead. Leave.” My voice cracked on the words, catching on my dry lips. A relentless thirst burned the walls of my throat, one that couldn’t be quenched by water. I needed space and time away from him to regain my control before I did something stupid like kiss him.

At the counter, the waitress boxed up his meal. Her hands shook as she handed him the container. He slapped some money beside the cash register, and without a backward glance, strode out of the building. I watched him cross the street, saw the way pedestrians moved out of his path, parting like a school of fish around a shark.

A hand tapped my shoulder. I blinked away from Owen and up to the face of a twenty-something young woman with a blond ponytail and round blue eyes. “Hi. You’re Stella Valentine, right? I don’t mean to interrupt your meal, but I’m Velma Nixon. I work for The County Reporter. Do you have a minute?”