as ever with wide amber eyes and flawless porcelain skin, but...she looked sad. She always looked sad, even when smiling. At the age of twenty-one, Lyndie had married the police chief of Blueberry Hill. By twenty-three, she had become a widow.
Dorothea had only seen pictures of her friend with Chief Carrington; their relationship had taken place during her years away. She hoped they had loved each other deeply, madly, the way Dorothea had always yearned to be loved, but she suspected the couple had had their fair share of problems. Otherwise Lyndie would have kept her married name? Maybe?
“I actually came by the inn a few hours ago.” Lyndie gazed at her with concern. “Are you all right? Your sister said you didn’t want to be disturbed because you had a case of—” she glanced over her shoulder and whispered “—raging diarrhea.”
Dorothea nearly choked on her tongue. “Holly lied.” What else had the girl told the townspeople? Chronic flatulence? Hemorrhoids and anal fissures? “I promise I’m perfectly healthy.”
Lyndie pressed her lips together only to burst into laughter. “I’m sorry! I am. But oh, wow, your sister is a character.”
“Yeah, a character in a horror novel.” Though Dorothea had done a lousy job of keeping up with her dear friends while living in the city—she’d worked too much and foolishly poured all her free time into Jazz—the two had called and texted her often. Tidbits here and there about what they were up to, or inside jokes about their high school days. For instance, the time they created the ten commitments for any relationship, even though they were invisible to boys.
A boy shalt not:
Lie to anyone, ever, not even to flatter;
Cheat with so much as a look;
Steal even when desperate;
Harm others in any way;
Make excuses for bad behavior.
He shalt:
Compliment when merited;
Help when needed;
Treat others with kindness, always;
Consult you when making big decisions;
Do his best, not just what’s good enough.
Looking back, she comprehended Lyndie and Ryanne had seen through Jazz’s charisma to the slimeball within. By reminding her oh, so subtly of the list, they’d hoped she would see the truth.
She had, only far too late.
“Ryanne has the night off,” Lyndie said, “and she’s fixin’ me breakfast for dinner. Of course, by ‘me’ I mean ‘us.’ You’re coming, and I won’t take no for an answer.”
A fun, spontaneous night with friends? “You don’t have to drag me kicking and screaming. I’m in!” She climbed into the passenger seat and buckled up.
They drove to the Scratching Post a few miles outside of town, once owned and operated by Ryanne’s fourth stepdad, Earl.
Her mother—Selma Martinez-Wade-Lewis-Scott-Hernandez-Montgomery—had married Earl after divorcing Lyndie’s father for reasons neither girl had ever discussed with Dorothea. In fact, both girls tended to act cagey whenever the subject came up, so she’d stopped asking questions. Eventually she’d stopped feeling hurt by the secrecy, too.
Whatever had happened, the two had obviously been hurt deeply. Dorothea flattened her palm over her tattoo. Some hurts worsened when they were discussed, never able to heal.
Ryanne lived directly above the bar. She’d moved in a couple years ago to take care of Earl, who’d later died of cancer.
What seemed to be millions of cars littered the parking lot. Inside the smoky, two-story warehouse, crowds of people stretched wall-to-wall. A few months ago, Ryanne had begun selling a house-made fruit cocktail moonshine; now patrons came to the Scratching Post in droves.
Directly behind the counter, a narrow hallway led to offices as well as a secret stairwell guarded by a weathered door and some kind of weird-looking digital lock. Lyndie punched in the code known to very few people, and together they climbed to the top, where they found another lock. This time, Lyndie knocked.
When you lived above a bar, you had to take precautions.
“Come in,” Ryanne called from inside.
Lyndie punched in a second code and entered the apartment, Dorothea at her heels. The sound of clanging pots and pans drew them across the great room and into a spacious, industrial kitchen with state-of-the-art appliances, everything chrome or stainless steel.
The scent of maple and bacon saturated the air, and her mouth watered. Her stomach growled.
The gorgeous Ryanne bustled from stove to sink. She had long, dark hair, even darker eyes and flawless golden-brown skin. In a pink tank top and skinny jeans, her hourglass figure was on perfect display.
A cloud of steam rose from the pan, painting her in a dreamy haze as she looked up and smiled in welcome. “Good girl, Lyndie. You managed to corral us a wild filly.”
Me? Wild?
“Yes, ma’am, I surely did.” Lyndie patted herself on the back. “I didn’t even have to hog-tie her.”
Dorothea loved seeing the reserved redhead come out of her shell. “I’m not that bad,” she said, only to sigh. “Okay, I’m worse. Sorry.”
“Hey. Don’t worry about it. We understand.” Lyndie gave one of Dorothea’s fallen curls a tug. “Your heart is still in the process of mending.”
She offered a half smile, which was all she could currently manage. Lyndie and Ryanne knew the bare bones about her past: she’d gotten married and divorced after Jazz cheated on her. The pair had no idea she’d discovered the affair only because Jazz’s girlfriend had wanted Dorothea out of the picture. They had no idea she’d walked in on the couple mid-act and had run out of the apartment in horror—only to fall down a flight of stairs.
And lose her baby.
A knot tangled in her throat. Don’t think about the baby.
Too late. The memories had been banging on the door of her mind, waiting for a chance to overtake her. She’d been five months pregnant, but because of a wonky cycle and a few extra pounds, she had only just found out.
Falling down the stairs had caused her to deliver her precious baby prematurely. Though the little girl was already dead, she’d had to give her a name. She’d chosen Rose. Rose Holly Connors.
Rose...dead...beyond hope.
A pang in her chest. Dorothea flattened a hand over the tattoo on her breast. She would forever carry her baby close to her heart.
If Rose had survived, she might be walking by now. Pang. If she’d gone to term, she might be crawling. PANG.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Lyndie asked her.
“Excuse me. I need to use the bathroom.”
