out in the yard, she could just make out the yellow bucket swing Kent had hung for Connor.
Beyond that, the trio of birch trees Brooke had bought the couple as a housewarming gift had already begun to bud. She couldn’t see them now, but she’d noticed yesterday.
Yesterday.
She swallowed past the lump in her throat, remembering that when her mother was killed during a convenience store holdup, staying busy had helped.
Brooke started a pot of coffee. Threw a load of towels into the washing machine. Made her bed.
“Gram is right,” she muttered, emptying the wastebaskets. “A trained monkey could perform monotonous household chores.” It was still dark when she backed out the front door, fumbling with the garbage bag’s red drawstrings.
“You’re up and at ’em early....”
The voice—deep and vaguely familiar—startled her. She turned to find herself face-to-face with Hunter Stone.
Hunter Stone, who’d been asleep in his squad car when he should have been in the store, stopping the gunman who killed her mother. Hunter Stone, who’d spent a good part of the fifteen years since then trying to atone by playing big brother to Beth and best friend to Kent.
He held her gaze for a blink or two—long enough for her to read remorse on his face.
Hunter took the trash bag and jogged down the driveway, adding it to one of two metal cans with SHERIDAN on their sides.
He was wiping his hands on a white handkerchief when he returned to the porch. “Look,” he said, tucking it in his back pocket, “I realize I’m the last person you want to see today of all days, but I wanted to ask if there’s anything I can do.”
Today of all days? So he’d heard about the crash? When she’d only just found out an hour ago? It meant his name wasn’t just on her sister’s emergency contacts list by the phone; it had also been with them while they’d traveled. He was just that important to them. In disbelief, she reached for the doorknob.
“Have you told Connor yet?”
She stopped but didn’t look at him. “It’s four-thirty in the morning.”
He checked his wristwatch and did a double take. Seemed embarrassed. “Guess you have some tough decisions to make in the next few hours, huh?”
Starting with how to get you off this porch.
“I can take Connor off your hands while you make arrangements. He’s used to me, so...” Hunter shrugged. “But if you’re more comfortable leaving him with Deidre, I could drive you...wherever.”
I’d sooner crawl.
But he was right. She needed to set up appointments with the bank, the funeral parlor, a lawyer who’d help her protect Connor’s future. The nightmare had just begun.
“Do I smell coffee?”
Brooke couldn’t believe her ears.
Hunter pinched the bridge of his nose. “I hope you won’t take what I’m about to say the wrong way....”
Everything about him rubbed her the wrong way.
“I know you and Beth haven’t exactly been on the best of terms lately—”
She pressed her lips together.
“—so I thought maybe I could bring you up to speed over a cup of coffee.”
Fists balled at her sides, she willed herself not to react.
Obviously, he’d mistaken her silence for an invitation; Hunter made a beeline past her into the house and directly for the kitchen, to the cupboard where Beth kept the mugs. She slowly followed him. “You drink yours black, as I recall.”
On the few occasions when they’d attended barbecues or birthday parties at Deidre’s or at Beth and Kent’s, she’d stayed as far away from Hunter as space would allow. And yet he knew how she liked her coffee. Was he aware she liked to cool it with ice? she wondered, opening the freezer.
If she dialed 911 and reported him as an intruder, would he leave quietly?
One of her grandfather’s favorite maxims came to mind: keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Maybe during one of her sister’s friendly sharing sessions with him, Beth had divulged something that would help Brooke find the will, so she’d know what sort of funeral to plan.
Funeral.
Beth was gone.
Brooke’s heart beat double time as the dizzying truth struck her. If she didn’t get hold of herself quickly, she’d break down. She took a deep breath, grabbing a handful of ice.
“Beth loved this time of year,” he said sadly, “because she could throw open all the windows.” Then he turned on the TV like he’d been doing it for years. Hunter tuned to Channel 13 and adjusted the antennas...
...and brought Beth and Kent’s wedding portrait into focus.
“A local church is mourning the loss of two well-loved congregants this morning,” said the anchorman.
Brooke gasped.
Hunter fumbled with the remote, and when it failed to turn off the set, he yanked the plug from the wall. “Sorry,” he said. “I just thought...background noise would help....”
Brooke couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Seeing Beth and Kent’s smiling faces—in living color on the morning news—hit her like a roundhouse punch to the gut. One by one, the ice cubes clattered to the floor.
She took a step toward the paper-towel holder, but Hunter blocked her path. “Leave it,” he said, his fingers closing around her wrists. “It isn’t going anywhere.”
She looked up into his face, seeing for the first time how haggard he looked.
Dizzying, disjointed thoughts spun in her brain. Call her new boss, ask for an extension on her start date; call the new landlord to plead for a refund of her deposit. Find Beth and Kent’s will and their checkbook; call Deidre to tell her about Beth. How would she tell Connor?
Never in her wildest dreams could Brooke have foreseen herself leaning into Hunter, sobbing.
CHAPTER THREE
GROWING UP THE youngest of four boys, Hunter hadn’t had much experience with touchy-feely stuff, but when Brooke melted against him, his arms automatically held her.
Unexpected? To be sure. Uncomfortable? Most definitely. Because the DVD in his inside jacket pocket was the only reason he’d come here today. When her brother-in-law handed it to him the week before their islands vacation, he’d sworn Hunter to secrecy. No one could know about his living-color will, not even Beth.
Listening to Kent’s vindictive portrayal of Brooke almost made him sorry he’d agreed to carry out its terms...and made him feel
