She’d come home after her confrontation with Derek Neel and had done the worst thing she could do before trying to sleep, the very thing she had promised herself she would stop doing, in fact. She had watched a series of DVDs, each one labeled simply with her last name and the year the video had been shot. She kept them stored separately from the remainder of her modest DVD collection, and she never shared them with anybody else. They were hers and hers alone.
She’d finally fallen asleep around midnight, after plowing through half a box of tissues and taking two aspirin for the headache that followed her crying jag. The alarm had gone off at 2:30 a.m. and, after pressing the snooze button as many times as the clock allowed, she’d dragged herself into the shower and over to the bakery to begin work at three-thirty. It had taken an entire pot of coffee to push her along until noon today, which was when she’d cried uncle and headed home again.
Before Izzy’s text, Willa had done one load of laundry, eaten two sticks of string cheese and a banana and, at 2:30—p.m. this time—she was wondering if she’d completely throw herself off by taking a nap. And then her phone had pinged. She often went back to work without any prompting from her boss, but this afternoon she thought she might fall over just thinking about returning to the bakery.
Sure. Be there in a few, she texted back. At least she’d be closer to her regular bedtime when she came home again. Maybe tonight would be merciful, and she would fall asleep easily and stay asleep until morning.
She’d already changed out of her flour-dusted jeans and into a pair of soft plaid lounging pants, a gray thermal top and her thickest socks. Piled into a half ponytail/half bun, her hair was no longer work-ready, but she really, really, really did not have the energy to get herself dressed and coiffed again. So for the first time since she’d gotten her job in Thunder Ridge, she stuffed her feet into boots, grabbed her coat and headed to work looking, she figured, like a soccer mom with a hangover.
Willa shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat and ducked her head against the chilly wind that had kicked up. As she neared Warm Springs Road, the main street through Thunder Ridge, she raised her head to nod at the locals who greeted her. It was easier to remain private, she had discovered, if she smiled and seemed happy.
She arrived at Something Sweet hoping to be done in record time with whatever business Izzy wanted to discuss. Noting quickly that the store seemed to be doing a brisk late business, Willa opened the glass door and scanned the room for her boss.
“Willa!” Izzy called. She was seated at the table nearest the kitchen. All four chairs were taken.
Rats. Instantly, Willa felt dizzy with fatigue. Multiple-person meetings often meant sitting through a sales pitch about some brilliant new mixer or a better brand of bread flour. Willa honestly didn’t know if she could remain upright for that today. And then she focused long enough to recognize someone else at the table.
Derek. Sitting with his back ramrod straight, hands resting on his thighs, he was looking, not at her for once, but at the people seated opposite him. One was a dark-haired man in his twenties and one was a boy.
“Thanks for coming.” Izzy got up and motioned Willa to the seat she’d just left.
Derek took a moment to nod at her, but kept his attention mostly on the young man and the boy seated with them at the table. The young man was scowling and turned his glare on Willa as she sat. The boy refused to glance her way at all.
“Sheriff Neel asked me to call you,” Izzy explained, standing beside the table, “since you were the one who saw the donation jar being stolen.”
“Thanks for coming in.” Derek nodded at her. “Gilberto—” he gestured to the boy “—admits to taking the donation jar. Unfortunately, the money has already changed hands. Gilberto was using it to purchase a bike. When I ran after him, the teen selling the bike took off in another direction. So far, Gilberto doesn’t want to give me the name of the other boy.”
“You better give it.” The younger man leaned across the table, his dark eyes flashing dangerously. “You want to go down for some jerk who left you to face a cop on your own? You’re bringing disrespect to your family, Gilberto. You better pick who you’re going to be loyal to, and pick fast.”
Willa saw Derek’s chest rise on a deep inhalation.
The boy cringed. You’re bringing disrespect to your family. So the boy and the man were related. It seemed obvious now. They both had latte-colored skin, black hair, dark eyes and similar features. The resemblance stopped there, however. Gilberto had a shy, nervous demeanor; by contrast, his relative wore resentment and belligerence like a second skin.
“I’m telling you, Gilberto, if you bring any more trouble home, I’m going to—” Cutting himself off, he thumped his balled fist against the table.
Derek’s entire body tensed.
Like a puppy trying to evade his master’s anger, Gilberto kept his eyes averted. He blinked several times rapidly. Willa recognized that expression: a child trying desperately not to cry in public. A child in pain.
“Excuse me,” she said to the man, “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Roddy.”
“Roddy. And are you Gilberto’s...father?”
“Hell, no! That would make me, like, fifteen when he was born. I been more careful than that.” He pointed between Gilberto and himself. “We’re blood, so anything anybody’s got to say goes through me. If he stole from you, I deal with it.”
“If he stole, the law will deal with it, Mr. Lopez,” Derek interjected, his voice calm, but every muscle in his body rigid. “What is your relationship exactly?”
“He’s my cousin. I can take care of him.”
Derek nodded slowly. “I appreciate your taking responsibility and asking Gilberto to do the same, but the law is involved now. We’ll be keeping our eye on the situation. The whole situation.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Just what I said. Our interest in Gilberto will continue.”
Derek was giving the man a clear message that abuse would not be tolerated. But Mr. Lopez was a bully, and Willa knew Derek wouldn’t be able to intervene in their daily lives. More sadness washed through her. Not your business. Stick to your own business. She looked at Gilberto. “He didn’t steal from me. He looks a lot like the boy who was in here yesterday, but...it’s not him.”
Gilberto’s surprise was palpable. Derek looked at her. “He nodded when I asked if he took the donation jar.”
“He’s not the one.”
Derek turned back to the boy. “Why did you nod?” he asked.
Evading everyone’s gaze, Gilberto shrugged.
It was clear the men were about to cross-examine him. “Maybe he was afraid,” she offered, “and thought things would be easier if he told you what you wanted to hear.”
“Is that what happened?” Derek questioned.
Gilberto shrugged again.
Roddy smacked his hands on his thighs and slid low in his seat, tossing back his head. “Aw! Are you crazy? You lied to
