believe a film crew was here again.” Arnold Hawkins, his self-important voice unmistakable.
“...don’t understand why the police...” A woman’s voice.
“At least, thanks to this town, she has a respectable resting place.” Claudia Neff, an insurance agent. Also sounding smug.
Olivia was glad the town of Crescent Creek had cared enough to raise the money to bury the still-unidentified girl found dead in the woods. She just wished they’d been motivated by genuine philanthropy rather than the self-conscious awareness that they were acting on a world stage for the first time in their lives. The mystery of the girl who had seemingly appeared from nowhere, died for no apparent reason and been buried by a community of people who had tenderly taken her to their collective hearts was still an internet sensation.
Jane Doe’s death was a watershed for this town, one that made Olivia uneasy more than anything.
Maybe because her father had died only a month later, as if—
There was no as if, she told herself firmly. What possible connection could there be? They all knew Dad’s heart had been damaged by the first attack. It had only been a matter of time. She’d come home to Crescent Creek to take over Dad’s hardware store and lumberyard to give him peace and to spend time with him.
Listening to the receding footsteps of the waitress who had taken their order, Olivia decided she’d been patient enough.
“So, what’s up?” she asked, looking questioningly at her mom.
Marian Bowen’s mouth firmed and her eyes met Olivia’s. “I’ve decided to sell the house.”
Olivia gaped. “Dad hasn’t even been dead two weeks.” Or in the ground for one. They had buried Charles Bowen on the Sunday of Thanksgiving weekend, and today was only Thursday.
“I know what I want to do, Livy. Please don’t argue.”
“But...it’s home.”
Her mother’s face softened. “I know it was. But that doesn’t mean I have to stay in it for the rest of my life.”
“You know it’s too soon to be making decisions that big.”
“I can’t stay there. I won’t.”
The misery that had been balled in Olivia’s chest for three months now—the same three months when she had seen her parents’ marriage failing—intensified into active pain. “Mom, what’s wrong? Please tell me.”
“Nothing’s wrong that you need to know about. I’m a widow now, and I’m ready to downsize. Is that so bad?”
“But...where will you go?”
“I’m considering a house at The Crescent.”
The Crescent was a new and very nice senior citizen housing development. Technically, they were condominiums with the outside maintenance handled by the association. Olivia had been surprised to see anything like that in Crescent Creek, a small town nestled deep in the Cascade Mountain foothills, but the homes seemed to be getting snapped up as fast as they were built. Lloyd Smith, who managed the lumberyard side of the Bowens’ business, had even mentioned that his wife wanted him to take a look at them.
If Mom had suggested the move six months from now, Olivia might have thought it was a good idea. But as it was—the decision had been made purely out of anger, not practicality. Her husband had died before she could leave him, but she was determined to go through with it one way or another.What’s more, it occurred to Olivia that this felt an awful lot like receiving an eviction notice, given that she lived in the family home right now, too.
“Does that mean you intend to sell the business, too?” she asked. The one she’d thrown herself heart and soul into revitalizing?
“I don’t know. I can’t expect you to run it forever.”
“Apparently you have made up your mind.”
“You sound mad.”
“A little taken aback,” she said truthfully. “When do you want me to move out?”
Her mother’s expression changed, showing a hint of shock and some vulnerability. “But...you know it’s going to take time to make decisions about everything we have. I hoped you’d be willing to help.”
This had been a really lousy few months. Mom and Dad suddenly, overnight, refusing to talk to each other. The house seething with everything they wouldn’t say aloud, at least within Olivia’s hearing. Dad’s face, tinted blue. The oxygen tank kept beside the big chair in the den. The slow way he moved, struggling for breath. The shock of Marsha Connelly finding a teenage girl frozen to death in the woods. Dad insisting on going to the funeral despite his fragile health. Mom’s angry absence obvious to anyone paying attention.
And then Olivia waking up in the morning to her mother telling her Dad had died sometime in the night. Mom didn’t know when, because she had been sleeping in the guest bedroom, which meant he’d been alone.
Another funeral, held only eight days later.
Olivia had been hanging on by her fingernails since.
Those same fingernails were biting into her thighs right now. Yes, Mom, I am mad.
“I don’t know what to say.” She sounded a thousand times calmer than she felt. “You’ve hardly spoken to me in weeks. You don’t care about the business. I’m not so sure you care about Dad dying. Now you’re rejecting everything that represents our family and my childhood.” She blew out a breath. “What do you expect me to say? Gee, Mom, that sounds like fun. Let’s dig right in. How about a garage sale? Ooh, I love garage sales.”
Marian Bowen sat so utterly still, she looked like a wax effigy. Only her eyes were alive, with a whole lot more than a hint of shock now. Apparently Olivia had betrayed more of her own pain and anger than she’d realized. In fact, out of the corner of her eyes she could see that other diners had turned to look. And, oh God, the waitress was bearing down on them with a tray holding their entrees. Bad time to jump up and say, “I’m not in the mood for lunch.”
Instead she kept her mouth shut until the waitress had come and gone again, probably wondering why neither woman so much as glanced at her, forget thanking her.
Then she said, “We need to talk about this later,” and reached for her fork. She wasn’t sure she could so much as put a bite in her mouth, but she could pretend.
* * *
BEN HOVIK DIDN’T know what had possessed him to take a long detour by the cemetery.
Until a few weeks ago, he hadn’t given it a thought. Growing up in Crescent Creek, he’d been as oblivious as any child was to the reality of death. Yeah, Grandma Everson was buried there, but he hardly remembered her. However, after the two recent funerals, the cemetery held a grim fascination to him.
He felt good about the first funeral. Not the death, of course, because that still left him stunned. How was it possible that a kid no more than sixteen had been too sick or injured or just plain scared to seek help on a freezing cold night? Why had she wandered so far into the woods,
