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Winchester, TennesseeFriday, August 2
Murderer. Cecelia Winters stared at the ugly word scrawled in red paint across the white front door. She glanced back at the taxi that was already speeding away down the dusty road. She sighed, dropped her backpack onto the porch.
Her brother Levi was supposed to have picked her up at the prison when she was released. Evidently something had held him up. She went up on her tiptoes but still could not reach the ledge above the door. Surveying the porch, she decided a chair would work for what she needed. The two ladder-back chairs and the swing had been a part of her grandmother’s front porch for as long as Cecelia could remember. The wicker plant stand that stood between the chairs was empty and in serious need of painting. Tiny flakes of faded white paint lay on the floor around it.
“Falling apart like everything else around here,” she grumbled as she dragged the chair to the door and climbed atop it.
The key lay on the dusty ledge just as it always had. It would be a flat-out miracle if the house hadn’t been vandalized and cleaned out of anything worth taking. But Cece, as she had always been called, wasn’t complaining. Her grandmother had left her this old house with the ten acres that surrounded it. The walls were still standing and the roof appeared in reasonably good condition. Anything over and above that would be icing on the cake. Cece was enormously thankful to have a place to stay at all. What was left of her family had turned their backs on her a long time ago.
Except for her grandmother, her momma’s momma. She had never believed the lies. And Cece’s little brother—at least, she had thought her brother had not turned on her. He had not shown up to pick her up when she was released so she could not be certain. Last month he had visited her at the prison. He had seemed fine and, frankly, over the moon that she would soon be free.
No one was happier about that than Cece. She had served her time.
She stared at the red letters of the word painted on the door once more before opening it and stepping inside. No matter that it was barely two in the afternoon, gloom filled the house that had always been Cece’s refuge growing up. The shades, she realized. Moving from window to window, she tugged gently on the old roller-style shades, causing each one to slide upward and allowing sunlight into the house. Dust floated in the air, filtering through the rays of light like a thousand miniscule snowflakes in an old snow globe with yellowed glass.
Emily Broward had died one year ago. The house had sat empty, awaiting its new owner’s release from prison. Levi had sworn he had checked in on things from time to time but Cece could not be sure he had done so. The house was neat and clean—other than the dust—so she supposed he had dropped by on occasion. Her grandmother had been an immaculate housekeeper, so the neatness wasn’t surprising and likely had nothing to do with Levi’s drive-bys.
The house was small. A living room, eat-in kitchen, two bedrooms and a bath. There was an attic and a tiny brick-walled and stone-floored basement that was more a root cellar than anything else. The house was plenty roomy enough, her grandmother had always said. The furniture was the same as Cece remembered from her childhood. Emily Broward had been far too frugal to spend money on new furniture when what she had remained serviceable.
Which, Cece imagined, was how she had hung on to what was left of this small family farm for nearly half a century. Emily’s one and only child, a daughter and Cece’s mother, had died more than twenty years ago. So the place now belonged to Cece. In truth, if not for this house, she would never have come back to the Winchester area. She had sworn she wouldn’t be back. Ever.
But here she was.
Really, what else could she do? She had nothing but the clothes on her back and the backpack she’d had with her when she’d been arrested nearly nine years ago. She had nothing. No money. No job. No family—unless you counted her no-show younger brother, the sole sibling who hadn’t disowned her.
Still, there was the matter of the truth. No matter that she had told herself a thousand times that she did not care, she did. Somewhere in this town, someone knew the truth and she wanted to find it. To prove she was not a cold-blooded murderer. To show whoever cared that she was the good girl her grandmother Emily always believed her to be.
Pushing away the overwhelming and painful thoughts, Cece decided what she needed at this moment was paint. Didn’t matter what color. Anything to smear over the ugly word slashed across the front door.
Paint and tools were in the old smokehouse. Her grandmother had stopped using the smokehouse for its original purpose years ago, after Cece’s grandfather passed away. She had turned it into a gardening shed. Flower and vegetable gardening had been Emily’s favorite thing in the world.
Cece headed out the back
