than the front. South facing, it weathered the harshest elements. She would need to have a closer look at its condition soon. Her grandmother had been one of those women who refused to be helpless in any way. She had learned how to wield a hammer and a shotgun with equal skill. Cece would just have to do the same since she had no resources.
But first, she would need a job.
She opened the door to the smokehouse and peered into the dark interior. She shuddered, wondered if her grandmother’s shotgun was still in the same place. Probably in her closet or under the bed. Deep breath. She stepped inside, reaching overhead for the string that would turn on the light. Her fingers found it and she pulled. The bare bulb glared to life, spilling light over the dusty, cobweb-infested space.
It took some doing but she found an old bucket of white paint. When she had opened it, removed a hard skin from over the top and vigorously stirred the contents, it appeared to be enough for her purposes. Hopefully.
With a serviceable brush rounded up, she turned off the light and closed up the smokehouse. There was a good deal of cleanup she needed to do. Someone had been keeping the yard cut, which was a really good thing. Augusts were generally as hot as Hades and rain was typically scarce. Snakes would be actively searching for water sources. About the only thing she disliked more than snakes were spiders. Banishing the idea of creepy, crawly things, Cece scrubbed a coat of paint over the graffiti. It would take several coats to cover the red, or maybe she would have to pick up a stain-blocking product to help make the glaring reality go away.
You need money for that, Cece.
After cleaning the brush and pressing the lid back onto the paint can, she decided to have a look in the bedroom she had used before ending up in prison. She left the front door ajar with its wet paint and headed that way. Her father had kicked her out of the house when she was sixteen. At the time she had been only too happy to go. She wouldn’t have stayed that long if not for her younger sister. She had worried about Sierra, who was four years younger, but she had learned the hard way that her little sister was quite capable of taking care of herself.
Her grandmother had warned her, but Cece had not wanted to see it. Sierra had turned into a selfish, belligerent teenager. As a little kid she had looked up to Cece. Hung onto her hand every chance she got. Crawled into bed with her when she was scared. They had both been so young when their mother died, but especially Sierra. She had only been two years old. Cece had tried to be more than just a big sister. Fat lot of good it had done her.
Sierra and Marcus, their older brother, were fanatical just like their father had been. According to Levi, Marcus had taken over her father’s church—cult was a better description. And Sierra was his right hand.
Another reason Cece would rather have been anywhere than here.
Regardless of how she pretended, she could not leave. Not until she found the truth. In the final letter she had received from her grandmother before Emily passed away, she had told Cece that her trusted attorney, Clarence Frasier, had hired a private investigator to help find the truth.
Unfortunately Frasier had died two months ago without passing along any new developments in the investigation. His partner had sent her a letter saying he would not be able to pursue her case or represent her. Her file was available for pickup should she choose to do so. Additionally, in his letter, he had confirmed her fears about the private investigator’s inability to find anything new.
Probably she would pick up the files in a day or two. For now, she just wanted to be alone and enjoy being outside those gray prison walls. A nice hot bath or shower in private was very high on her list. Planning her own menu and picking out what she would wear. No one realized how important all those little decisions were until the right to make them was taken away.
The clothes she had owned before she was arrested still hung in the closet. Underthings and pajamas were neatly folded in drawers—her grandmother’s doing, no doubt. Cece had never been that organized. Her heart squeezed at the memory of how she had begged to be allowed to visit her grandmother in the hospital those final days of her life and, when Emily was gone, to be able to attend her funeral. Cece’s persistence had landed her in isolation for a week.
She would visit the cemetery soon. Take flowers, as soon as she had money to purchase something nice.
At the dresser, she hesitated before turning away. A framed photo of her mother and her grandmother from twenty-five years ago captured her attention. Cece had the same curly red hair as her mother and her grandmother. She was the only one in the family to inherit the red hair and green eyes. Marcus and Levi had dark brown hair with brown eyes, like their father. Sierra’s hair was even darker, as were her eyes. Her coloring was a fact Cece’s father had held against her. He had sworn her red hair was the mark of the devil. She remembered him telling her mother the same thing. Her mother had died when Cece was six years old but she remembered those cruel words.
Her father had been a mean man, and harsh, hurtful words and actions were the only memories Cece had of him. She hoped he was burning in hell.
Her grandmother would pat her on the hand and assure her he was, indeed, roasting in hell. She had hated Mason Winters. Her daughter’s—her only child’s—marriage to him had broken her heart.
Cece shook off the painful memories. There was a lot she needed to do. Starting with stocking the kitchen. Though food wasn’t exactly a priority for her, she had to eat. The attorney had said in his letter that a credit of five hundred dollars awaited her at the market in town. Frasier’s doing, no doubt. He had felt sorry for Cece and had adored her grandmother. Cece had often wondered if he had been in love with her grandmother. He had certainly seemed to be. He had been a widower, she a widow, but to Cece’s knowledge their relationship had never been anything other than friendship.
Cece closed the front door and locked it. She tucked the key into the pocket of her jeans and went to the kitchen to see if her grandmother had still kept her truck keys in the drawer by the back door. She pulled the drawer open and there they were. She snatched up the keys and headed out to the side of the barn her grandparents had used as a garage. She raised the crossbar and the double doors swung open. She climbed into the blue truck that was twice as old as she was and inserted the key.
She said a quick prayer in hopes that Levi had done as he had promised and kept the truck in running order. Her grandparents had maintained it in immaculate condition, but after Emily’s death the battery would have died if the truck wasn’t started regularly, driven around a bit. Levi had promised to drive it once a week until Cece came home.
Holding her breath, she turned the key and pumped the accelerator.
The engine purred to life as if she had just driven the vehicle off the showroom floor.
Relieved, she slid the gearshift into Reverse and backed out of the garage. Her grandmother had taught her to close the garage doors whenever she took the truck anywhere. No one who passed would realize she was gone as long as those doors were closed. Even in a small town, run-of-the-mill thieves could be found.
Far worse could be found, as well. The really bad ones just knew how to hide better than the others.
* * *
THE DRIVE TO Ollie’s in Winchester took scarcely twenty minutes. The first few miles were easy. Driving was like riding a bike, her grandmother had said in her letters. You won’t forget how whether you haven’t driven for eight years or eighty. She had been right about that part.
But the traffic—even in a small town—had Cece’s heart pounding, her fingers gripping the steering wheel and sweat
