have any climate control features. Her grandfather had insisted the windows were control enough. You either let the climate in or you do not, he would say.
All the noise—from the many different sounds blowing in through her window to the other vehicles on the road—had Cece on edge, as well. Not that she was complaining. It would just take some getting used to.
Cece did not breathe easy until she had braked to a stop in the lot at the market and thrust the gearshift into Park. For good measure, she engaged the emergency brake before climbing out. She pocketed the keys but didn’t bother locking the doors since there was nothing in the truck worth stealing. The bench seat was a little on the worn side and the rubber-coated floorboards had never been covered with mats as far as she recalled. Just a plain old truck. No rust or dents but very basic. The automatic transmission was the one upgrade, and that had been added only because her grandmother pitched a fit about it back when her grandfather decided to buy a truck.
The asphalt steamed as she crossed to the store entrance. With only a handful of cars in the lot, she was hopeful that she wouldn’t run into anyone who remembered her. Eight years was a long time. If she were lucky most folks would have forgotten her by now.
Yeah, right. Like people forgot when a girl was charged with murdering her father.
She would never live that down—no matter that she was innocent.
Her fingers curled around the handle of the shopping cart and she started with the aisle closest to the entrance. The store looked different now. At some point over the years it had been remodeled and she had no clue where anything was anymore, but she would leave empty-handed before she asked for help and drew attention to herself.
Mostly she only needed the basics. Bread, milk, cheese, eggs. Maybe some peanut butter and crackers. The fruit department spread out before her and she decided fruit would be nice, as well. She grabbed apples, berries, oranges and bananas before stopping to think that she had no idea how much this stuff cost anymore. Since she only had a limited amount of credit, she had to be careful.
Keeping the apples and bananas, she put the berries and oranges back and moved on. Next time she would have those. When she reached the coffee aisle, she realized she could not live without a caffeine fix every morning. Since her grandmother had preferred hot tea and only bought instant coffee for guests, there was no coffee maker. Cece grabbed a jar of instant and moved on. Resisting the snack aisle, she strolled on to the dairy department. When she had mentally checked off the items on her list and deposited each one into her cart, she headed for the checkout counter.
Fortunately, the cashier was young, maybe seventeen or eighteen. She wouldn’t know Cece.
When she had rung up the final item, she looked at Cece. “That’ll be sixty-two fifty-eight.”
Uncertainty seared through her. How did she explain the credit? “Is there a manager on duty?”
The girl stared at Cece, impatience written all over her face. “Sure.” She called for the manager over the loudspeaker.
Cece ignored the people who glanced at the register and her. What if the manager on duty had no idea about the credit? Her stomach twisted into a thousand knots. She should have called the attorney’s office before coming here.
“She has a question,” the cashier said, yanking Cece’s attention to the man who approached the checkout.
He was older, fifty or so, and looked vaguely familiar. Tension banded around her chest making a breath near impossible. When he frowned, her anxiety escalated.
“Cece?”
She nodded, the move jerky.
A smile propped up the corners of his mouth. “Make a note of the amount,” he said to the cashier. “The lady has a credit that will take care of the total.” To Cece he said, “Whenever you come in, just have them write the total and my name on the back of the receipt and tuck it into the till.”
Cece searched her memory banks but his name was lost to her.
“Thanks, Mr. Holland,” the cashier said, saving Cece from having to ask.
She nodded. “Yes, thank you.”
Holland sent her an answering nod and returned to whatever he had been doing before the cashier had summoned him to the front.
By the time the cashier had written Holland on the back of the receipt and deposited it into the till, a short line had formed behind Cece. She had her bags in her cart and was ready to run a good five seconds before the girl glanced at her and said the words that would allow her to feel comfortable making her exit, “Thanks. Come again.”
Cece was almost to the door when a female voice called out behind her, “Aren’t you that girl who killed her daddy?”
Cece did not look back, just kept going. Her focus narrowed to the old blue truck waiting for her in the parking lot. All she had to do was reach that truck, load her stuff into the passenger seat and drive away. When she had money of her own, she would go to Tullahoma or some other nearby town where people were less likely to know her. Then again, even if she had had money, the fear of her driving skills being too rusty would have kept her close to home today.
She remembered well how it was here—the way it was in most small towns—news of her return would rush along the gossip grapevine like a fire devouring dry leaves. Passenger-side door open, she placed her bags in the seat and floorboard. With the task complete, she ordered herself to breathe.
Slow, deep breath. She was okay. She would be in the truck and on her way in a minute. This first foray into public was nearly over.
For a second she considered leaving the shopping cart sitting in the middle of the lot, but the manager had been nice to her, and she shouldn’t repay him by leaving the cart where it might hit a parked vehicle or roll out onto the street and cause an accident. Besides, the cart corral was only a few steps away. The clash of metal as she slid the cart into the line of others already in there made her cringe. She wasn’t sure when the fear that someone would attack her would diminish. Learning to be on guard at all times was necessary to survival in prison. Many things had been necessary to survival—things she wanted to forget.
“Murderer!”
Cece turned around to face the woman who shouted at her...a different one from the voice that had called out to her in the store.
This woman wasn’t alone.
Cece’s heart stuttered. Three women and four—no, five—men spread out between Cece and her truck. She didn’t know any of them, but she recognized the clothes they wore. Plain, overly modest, drab in color. Salvation Survivalists. Members of her father’s following. She refused to call it a church. These people had nothing to do with God.
“We shall purge this evil from our midst!” one of the men shouted.
Cece stood perfectly still. If she ran they would only chase her. If she called out for help she would be wasting her time since there was no one to hear her.
The woman who had spoken first drew back her right arm and flung something at Cece. It struck her in the side, making her flinch at the sharp pain, before bouncing onto the asphalt.
Rock?
Memories
