into the kitchen to grab an apple from the bowl on the counter. Her mom, dressed in her typical flowing skirt and embroidered blouse, had been standing with her back to Alessandra.
“I don’t know,” her mom said into the phone. “Jesse always seemed like a good kid. But my client was utterly sure that she saw him.”
There was a pause while the person on the other end said something Alessandra couldn’t hear.
Then her mom shook her head. “No. She saw an old photo of the kids and us on my desk. I think she commented by accident.”
Another pause. Another headshake.
“No,” her mom said. “A court stenographer.”
At that moment, Alessandra had accidentally dropped her apple to the floor, and her mom had turned, then quickly diverted the phone conversation to a new topic. At the time, it had piqued Alessandra’s interest only mildly. She’d had other things going on. A new, cute boy at school who she and her best friend both liked. A dismal grade in PE. And all the other general drama of being thirteen.
Maybe you should’ve paid a little more attention.
“Hey, Red? You still with me?” Rush prodded, and Alessandra realized she’d been sitting in silence for a little too long.
“I’m here,” she replied quickly.
“You didn’t finish your sentence,” he told her. “Jesse what?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “With his dad gone, it couldn’t have been easy. I think he was in a bit of trouble of some kind.”
“Trouble.” It was a flat statement rather than a question, and it was followed by silence, which made Alessandra turn her head sharply toward him.
Is it just me, she thought, or did this conversation get a little more intense than the average bit of small talk?
She waited for him to say something else. Maybe another question that would confirm her thought. But he was quiet, his eyes focused out the windshield. His jaw was still, his firm-looking lips pressed together. He didn’t even seem to notice the prolonged look she was giving him.
Her eyes drifted to his hands. They were moving in a pulsing squeeze. Rush was tense—brooding and surly again—no doubt about it.
Alessandra worried at her lower lip with her teeth. What was it that made him like that, over and over? As she stared at his fingers, she realized she’d been subconsciously leaning toward that idea that it was something to do with her. Maybe it didn’t make a lot of sense. They didn’t know each other in the slightest. But he’d seemed extra strained when asking about her nickname. And again when she’d suggested just leaving her at the cabin and told him what she’d thought her plans might be. And a third time when talking about her father’s death.
Alessandra had no clue why the details of her life would bother Rush Atkinson. But the evidence seemed to be pointing that way.
But not a second ago, she reminded herself.
His last bit of tension was definitely centered on the idea that Jesse had been in trouble fifteen years earlier.
Why? Then her mind suddenly seized on a different explanation for his repeated little tell, and she wondered why she hadn’t seen it before. It’s not me. It’s Jesse.
Jesse’s nickname for her. What Jesse was going to do with her while she was in town. And Jesse’s father’s death.
It was Rush’s boss that made him so tense. But why? What did it mean? And was it in any way helpful to Alessandra’s own search for answers?
She opened her mouth—though she wasn’t sure exactly what she was going to say because no way could she just come out and ask—but snapped it shut quickly as Rush pulled off the main road and onto a gravel one. It wasn’t the change in scenery that gave her pause. After all, she was expecting to be taken to a cabin, and had assumed it wouldn’t be right along the street that led into Whispering Woods. What did make her stare was that fact that she recognized the scenery. The trees overhead that arched into each other. The wide patches of oddly white rocks on either side of the gravel. And of course, the cabin itself, which flashed into view between the trees.
It was small and made of natural cedar. It sat up on the hills, nestled against the rock, and Alessandra knew for a fact that the veranda in the front was bigger than the building itself, and that there were exactly forty-seven stairs leading up to it. Just like she knew—even though she supposed a lot had probably changed in three decades—that the windows had once held cream-colored curtains, flecked with tiny bluebells, and that the double bed inside had once had a matching duvet. She recalled it perfectly. Because her parents had an entire collage of photos dedicated to the place. It was their honeymoon spot. The same one mentioned in the torn-up, patched-together note.
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