Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake) by Rachel Caine (red white royal blue TXT) 📗

She clenches those keys so hard I think she’ll hurt herself, and her smile is a golden reward. “Thanks, Mom. I promise, no cruising, no giving rides to friends, no bullshit. Straight to school and back. And I’ll look after Connor.”

I just nod, like it’s an everyday thing that I let my seventeen-year-old drive my car. It isn’t. I know a lot of kids drive by themselves far earlier, but I’ve always been so . . . in their lives. It’s tough.

But this is the clearest sign I can give that I trust her, and right now, she needs that.

When that’s settled, I talk to Sam about borrowing his truck for the day; as I thought, he’s just fine with it, barely even pausing before he agrees. He adds, carefully, “Do you need me with you?” And I realize that he’s trying not to express an actual concern, trying to give me the space I need. I put my arms around his neck and savor the gentle kiss we exchange.

“I always need you,” I tell him. “But with me might not be helpful this time. Two people looks more threatening than just little old me, and I’m doing some door-knocking in a small town.”

“And having a strange guy with you may tip the scales the wrong way,” he says, and nods. “I get that. But you know I worry, right?”

“I know.” I trace the line of his chin with my finger, relishing the feel of his morning stubble. “I’ll be careful. And Kez will know where I am too. I’ll call in after each stop and tell you where I go next. Deal?”

“Deal. You can bring me back breakfast. What’s good in Valerie? Doughnuts, maybe?”

“Doubtful,” I tell him. “But I can stop for them once I’m back to civilization. Might be two or so, by the time I make the drive to and from. Then maybe we can take the kids to a movie.”

“Got to be some kind of normal life out there waiting,” he says. “I mean it. Be careful.”

“I will.”

Coming back into the area around Stillhouse Lake feels like both a homecoming and a trauma. I can’t really separate those two, not anymore, but I still love the scenery even if I know I’m not welcome in it. I pass the turnoff to the lake, and our old house, and have to resist the impulse to see what the new residents are doing with my old place. I don’t need to stir up old memories and ghosts. There are too many to count.

Besides, the truce might not hold if the Belldenes spot me out here. I don’t need that trouble.

I take the tiny road that leads to Valerie.

As with most rural towns around here, it’s seen better days. Most of the small downtown is shuttered; the rest is filled with junk stores and nostalgia for a past that was never as good as it seems in the rearview. Kez has sent me the address, and I find it easily enough, though GPS is predictably unreliable around here, and Valerie doesn’t much believe in investing in street signs. Why should they, when everybody who lives there knows where everything is?

I slow in front of Sheryl Lansdowne’s address. There’s a TBI van parked on the curb, so they’re likely inside processing the place. I leave that alone and head down the street. Kez has updated me on her conversation with the immediate next-door neighbor, so I skip him for now and text Kez and Sam to let them know that I’m starting at the house one down.

I get a timid little old woman with a mild, seamed face and frizzy gray hair who seems to live in her housecoat. She invites me in for iced tea, that grand southern tradition, and I accept. It’s a good decision. The tea’s just standard Luzianne, but she’s an avid gossip, and she has homemade cookies. Perfect.

I tell her who I am, of course; I show her my private investigator’s license, which she thinks is fascinating, and after we get the usual questions about what I do out of the way, she’s quick to tell me about the flaws of people living on the block.

But not, I notice, Sheryl. When she finally pauses for breath and a sip of her iced tea, I ask about that. She gives me a sharp look. “I don’t speak ill of those who are gone to rest, and Lord knows, she may be. Missing, ain’t she? And those two darling girls of hers gone?” She shudders and shakes her head. “Don’t know what this world is coming to—these things just never happened when I was younger and people feared God and believed in America.”

She’s wrong, of course; I could reel off a solid dozen hideous crimes from the 1950s onward that happened just in this county, but I’m not going to change her mind, and I’m not interested in wasting my time.

“Well, Mrs. Gregg, it sure would help if you’d tell me something that could help me find Sheryl,” I say. “And anything might do that. Anything at all.”

“Would it? Really?” Her pale-brown eyes go wide behind her old-fashioned glasses. “I don’t know anything much except that her husband lit out on her some time ago. Damn shame when a man does that to an expectant mother, don’t you think? Abandoning her and the children?”

I can tell she’s poised for another back in my day lecture, so I head her off. “Absolutely,” I say firmly. “Damn shame. Did you see him go?”

“See him go? Well, I really don’t know, now, do I? I didn’t see no suitcases, but I did see him get in his truck and leave, and I don’t recall him ever coming back.”

“And Sheryl was home then?”

“Lordy, how would I remember a thing like that?” But she puts a finger to her lips and taps it thoughtfully. “Well, maybe that was the day