When her voice faltered, he reached over and laced his fingers with hers.
“She was my rock. No matter how often I moved, how many jobs I failed at, how much I fucked up everything. She was my home, my whole family—not that Mom’s not great, she is, but she’s ... I don’t know, after Ella, then Jimmy ... Sometimes, I don’t think Mom ever recovered from losing them. Maylene believed in me. She thought I was better than I am, better than I could ever be. Her love wasn’t choking, but it wasn’t something I had to feel guilty asking for either.” Rebekkah felt the tears well up again and blinked against blurred vision. “I feel like everything’s just gone. They’re all gone. The whole Barrow family. All I have left is Mom.”
Technically, Rebekkah wasn’t a Barrow: she’d taken the name as her own when her mother had married Jimmy. She kept it because it was Maylene’s name, Ella’s name, Jimmy’s name. They were her family, not by blood, but by choice. The only Barrows left—other than me —were the ones who hated her: Jimmy’s sister, Cissy, and her daughters.
Briefly, Rebekkah wished her mother had come with her, but she wasn’t even sure where Julia was right now. Like Rebekkah, her mother had serious wanderlust. Unlike Rebekkah, Julia didn’t ever return to Claysville; she hadn’t even come to Jimmy’s funeral. Sometimes Julia talked about him, and it was clear that she still loved him, but whatever had happened between them was enough to keep her from ever setting foot in Claysville again.
Rebekkah pulled her hand away from Byron. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
She shrugged. “You get enough people weeping on your shoulder at work.”
“Don’t. Please?” His voice was harsh, but he held his hand out, palm up. “Don’t use my job as an excuse.”
She wanted to be stronger, to not let him in again, to not open a door that she’d need to close again in a few days, but she couldn’t. At the best of times, it was a challenge to resist the pull she felt to him, and right now was far from the best of times. She slid her hand back into his.
For the next forty minutes, he drove silently while she stared out the window and watched for Claysville to come into view. The stretch of road between the airport and the town limits was desolate. For miles, there was nothing but shadowed trees and the occasional road that seemed to lead into deeper darkness. Then, she saw it ahead of them: the sign that said WELCOME TO CLAYSVILLE. She always felt a pressure that she hadn’t even realized she was carrying ease when she passed that line. She’d used to think that it was because she was going to see Maylene, but tonight, with Byron beside her, the feeling of relief was stronger than it had ever been. Before she’d even realized she’d done it, her hand tightened on his—or maybe his grip tightened first.
She pulled her hand away from his as he turned into the drive in front of Maylene’s house and cut off the engine.
Silently, he got out and carried her bag and Cherub’s carrier to the porch. When he started to walk back over to the car, Rebekkah opened the side door and a sob escaped her. She refused to lean on him, but for a moment, the thought of going into the house was too much. She stopped at the door, unable to cross the threshold.
Maylene isn’t here.
Byron didn’t touch her, and she wasn’t sure if she was grateful for that or not. If he did, she’d fall apart, and some part of her needed to stay in control. Another, less stable part wanted nothing more than to crumble.
Quietly he said, “If you need to stay somewhere else, I can take you over to the Baptistes’ B and B, or you can stay at my apartment and I can stay somewhere else. It’s okay if you need time to get your feet under you.”
“No.” She took a deep breath, unlocked the door, and walked inside. Byron followed her in. Once the door was closed, she set Cherub free.
And then she just stood there. Byron waited in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, and for a moment, it was as if time had wound backward.
She looked helplessly at him. “I don’t know what to do. It seems like I should be doing something. She’s dead, B, and I don’t know what I’m to do.”
“Honestly? You should get some sleep.” He took a step toward her and then stopped. Time hadn’t wound backward: they had years of distance and words they couldn’t undo. “You’re jet-lagged and in shock. Why don’t we get you settled in, and—”
“No.” She walked past him and snatched an afghan from the rocker. “I will. Just ... I can’t. Not yet ... I’m going out front to watch the stars. You can join me, or you can go. I’ll be on the swing.”
The look of surprise on Byron’s face vanished before it was even fully there, and she didn’t wait to see what he decided. It was selfish of her to want him to stay, but she wasn’t going to try to convince him. He came to pick me up. It’s not like he hates me. She slipped off her shoes, opened the front door, and went out to the porch that stretched the length of the house. The weathered wood was familiar under her feet. As always, one of boards, not quite halfway between the door and the swing, moaned as she stepped on it.
Maybe it was foolish, but she wanted to at least pretend something was normal. Going out to watch the stars was normal, even if Maylene’s absence wasn’t. She wanted—needed—some part of coming home to be like it always was.
Rebekkah sat down on the porch swing. The chains creaked as she set it to swaying, and she smiled a little. This was right. It was home. She wrapped the afghan around her, looked up at the flickers of light in the sky, and whispered, “What am I going to do without you?”
“You all right?”
The voice in the darkness drew Rebekkah’s attention. A girl of no more than seventeen—older than Ella ever was—stood on the front lawn. Her features were drawn tight with tension, and her posture was wary.
“No, not so much.” Rebekkah looked past her, seeking the girl’s friends, but she seemed to be alone.
“You’re Maylene’s kin, right? The one not from here?”
Rebekkah put her feet down, stopping the movement of the swing. “Do I know you?”
“Nope.”
“So ... you knew my grandmother, then? She’s gone. Died.”
“I know.” The girl stepped forward. Her gait was awkward, like she was trying to force herself to move slower than was natural. “I wanted to come here.”
“By yourself? At three-thirty in the morning? Things must have changed if your parents let you get away with that.” Rebekkah felt a ghost of a smile on her lips. “I thought curfew was still at sunset unless you were with a group.”
The screen door slapped shut with a sharp crack as Byron came outside. His expression was cast in shadows, but she didn’t need to see his face to know he was tense. His tone told her everything as he said, “Do you need us to call someone for you?”
“No.” The girl stepped backward, away from the porch and deeper into the darkness.
Byron stepped to the edge of the porch, positioning himself in front of Rebekkah. “I’m not sure what you’re looking for here, but ...”
The girl turned and vanished, disappearing so suddenly that if Rebekkah didn’t know better she’d think the girl had been a hallucination.
“She’s just gone. ” Rebekkah shivered. “Do you think she’ll be all right?”
“Why wouldn’t she?” Byron didn’t turn to face her; instead, he stood staring out into the darkness where the girl had disappeared.
Rebekkah pulled her afghan tighter around her. “Byron? Should we go after her? Do you know her? I felt like ... I don’t know. Should we call Chris or her family or—”
“No.” He looked over his shoulder at her. “We were out after hours half the time when we were her age.”
“Not alone.”
“Yes, we were.” Byron laughed, but it sounded forced. “How many times did I walk you two home and then haul ass to get back before Dad caught me out alone after curfew?”
In a guilty flash, Rebekkah remembered running inside so she didn’t have to see him kissing Ella good night. She
forced herself to hold his gaze. “Maybe I was braver then.” She paused, frowned, and stared past him into the darkness. “God, listen to me. I’m not even back a day, and I’m worrying about curfew. Most towns, most cities don’t have sunset curfews.”
“There’s nowhere quite like Claysville, is there?” He came to sit on the far end of the swing.
“Between the two of us, I think we’d have found it if there was.” With one foot, she pushed against the porch and set the swing to swaying again. “Do you feel the ... I don’t know...click when you come back here?”
Byron didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I do.”
“I hate that feeling sometimes; it made me want to stay away more. But Maylene is—was everything. I’d see her and sometimes I could forget that Ella was ...”
“Gone.”
“Right. Gone,” she whispered. “Now Maylene and Jimmy are both gone, too. My family is gone, so why does it still feel right coming home? It feels right the moment I cross that line. All those prickling feelings that I feel everywhere else I go vanish when I pass that stupid sign.”
“I know.” He pushed the swing again; the chains creaked from the force of it. “I don’t have any answers ... at least not the ones you want.”
“Do you have other ones?”
For several moments, he was silent. Then he said, “At least one, but you never like that one when I bring it up.”
Chapter 9
N ICOLAS WHITTAKER WASN’T THE SORT OF MAN TO PATROL THE STREETS; HE had people who handled that, people who were out doing it while he waited in the comfort of the mayoral office. It’s the natural order of things. He’d grown up secure in the fact that his hometown was a place where a person could grow up healthy and together. His children, when he was selected to have some, would be safe. They wouldn’t move to some city and get mugged. They wouldn’t have any of those childhood diseases that killed other people’s children. They would be protected. The town founders had made sure of it. Only one real threat to the family he intended to have someday ever existed in Claysville—and only when the Graveminder failed to keep that threat in check.
Mayor Whittaker paced to the small mahogany bar that his father had added to the mayoral office during his tenure. The soft clink of ice in his glass seemed loud in the empty office. At this hour, his secretary was long gone. He poured himself another bourbon, absently thinking he was lucky that alcoholism didn’t strike the townsfolk either.
A tap at the door was followed by the entrance of two of the councilors, Bonnie Jean and Daniel. At twenty-six, Bonnie Jean was the youngest of the council members. Her youth made her fearless in a way the other members weren’t, but then again, she hadn’t been on the council the last time they’d had a problem.
Now her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were widened. “We didn’t see anything, you know, weird while we were out.”
Behind her, Daniel shook his head.
“We put out the mountain-lion flyers,” Bonnie Jean added.
“Good.” Nicolas smiled at her. He couldn’t help himself— or see any reason to— she was a lovely girl, albeit not necessarily breeding material. He held up an empty glass. “Would you like a drink to warm up a bit?”
The young councilwoman flashed a smile at him, even as Daniel caught Nicolas’ gaze and scowled. “It’s getting late, Mayor .”
Nicolas arched a brow. “Well then, I’ll see you later, Mr. Greeley.”
“Bonnie Jean doesn’t need to be walking alone with a murderer out there, sir.” Daniel stepped forward so he was standing beside Bonnie Jean. “A young woman doesn’t need—”
“Um, right here, guys.” Bonnie Jean slipped her hand into her handbag and showed them a .38 gripped in her manicured hand.
“I see,” Nicolas murmured. “Maybe we should be asking the lady to escort us, Daniel.”
Bonnie Jean grinned. “Dan’s driving, and he’s more than able to handle himself. What about you, Mayor?”
With the same showmanship he relied on in meetings, Nicolas patted his trouser pockets and then opened his suit jacket. “Actually, I’m afraid I’m unarmed, my dear. Perhaps I do need an escort.” He smiled at her. “Unfortunately, I’m not quite ready to leave the office. Could I impose upon you to wait?”
“You could.” She turned to Daniel. “I’m perfectly able to handle whatever’s out there”—she flashed Nicolas a smile—“or in here.”
After a pointed look at Bonnie Jean, which she ignored, Daniel shook his head and left. She followed him to the door, kissed him on the cheek, and closed the door.
Nicolas poured Bonnie Jean a glass of Scotch and held it out to her.
Chapter 10
B YRON THOUGHT ABOUT THE THINGS HE OUGHT TO TELL REBEKKAH, about the things he wanted to tell her, and the fact that none of what he had to say was what she needed to hear tonight. They sat in the dark, listening to the insects and frogs and being as careful as they always were when they were trying not to talk. Even sitting beside her made him realize that he’d lied to himself when he’d said he had changed.
Almost three years had passed since she asked him not to call her anymore. He’d tried several relationships, and then he’d told himself that he wasn’t meant to fall in love. He’d pretended that—like his need to return to Claysville—his need to be with Rebekkah was something he could outrun. The difference, of course, was that when he gave in and went to Claysville, it hadn’t run from him. Rebekkah would run by morning if she wasn’t grieving. She still might.
Tonight she’d let down her defenses, though. She leaned her head on his shoulder. The adrenaline and grief that had held her upright seemed to fail her all at once. She slouched down—shoulders drooped, one hand falling limp into her lap—like a marionette with cut strings. The dim porch light hid the pallor of her skin, and the messy knot she’d twisted her hair into hid how long it was these days. In all, though, she didn’t look much different than she had three years ago when she’d walked away from him: she was fit enough that he figured she still ran or swam regularly. Or both. Rebekkah had always buried stress with exercise and emotion with flight. Among other things.
“Byron?” she said sleepily.
“I’m right here.” He didn’t add that he always would be if she wasn’t so damn difficult or that he hadn’t ever pushed her away when she wanted him there. That was Rebekkah’s area of expertise, pulling him to her and then shoving him away when she realized that she actually wanted him there. He sighed, feeling guilty contemplating those things when she was feeling vulnerable but knowing full well that once she wasn’t feeling lost, she’d be off and running.
“Bek?”
“I wish it was a bad dream, B,” she whispered. “Why do they all keep dying and leaving me?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. Even with a lifetime of being surrounded by the grieving he hadn’t found any better answer. There wasn’t one: people died, and it hurt. No words could truly ease that ache. Byron wrapped his arm around her shoulders and held her while tears slid down her cheeks.
She didn’t pull away, but she did turn her head to look at the slowly lightening sky.
They sat there for several minutes watching the night end. She had her feet curled up under her, and one hand clutched the chain of the swing as if she were a small child afraid of falling. The afghan was tucked around her, adding to her vulnerable appearance.
And he felt like a jackass for wanting to tell her the things that she always tried to keep unspoken between them. The problem with Rebekkah was that there wasn’t ever a good time to talk. She only let her walls down when she was hurt, and when she wasn’t hurt she ran—either literally or by chasing emotions away with sex. He used to think that there would be a time when the sex wasn’t an excuse to run from intimacy, but she’d disabused him of that notion the last time he’d seen her. Carefully keeping his own emotions in check, he said, “You’ll sleep better in a bed than out here on the swing. Come on.”
For a moment he thought she’
d refuse, but instead she said, “I know.”
As she stood, he wrapped the afghan around her shoulders, and she whispered, “Will you stay?”
When he frowned, she hastily added, “Not like ... not with me, just in the house. It’s almost dawn, and I don’t want to be alone here. The guest beds are probably made up.”
Instead of calling her out on the lie she was trying to sell, he opened the door. “Sure. It’s probably easier. I had planned to pick you up for the service.”
She stopped and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”
He nodded.
But she didn’t move. One foot was on the step into the house; the other was still on the porch.
“Bek?”
Her lips parted, and she leaned toward him and said, “Tonight doesn’t have to count. Right?”
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand her question. “I don’t know.”
She pulled him to her almost desperately, and he wasn’t sure whether it was a cry or an apology she whispered as she wrapped herself around him. The screen door hit him as he let go of it to hold her tighter to him. A part of him—a very insistent part—wanted to ignore her grief and the inevitable this-is-a-mistake that morning would bring. Another more responsible part knew she would be running by morning and he would be kicking himself for ending up back where they always were if he did that.
They stepped into the house, and the door snapped shut with a bang. Rebekkah pulled back. “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t—” She stopped, shook her head, and all but ran up the stairs.
He followed. If he were a different sort of man, he wouldn’t let things end there, or maybe if she were a different sort of person, but he knew them both well enough to know that what she was inviting him to do was take the responsibility for the choice out of her hands so later she could blame him.
Not this time.
It was difficult for either of them to have any sort of resolve where the other was concerned. They both claimed they did, but inevitably his decision not to repeat the same pattern and her insistence that they were just friends failed. Over the years, they’d avoided talking by ending up in bed, and they’d ended fights in bed, but they’d always circled back to Rebekkah’s running and his deciding he was a fool for thinking this time was going to be different.