Page 123 of Held-
It'sweird how a town can feel so different and yet exactly the same. As Brayden's bike rumbles down Main Street, I find myself searching for changes in San Salona like I'm on some kind of scavenger hunt. The Christmas lights are strung in the same lazy patterns across storefronts. Tony's Pizza still has that flickering neon sign. Even the courthouse steps where I once stood in handcuffs look unchanged, just dusted with a light coating of fake snow because San Salona never gets the real thing.
But I'm different. The woman who left here a year ago is gone.
I tighten my grip around Brayden's waist as he slows at a stoplight, his body against mine still sending shivers through me even after all this time. His hand covers mine briefly, a silent question checking if I'm okay. I squeeze back, letting him know I am. Mostly.
Coming back to San Salona for Christmas wasn't my idea. I was content to spend the holiday in our cozy apartment above Petal & Thorn, my new flower shop in Carlsbad. But my father's invitation—more of a plea, really—was something I couldn't ignore. Not after everything that's happened.
“You doing alright back there, princess?” Brayden calls over his shoulder as we pass the “Welcome to San Salona” sign.
“I'm good,” I call back, leaning closer to his leather-clad back. “Just strange being back.”
The town feels smaller somehow, like I've outgrown it. A year can change so much. I've built a life 90 miles away that feels more authentic than all the years I lived in this town.
We cruise past the newly renovated town hall, where a “Happy Holidays” banner flaps in the December breeze. No sign of the Kincaid name anywhere. After Ethan's conviction, his father's resignation was swift and silent. Twenty-five years behind bars for attempted kidnapping, assault with a deadly weapon, and a laundry list of other charges that made my stomach turn during the trial. I still remember the hollow look in Ethan's eyes when the verdict came down, like he couldn't believe his family name hadn't saved him.
Nobody has seen Richard Kincaid since he cleaned out his office and disappeared. Rumor has it he moved to Arizona or maybe Florida—somewhere he could reinvent himself without the stain of his son's crimes following him.
San Salona has moved on without the Kincaids, though. That much is clear as we pass the newly elected Mayor Ortiz's campaign signs still taped to light posts. The town didn't implode without its royal family, despite what everyone feared. Life just...continued.
Brayden guides his bike toward my father's church, the familiar white steeple rising above the tree line. My stomach tightens with each block we get closer. I've only seen my father twice since we moved to Carlsbad—both times he came to visit us. This will be my first time back in his church since the Christmas Eve service last year, when he surprised everyone by practically canonizing Brayden from the pulpit.
Brayden pulls into the church parking lot, the bike's engine echoing against the empty space before he cuts it off. I slide off the back, removing my helmet and shaking out my hair while looking around.
“That's weird,” I say, scanning the deserted lot. “Dad said he'd be here waiting for us.”
Brayden props the bike on its stand and gets off, stretching his long frame after the ride. “Maybe he's inside already?”
I approach the main doors and tug on the handle. Locked. I try the other door with the same result. Through the glass, I can see the empty foyer, no lights on except for the safety fixtures.
“That's...strange.” I pull my phone from my pocket, an uneasy feeling creeping up my spine. I haven't been gone so long that I've forgotten my father's obsession with punctuality. The Reverend Thomas Montgomery is never late, especially not when he's expecting company.
I dial his number, but it goes straight to voicemail. I switch to texting instead.
Dad, we're at the church but it's locked. Where are you?
Brayden comes to stand beside me, his arm sliding around my waist. “Everything okay?”
“I don't know. He's not answering his phone.”
We wait in the chilly December air for a few minutes before my phone finally buzzes.
Mrs. Holloway was taken to the hospital. I’ll be there as soon as I can.
I read the message again, concern trickling through me. Mrs. Holloway has been my father's right hand at the church for as long as I can remember. She's well into her seventies now, and the thought of her in the hospital sends a pang through my chest.
My phone buzzes again with another text from my father:
Use the side entrance code: 1225. Make yourselves comfortable. I shouldn't be more than an hour.
“Everything okay?” Brayden asks, peering over my shoulder at the message.
“Mrs. Holloway's in the hospital. Dad's there with her.” I show him the text. “He says we should let ourselves in through the side door.”
Brayden nods, already lifting our bags from the bike's storage compartment. “Lead the way, princess.”
We circle around to the side entrance, our boots crunching on the gravel path. The familiar keypad greets me, and I can't help but smile at the code. 1225—December 25th. My father'ssecurity measures have always been more sentimental than secure.
The lock clicks, and I push the door open into the darkened hallway that leads past my father's office to the fellowship hall. The church smells exactly as I remember—old hymnals, lemon polish, and the lingering scent of coffee from the perpetually brewing pot in the kitchen.