Page 4

“I JUST WANT to sleep,” I groaned into my pillow.

But the nightmares wouldn’t leave me alone.

I’d done the right thing—turned everything I’d found over to the federal agencies, laid everything on the line, but it still wasn’t enough.

I didn’t have enough proof that I wasn’t part of the embezzling.

I should have kept the original files—I thought I had—but they were gone.

Vanished, as if they’d never existed.

In my dreams, I kept trying to explain myself to the nameless shouting man, the one who hurled accusations at me like weapons.

I’m innocent. I didn’t take the money.

I didn’t know what my best friend was doing.

But all he ever said back was the same thing, over and over:

“Tell no one. Sign the NDA. If you talk, we get to kill you.”

I mean, fucking hell.

My brain was tripping.

No one was going to kill me.

But if we never found those original searches I’d done, then how could I prove I knew nothing?

Several audits had been misplaced, and the spotlight had turned on me as a potential part of the things I’d uncovered because there was nothing to prove I hadn’t been.

Two nights with barely any sleep and today was day three in Caldwell Crossing.

No matter how cozy the apartment over Aunt Harriet’s garage was, sleep was still a stranger, and the nightmares followed me.

I’d tried everything—reading until the words blurred, sipping tea until the mug was empty, even counting sheep—but my thoughts refused to quiet.

They kept dragging me back to Boston and the mess I was trying to escape.

And to top it off, my whole body ached, a dull reminder of driving into a damn ditch.

It didn’t help. I restarted my phone, and I’d received many messages from people I didn’t want to hear from.

My ex, Owen, said he missed me and wanted me to return.

He also asked if I had a well-paid job yet to support him.

Well, not in so many words, but he’d soon ditched me when my money ran out, so I was acting on experience.

I’d deleted his messages and blocked his number—one less thing to worry about.

My lawyer left two voicemails for me to find, and there were more every day.

Theo had a way of telling me everything would be okay while being honest—his words, not mine—about the horrible things that could happen.

Like if the SEC or the FBI thought I had anything to do with what I’d exposed.

But you’ll be okay .

Sorry, Theo, but those vague reassurances weren’t cutting it and didn’t stop me from dreaming about all the awful outcomes.

My book club friend, Rachel, said she missed our book chats.

When was I coming back online, and did I know I’d crossed a line in the last review I posted?

Of course, I knew that.

I could recall it word for word, but the main points were always popping into my head at the worst of times.

Three stars - worth it if you are a real fan and can overlook glaring errors…

.details about hacking protocols, financial systems, and auditing processes were not just oversimplified…

outright garbage… mistakes pulled me out of the narrative and made the plot feel contrived…

Adam Nelson is a good writer, but it’s obvious he’s never been to New Hampshire.

He gets so much wrong about the area that it makes me cringe.

I’d crossed a line, been so brutally personal in my attack.

It wasn’t enough that I’d turned on Crendon Harbor Capital and blown up my career—I’d also let my frustration with life spill over in a scathing review of a popular author’s new release, and said review had taken on a life of its own online.

Of course, I regretted what I’d written—I hadn’t been in a good place when I’d written it—but regret doesn’t erase things, and the internet never forgets.

Her latest text hit me like a punch.

His superfans had taken it viral, and I had so many notifications tagging me on WordBook that, in the end, I turned them off.

The WordBook community had been my only escape from work and the endless striving for the next dollar, and I’d even lost that.

No one would leave me alone.

Case in point: the phone buzzed on the bedside table—at six a.m.—and I stared at it before picking it up.

Theo Brookes. My lawyer.

The man I trusted with what was left of my life.

I swiped to answer, bracing myself.

“Theo,” I said, keeping my voice steady.

“Ben,” he greeted, his tone calm but clipped.

“Just wanted to give you an update. We’re making progress, but it’s still a waiting game. You’ve already completed the deposition on camera, which is a major step. And, frankly, my advice to leave the city was well-timed.”

Yeah.

It hadn’t been the FBI that had ordered me to leave town, it had been my lawyer who’d suggested spending some time away from the city would be a good idea.

I just wish my nightmares had gotten the message.

When things had started falling apart, he’d suggested I stay within a manageable travelling distance of Boston.

This little corner of New Hampshire was as far as I could run, and sometimes, I wondered if it was far enough.

I sighed. “Yeah.”

“Well, it worked out,” he said.

“Here’s where we are—the prosecution is pushing for plea bargains with the remaining defendants. If they agree, we should be able to tie this up without needing you to testify in Boston.”

Cautious relief washed over me.

“You think that’s likely?”

“Sixty-forty,” he said, and my stomach dropped.

“Not great odds,” I muttered, gripping the phone tighter.

“No, but they’re not bad either,” Theo said, his voice level.

“The owners of the firm you exposed have deep pockets, Ben. They’re fighting hard because they can. Whether they’ll accept short-term prison sentences in exchange for keeping their family money intact is a matter of concern. That’s what I’m working on now.”

I ran a hand through my hair, pacing the small apartment.

“What about Brad?”

Brad.

My best friend—former best friend—the one who’d screwed everyone over.

Including me.

Theo sighed.

“This is why I’m calling. Brad cut a deal—twenty-eight months in exchange for everything he knows.”

My heart leaped at that.

Twenty-eight months didn’t seem a lot to me for the amount of money he’d helped siphon out of Crendon, but if he’d admitted his part, then he would have told them he worked alone.

“So he’s cleared my name as well?”

“Not exactly.”

“What? Why?”

“Look, Brad’s played it smart. He gets a reduced sentence, and cooperation strengthens the case against the execs.”

“But what about me?”

“He wasn’t specific about you not being part of this.”

“Why wouldn’t he—”

“It’s the way these things go,” Theo said.

“He has bargaining chips, but his testimony makes your involvement less likely to be contested. If the plea bargains hold, you won’t have to return to Boston to testify, and if we find the missing audits, proving you ran them in the first place and had nothing to do with the coding issues, then you’ll be in the clear.”

“You know I had nothing to do with any of this.”

“I know,” he said after a pause.

Great—when even my lawyer doubted me, then that was just a pile of shit.

“But you’re a programmer, and it’s suspicious that you say you ran audits, but there’s no sign of them.”

“I ran them.”

“I’m sure you did,” he said.

Asshole.

“So, what happens if you don’t find the audits I ran?” I asked, my voice quieter.

“Then we’ll reassess. Yes, I’m worried that there is still no clear evidence you weren’t involved, and until we find that, or until it’s handed to us, you’re still in the danger zone, but I have every faith they’re out there.”

“But I didn’t have anything to do with it. Why would anyone think that when it was me who blew the whistle and uncovered the fraud?”

“I know, I know. Everything will be fine.”

Will it, though?

I’d already been called in for questioning twice.

On one hand, it took the heat off the execs, knowing I’d turned everyone in, but on the other, I’d been questioned with intent.

As if I’d committed a crime.

Theo continued. “For now, focus on staying where you are and out of sight of the media circus. No one has you linked to this for now, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. I’ll call as soon as I know more.”

“Okay,” I said, though the weight in my chest hadn’t eased much.

“Hang in there, Ben,” Theo said, his voice softening.

“You did the right thing. It will take time for the dust to settle and for us to find the missing audits. We have our best team on the job.”

Why hadn’t I kept copies that early on?

Why had I not backed everything up?

Because I trusted Brad.

I trusted the management team.

The owners. I’d thought there’d be an easy explanation.

When the call ended, I sat down heavily, staring at the snow outside the window.

Sixty-forty. Those weren’t odds I liked, but they were better than nothing.

I hadn’t slept. Brad was in prison.

The execs were being cornered.

And yet, I couldn’t shake the bitterness that after losing everything, I still had to wait and see if justice would be served, and I wouldn’t have anything pinned on me.

I hadn’t planned to blow the whistle.

Not at first. I’d stumbled across discrepancies by accident—numbers that didn’t add up in the software audits, funds that seemed to vanish into thin air.

At first, I told myself it wasn’t my problem.

I wasn’t paid enough to unravel the tangled web of deceit in the firm.

But the more I looked, the more I couldn’t unsee it.

It wasn’t only skimming; it was systemic.

Executives had misappropriated millions of dollars with clients, funding their off-book ventures.

The fallout was worse than I’d imagined when I reported it after finding emails from Brad suggesting I’d make a great scapegoat.

The firm tanked, jobs were lost, and reputations ruined.

I’d lost everything I’d worked so hard to achieve, everything I’d sacrificed countless sleepless nights for.

Burnout wasn’t even the word for it—I was crushed.

Brad had tried to cover up discrepancies using coding he’d created for the brokers and hanging my name on the work.

And here I was, in Caldwell Crossing, trying to piece together whatever was left of me.

But it was too quiet here.

For a second, when I first woke up, I half-expected to hear sirens or the hum of traffic or maybe the distant shout from someone on a city street.

But when I pulled the drapes this morning—day three of my stay in Caldwell Crossing—all I saw was a deer, its rich brown coat stark against the white, pausing mid-step in the snow.

It flicked its ears, then darted into the trees.

I’d seen Bambi every day since I arrived, but today was the first time the sight made me smile.

Not that I didn’t usually appreciate wildlife, but between the aches, bruises, and the overwhelming weight of leaving everything behind in Boston, I hadn’t been in a mood to appreciate nature.

The first two mornings of being here, I could barely drag myself to the window without muttering and cursing under my breath.

But today was different.

I smiled at the deer as it moved through the new snow that had fallen overnight, blanketing the last of the bushes and softening the world’s edges.

Everything outside was clean and untouched, like a blank slate.

There were no hints of green anywhere, just white on white.

“Are you awake, Ben?” Harriet called and knocked all at the same time.

“I’m up.”

I turned from the window and opened the door to find her outside, dressed in one of her neat cardigans, her short gray hair combed, and glasses perched on her nose.

She stared at me with a familiar blend of love and concern.

“Morning, Aunt Harriet.”

“Morning, sweetheart,” she said.

“Would you like to try the kitchen today for breakfast or do you want a tray again?”

I managed a small smile.

“I’m coming down.”

She beamed at me.

“Good,” she said, giving my arm a light pat.

“Ready in twenty if you want a shower first.”

I glanced down at my ratty T-shirt and knew I needed a shower, a change of clothes, and maybe…

I smoothed a hand over my stubble.

“I’ll shave as well,” I announced and warmed at the nod of approval.

“Good, good. I’ll make it for thirty minutes then.” She turned and headed back down the stairs.

I leaned against the doorframe for a moment, watching to make sure she made it down the internal steps to the small hall and through the door to her home.

Staying in Harriet’s apartment over her garage was a step in the right direction.

I’d needed her. She’d always felt more like an honorary grandmother than a great-aunt.

She was my grandfather Thomas’s younger sister, and I’d seen her often when I was young, and there’d always been this connection between us.

Maybe it was our shared love of books, history, and puzzle books, or how she looked at the world.

She didn’t have kids, but that hadn’t stopped her from being a steady presence in the family, especially for me.

I might not have visited much—because I was a fucking asshole—but I’d called on her birthday and Christmas.

Nope, still an asshole.

When I was little, she’d sent me letters with old photos, family stories, and history.

Those letters were a lifeline, anchoring me when my parents divorced, and everything had spun out of control.

So, when things fell apart in Boston, and Theo said I needed to get out of the city, I’d called Harriet, and she’d offered me a place to stay in Caldwell Crossing; I didn’t hesitate.

She didn’t push for answers about why I was leaving Boston, she just gave me a place to land and time to figure it all out.

That was Harriet. She didn’t need words to make you feel like you belonged.

And she fussed. A lot.

Not that I blamed her—she’d seen the state I was in, fresh from a ditch with a crumpled car and bruises I was doing my best to ignore.

I wasn’t proving myself to be a responsible adult who thought ahead and bought snow tires for my sensible Prius.

She hadn’t left me alone much since, constantly checking in, ensuring I was eating, resting, and recovering.

It was annoying in the way only care can be.

And if I were being honest, after months of drowning in drama, it was also precisely what I needed.

I checked my phone—6:45 a.m. Harriet had said breakfast was in thirty minutes, and I wasn’t about to keep her waiting.

The hot water hit my shoulders like a promise, washing away three days of grime and a little of the lingering fog in my head.

I stood there longer than I needed to, letting the steam curl around me as I focused on the simple rhythm of breathing—in, out.

I felt warm, clean, and settled.

After the shower, I wiped the steam from the mirror and stared at my reflection.

I looked as if I’d been in a bar fight—not that I’d ever been in one.

The cut on my forehead wasn’t deep, but the bruises around it were turning an ugly shade of yellow and green.

My eyes were bloodshot, with smudged darkness around them, and I didn’t bother checking the bruises on my chest, though I could feel them every time I moved.

The seat belt had done its job, but not without leaving a mark.

I shaved carefully, avoiding the worst of the bruised areas, and brushed my teeth until I felt halfway human again.

Clean and presentable, but not quite the version of me I liked to put out into the world.

I ignored the lingering aches and the reminder of how little control I had left.

My stomach rumbled, loud enough to pull me out of my thoughts.

Food. That was the next step.

I dressed warmly—thick sweater, jeans, wool socks—and grabbed the coat Harriet had found for me and the half-finished Adam Nelson cozy mystery I was re-reading for the tenth time, which I tucked into a large pocket.

My boots felt stiff as I tugged them on, but they’d do until I broke them in.

“Time to face the real world.”

The connecting door to the main house creaked as I pushed it open.

The smell of breakfast hit me immediately—coffee, toast, maybe bacon.

Harriet had been busy.

I stepped into the kitchen, and for the first time in a long time, I felt the faintest pull of something I hadn’t felt in months.

Belonging? Or just hunger.

Either way, I was here and ready to face the world the best I could.

Aunt Harriet was already at the table, her sharp green gaze—much like mine—watching me over her coffee cup.

The warmth of Harriet’s kitchen wrapped around me like a familiar old blanket, and for a moment, I was hit with a wave of nostalgia so strong it almost hurt.

We’d spent a few weeks here some summers when I was a kid—me and my parents.

I could still picture them sitting here, laughing and talking as if we had all the time in the world.

I missed them both. The ache for my mom was sharper, still fresh even after all these years.

I regretted how much I’d let work take over my life before she passed, how I’d put family second when she needed me most after the divorce and her diagnosis a few years later.

And my dad? He was in Hawaii, half a world away, remarried, with a new family.

The memories were both comforting and bittersweet.

The clatter of Harriet moving about brought me back to the present.

Laughter from past summers was an old ghost, and I could almost see my younger self sitting at this table, grinning over stacks of pancakes drenched in syrup.

Harriet set a plate in front of me with a practiced efficiency that made me smile.

“Right on time,” she said with a raised eyebrow.

Pancakes, of course, with a little glass pitcher of maple syrup sitting at the center of the table, gleaming like liquid gold.

And bacon—so much bacon that I might die of happiness.

She poured herself another cup of coffee and sat across from me, her sharp gaze softening.

“You know,” she said, her tone light, “Not that I don’t want you here, but I keep wondering why you didn’t go to Hawaii instead. Seems like a better choice than snowy New Hampshire.”

I didn’t explain.

I couldn’t. She wouldn’t understand the tight leash of Boston’s reach or why Caldwell Crossing had been my first thought.

Instead, I smiled faintly, picking up my fork.

“I’ll take bacon over beaches any day.” I dodged the question, and she snorted, clearly not buying it.

Still, she didn’t press.

I was grateful for the food in front of me, but more than that, thankful for Harriet.

I couldn’t tell her everything but being here felt like a small step toward piecing myself together.

“How’d you sleep?” Her tone was light, but I could feel the weight of her gaze.

“Fine,” I lied, taking a bite of pancake to avoid elaborating.

Sleep was slightly—not much, but a little— easier here than it had been in Boston but saying that felt too…

personal. “Better than the first two nights,” I added after she left silence for me to fill.

She’d make a brilliant interrogator.

“You look so tired, sweetheart,” she murmured.

“I’ll catch up.”

She paused again, making more coffee.

“What are you doing today?”

I waited for a beat, hoping she’d suggest something, but she waited for me to speak and fuck, I had no idea what I wanted to do.

I’m not in the city.

I’m not suffocating.

But what next?

“I think I’m going to go for a walk and see if I remember some old places.”

“Can I ask you to get me a few things at the store?”

“Sure.”

She nodded with approval and smiled.

“Good, good.”

I wish anything felt good right now.

But I can do a store.

Surely, I can manage that.