Page 9

Chapter Eight

“Hi, Dad,” I said, shifting my truck into reverse. “Mom still making chicken and dumplings on Sunday?”

“She sure is,” he replied, his tone carrying the warmth of a ritual we’d both come to count on.

“Then I’ll be seeing you soon.” I smiled as I backed out of the driveway and eased onto the narrow road that would eventually lead to Oak Street.

“I’m calling to ask you a favor,” he said, his voice dipping just enough to catch my attention.

“Anything, Dad. You know that.”

“I got another letter.” His sigh crackled through the phone. “I made a copy and gave it to Nash, but he says there isn’t much the sheriff’s department can do until something happens.”

“That’s a load of horseshit,” I snapped, taking a sharp left onto Oak Street, familiar frustration bubbling up.

“This one mentioned your mother.” His words hit like a punch to the gut. “And I’m worried.”

I gripped the steering wheel tighter as I merged onto La Mars Highway, my tires growling against the pavement. “The note mentioned Mom? And Nash still said he couldn’t do anything?” My voice rose, my pulse following suit. “I’ll call Simon.”

Dad exhaled heavily. “That’s what I was going to ask. You know those boys over at Onyx Security better than I do. Figured you could ask them to take a look.”

“I’ll handle it,” I promised, my jaw tightening. “I’ll see you soon, Dad.”

I ended the call and immediately dialed Simon Clark, the former Navy SEAL commander who ran Onyx Security. He’d built the company with Roan Thatcher, a good friend of mine. Normally, I’d have called Roan, but he was knee-deep in renovations at Jace Drako’s new house, leaving Simon as my go-to.

“Hey, Michael,” Simon answered, his calm, steady voice doing little to tamp down my growing agitation. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing good,” I admitted, the tension bleeding into my tone. “My dad’s been getting threatening notes. I was hoping Onyx could take a look.”

“Let me guess, Nash can’t do anything unless it escalates.”

“You’ve got it. I’ll pay you.”

“You don’t have to hire us for that. Does he still have the notes?”

“Yeah, he kept them.”

“Where’s he at?” Simon asked.

I rattled off my parents’ address, my foot pressing harder on the gas as if I could outrun the hot knife cutting into my chest.

“I can be there in half an hour. That work?”

“Perfect,” I said. “But can we keep it low-key? Mom doesn’t know about any of this.”

Simon chuckled, the sound easy despite the situation. “How much trouble did you get into as a kid?”

“Not much.” I sighed, knowing where this was headed. “Yeah, okay, point taken. Dad’s not exactly great at keeping things from her either.”

“I’ll follow your lead,” Simon said, the amusement fading from his voice, replaced by resolve. “But let me tell you—nothing gets by Trenda.”

I couldn’t help but smirk, even in the middle of all this. Trenda, the oldest Avery sister, could sniff out a secret before you even thought about keeping it.

“Thanks, Simon. I owe you one.”

“Anytime,” he said before hanging up.

I tightened my grip on the wheel and pressed harder on the accelerator, the trees along the highway blurring as I sped toward my parents’ house. Whoever was behind these notes thought they were clever, hiding behind words and threats. But they’d made a mistake this time. They’d brought my mom into it.

And now, they were going to find out just how bad an idea that was.

After leaving my parents’ house, I’d spent the night tossing and turning, my mind trying to work its way out of a house of mirrors. When I stumbled into the kitchen the next morning and cracked open the fridge, the almost empty shelves stared back at me. Not even a sad slice of bread to save me.

Perfect.

I poured myself a cup of coffee, the rich aroma doing little to lift my mood, and decided to head to the Down Home Café. Jasper Creek wouldn’t care that I looked like a cast member of The Walking Dead . Sure, they’d give me grief for showing up unshaven and wearing a t-shirt that probably had wrinkles older than some of the kids in town, but that was small-town love for you. At least I was wearing jeans instead of sweatpants to go with yesterday’s t-shirt that I had picked up off the floor.

With my travel mug in hand, I climbed into my truck and set off toward the town square. The morning sun gleamed off the storefronts, but my mind was stuck on the conversation I’d had with Simon yesterday. He’d started by giving Dad props for getting Mom out of the house—a minor miracle in itself. But then he’d laid it out plain. Whoever was sending those notes wasn’t playing around anymore. The escalation was real. The only silver lining was that the notes were still going to the bank, which meant whoever it was didn’t have their home address.

Yet.

Sheriff Nash hadn’t been much help. So Dad hadn’t even bothered giving him the original of the latest note, not after Nash’s “my hands are tied until something happens” speech. Frustrating, but at least Simon had the originals now. And, of course, Dad had insisted on paying for Simon’s time. That man’s pride was like granite.

By the time I pulled into the square, the Saturday morning crowd was already in full swing. Trucks and cars filled the parking spots, and clusters of people gathered outside the Down Home Café, sipping coffee and chatting. Seven a.m. was officially late to the party, and judging by the line snaking out the door, I’d be lucky to find a seat at the counter. Friends and neighbors greeted me as I passed them.

“Hey, Michael, howzit going?”

“Good to see you, Mike.”

“How’s it hanging, Michael? Getting any lately?”

I cringed at the last comment and turned to see Burt, Jasper Creek’s reigning king of jackassery. We’d played high school football together, but while I’d grown up, Burt seemed to have hit the pause button at seventeen. He was on wife number three—or was it four?—and from what I’d heard, that marriage wasn’t exactly a fairy tale.

I offered a polite nod to everyone else and ignored Burt completely, hoping he’d take the hint. He didn’t.

“Fallon falling in line yet?” Burt continued. “Do you have her crawling to do your bidding?”

“Burt, watch your mouth, or I’ll let your mama know what you’ve been saying,” a sharp voice cut through the chatter.

Florence, with pink hair instead of purple and legendary death glare, looked at Burt so hard I thought he would catch fire. I guess that was good enough, but breaking his nose would make me happier. Burt shifted uncomfortably, like a kid caught sneaking candy before dinner.

“I was just teasing, Mizz Florence,” he mumbled.

“Don’t care,” she snapped. “Think before you talk, especially when you’re standing in front of decent folk.”

Burt’s head dropped like a scolded child’s. “Yes, ma’am.”

Satisfied, Florence turned her attention to me, her sharp eyes narrowing. “Michael, don’t you own an iron?”

“I’m not sure,” I replied honestly, biting back a smile.

“Well, don’t just pick up your shirt off the floor and call it good. You’re representing society, son.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, doing my best not to laugh.

“Now, go put your name in with Little Grandma before I have to stage an intervention.”

I weaved through the crowd and found Little Grandma perched on her usual stool by the hostess stand, her smile as bright and welcoming as ever.

“Michael, honey, it’s so good to see you,” she said warmly. “You flying solo, or did you bring some of those handsome firemen friends of yours?”

“Just me,” I said, taking the menu she handed me.

“Good,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “Go sit with Fallon. She’s all alone, and she could use a friendly face.”

I followed her gaze to a small table in the middle of the diner, where Fallon sat with her head bent over a menu. My chest tightened at the sight of her. “Me?”

“Yes, you. You’re friendly. Now go on and mend some fences.”

I blinked at her, stunned. How could she possibly know?

“How—?”

“There’s nothing that happens in this town that I don’t know about, boy,” she said, her voice firm but playful. “Now, get moving.”

I hesitated for a second too long.

“Boy, I’m throwing you a bone. Take it.” She gave me a pointed look and then winked.

Taking the menu, I smothered a smile of gratitude, and wove through the tables toward Fallon. Her shoulders were hunched, her body language screaming “leave me alone.” As I got closer, I caught some of the sidelong glares being thrown her way. My jaw tightened. How could they all be so damn judgmental? What’s more, it had been nine years for fuck’s sake.

Fallon didn’t look up until I pulled out the chair opposite her. Her hazel eyes met mine, a mix of surprise and irritation flashing across her face.

“What are you doing here? And why the hell are you sitting at my table?”

“All the other tables are full,” I said, leaning back in the chair as if I owned it. I shrugged, letting the corner of my mouth curl into a grin. “Figured you’d be generous enough to share.”

Her eyes narrowed, sharp as glass. Fallon was assessing me, weighing whether to argue or let me off easy. “Kind of presumptuous, don’t you think?”

“Maybe,” I replied, my grin widening just enough to tease. “But I’ve always been an optimist.”

“What can I get you to drink?” Lettie’s voice broke the tension as she walked up to our table. She stood there with a coffee pot in hand, her expression halfway between pleasant and suspicious.

I’d left my travel mug empty in the truck, and caffeine was still very much a requirement. I flipped my mug over. “Fill ’er up.”

As Lettie poured, my eyes flicked to Fallon’s cup. It was sitting there, turned over, bone dry. I gestured toward it. “Fallon would like coffee, too.”

Lettie’s eyebrows lifted slightly as she tilted the pot over Fallon’s mug, filling it to the absolute brim—no room for cream or sugar. A quiet, pointed statement. Message received: another soldier in the Team Michael army.

Not cool.

“Isn’t it great to have Fallon back in town?” I said loudly, letting my voice carry across the diner. “I’ve missed her. She’s doing an amazing job taking care of her mom and dad.”

Lettie shot me a look that could have been a cross between disbelief and pity. She turned her attention to Fallon. “How’s your daddy doing?”

Fallon sat up straighter, but her voice was soft. “As well as he can, all things considered. I’m going to get a to-go order for him and Mom. He loves your food.”

That managed to coax a small smile out of Lettie. “Just let me know what you need before you’re done eating, and I’ll have it ready for you. And keep us updated on his progress. I’ll bring Mom and Little Grandma by for a visit when he’s feeling up to it.”

Fallon’s lips curved into a wide, genuine smile, lighting up her face in a way I hadn’t seen in far too long. “He’d love that. His old bowling team came by recently, and it really lifted his spirits.”

“Then it’s a plan. Are you ready to order?” Lettie asked.

Fallon glanced at the menu as though she hadn’t memorized it years ago. Before she could respond, I jumped in. “She’ll have a waffle with strawberries and whipped cream, and a side of bacon. Make sure the bacon’s burnt.”

Fallon’s head snapped up, her eyes narrowing as she frowned at me. “You don’t know that for sure. My tastes might have changed.”

I smirked. “Have they?”

Her shoulders slumped in surrender. “No,” she muttered.

Lettie chuckled, her sharp gaze bouncing between us. “How long were you two together before Fallon left?”

“Six years,” I answered before Fallon could.

“I guess you’d know, then,” Lettie said, her tone amused. “And do you want your usual, Michael?”

“Yeah, as long as Harvey hasn’t cleaned you out of all the cinnamon rolls.”

She grinned. “Harvey hasn’t been in, so you’re in luck. I’ll bring one out with your western omelet, fried potatoes, and fried tomatoes.”

Fallon snickered, her laugh bubbling up like it couldn’t be helped. It hit me square in the solar plexus.

“So, sue me, I know what I like,” I told her, feigning indignation.

Her laughter broke free this time, full and warm, wrapping around me like a familiar embrace. God, I’d missed that sound.

Lettie grinned knowingly and asked, “Do you want your cinnamon roll now?”

“Yeah. That way Fallon can steal some off my plate,” I said, shooting Fallon a mock-accusatory glance. My tone was light, but the teasing glint in her eyes made me feel like I’d scored a touchdown.

“Can you bring extra butter?” Fallon added, her voice syrupy sweet, though her smirk practically screamed mischief.

“Sure thing,” Lettie replied.

I turned my attention fully to Fallon. “You’re looking mighty beautiful this morning,” I said, my voice intentionally carrying across the room, making a bold declaration.

Fallon leaned forward, narrowing her eyes at me. “Stop it. I know what you’re doing,” she hissed under her breath, her expression caught between annoyance and embarrassment.

“I’ve missed you,” I said, again loud enough for the whole diner to catch it.

“Just stop it,” Fallon snapped, her voice sharp but barely above a whisper.

“Well, I have missed you,” I said softly this time, leaning in like it was a secret meant just for her.

She sighed, dropping her gaze to the table. “Stop trying to make people like me. I’m fine being the town pariah. I don’t care what they think.”

“I do,” I replied, my tone steady, certain. “I’m the bad guy here, not you.”

“Michael, it’s too little, too late. I’m past caring.”

I saw the hurt on her face before she could mask it, and it made my teeth ache.

Before I could respond, Lettie reappeared. She set a plate with the warm cinnamon roll onto the table, extra butter glistening on a small dish beside it. The scent alone was enough to make my mouth water.

“Here’s your cinnamon roll,” Lettie said, flashing a quick smile before heading off to tend another table.

I pushed the plate toward Fallon. She ignored it. I pushed it further toward her. “Come on, you know you want it.”

Her hazel eyes looked up at me, and I could see her wavering. I started to pull the plate back toward me.

“Give me that,” she cried as she tugged at the plate and carefully picked up the knife and sliced the roll in half with careful precision that could rival a surgeon. She slathered five— five —pats of butter onto her half as if it were a critical mission. I sat back and watched, half in awe, half in agony as she broke off a piece and popped it into her mouth.

Her lips glistened with icing and butter, her fingers catching the excess. And then she licked them clean—slowly, deliberately, like she knew exactly what kind of hell she was putting me through. The twinkle in her eyes confirmed it.

God help me .

I reached for her mug and swapped it with mine, setting hers close so she could add the gallon of cream and mountain of sugar I knew she preferred. She glanced up, startled, and then smiled, soft and genuine.

“I still hate black coffee,” she admitted, reaching for the creamer pods.

“So, nothing much has changed, huh?” I teased, watching as she methodically poured in enough creamer and sugar to turn her coffee into dessert. This was one of the ways that Fallon kept the curves I had always so desperately loved.

“Oh, I’d say some things have changed.” Her voice was measured, her eyes meeting mine with a steady gaze. “I’m not as quick to jump to conclusions anymore.”

The back of my neck prickled. “What do you mean by that?”

She swirled her coffee with her spoon, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Just that I’ve learned not everything is as it seems. Dealing with tough clients taught me that. It’s one thing to deliver what they say they want, but getting to the heart of what they really want? That’s the key.”

I tilted my head, intrigued. “How do you do that?”

She set the spoon down, leaning back in her chair. “I dig into their history. Past behavior usually predicts future behavior. If they’re suddenly making a complete one-eighty, I figure out what’s driving the change. If there’s no clear reason, I tread carefully.”

“Sounds like a solid approach,” I said, nodding.

She took another sip of her coffee and studied me over the rim of her mug. “It’s helped in my personal life, too. I’ve learned to look beyond words and see what actions say about people. I wasn’t good at that when I was younger.”

The words hung heavy between us. A slight chill ran down my spine. “Interesting.” I couldn’t stop watching her—couldn’t stop wondering what she meant by “younger” Fallon.

“Yeah, isn’t it.” She smiled faintly, then reached for her half of the cinnamon roll. She broke off another piece and popped it into her mouth, leaving a glimmer of butter on her lips. I watched in pain as she licked her fingers again. Yup, she knew exactly what she was doing.

God help me.