Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 50759 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 254(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50759 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 254(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
“Tell me what happened,” I changed the subject, my thoughts wandering to the furious bombshell as I moved farther into the room, nodding hello to Harry and his wife.
“She drove off about an hour ago,” Fern wrung her hands. “We’ve tried to call her, but it’s going straight to voicemail. Normally, I wouldn’t worry—she can take care of herself—but this isn’t like her, and she hasn’t driven roads like this in years.” Worry structured Fern’s face. It was pretty, her face. Wrinkles that she wore well, her daughter’s eyes, nose. Her long hair was streaked with gray, shiny curls bouncing down her back. Her small figure was encased in a long, violet velvet dress, and she had a shit ton of jewelry adorning her body. Crystals and symbols. A memory of kids at school snickering as she dropped off Willow, kissing her full on the lips, surfaced.
“Weirdo,” “freak,” “witch…” A chorus of insults trailed behind a red-faced Willow as she walked past us.
I laughed with my friends.
Fuck, did I even chime in with an insult of my own?
Shame burned my throat.
“This is exactly like her,” Harry argued, jerking me back into the present. “Running away.” There was anger in his tone, plenty of it. But there was worry too. He might have been mad at his sister, but he loved her. Very much.
Something pinched in my chest, standing in the warm, cluttered yet comfortable house that contained a family. A broken one, maybe. But not ruined beyond repair.
“She left in her Prius,” her mother continued.
A spark of worry ignited in my gut as I looked outside. The conditions were shitty, and they were looking to get even shittier. No way that car could handle these roads how they were.
“Willow is smart enough to know that she can’t drive these roads,” her brother stated firmly. “She would’ve pulled over somewhere, hopefully in tow, and is probably enjoying a hot meal at Shaky Bridge Diner.”
I kept my expression even, as I had throughout my career as the sheriff. But for whatever reason, it was so much harder to do so when I was consumed with concern over Willow. “Main Street’s shut down,” I told them. “The few places that were open on Thanksgiving closed because of the weather.”
I watched both of their faces fall.
It was then I did something I never did to families since I started the job.
“Don’t worry. I’ll find her and bring her home, I promise.”
“I’ll go in my truck,” Harry announced, grabbing his jacket from the back of the sofa.
I clapped my hand on his shoulder. “Don’t doubt your ability to navigate this weather, but you’ve got a job to do here.” I nodded to his wife, small child and then to his mother. “I’ve got her.”
He looked like he was going to argue. I didn’t know Harry well; he was a year or two above me, and he hadn’t run in my circles. He hadn’t played football, was quiet but not unpopular. He’d gone to college locally, got a job at the small, local law firm, so I’d dealt with him from time to time, but he only handled petty criminal cases and only if his boss, Joseph, was out sick or had too many cases as it was.
I’d always thought of him as kind of … soft. He didn’t hunt. Didn’t go to the bar, didn’t do any of the things I’d thought made a man a man. But then again, I wasn’t taught jack shit about what it takes to be a man.
It was here, seeing it now… him battling between his duty as a father, a brother and a son against the bullshit veneer of masculinity. That was when I realized he wasn’t soft at all.
He nodded once, gaze steely, submitting to me in front of his family. Something braver than fighting me trying to protect his own fragile ego.
“Do you have any idea where she’d go?” I asked them.
Harry shook his head, gripping the back of his neck, obviously frustrated at his lack of knowledge.
I looked at Fern who was clicking her tongue. “There’s not many places in this town that hold fond memories for my Willow.” Her tone was tinged with regret.
I had a whole bunch of regret too, plus the overwhelming sense of shame that I’d had a hand in making sure this was a place where Willow couldn’t find happiness.
“Was there anything in particular that made her leave?” I asked, doing my best to maintain my composure, remember my job.
“We were arguing,” her brother ran his hand through his hair. “It’s my fault.”
His wife, Sarah—a couple of years below me, and someone I only vaguely remembered, was pretty and quiet. Sam had called her frigid because she wouldn’t go out with him—got up from the sofa to put her arm around him.