by Tess Diamond
“I’ll let you get to your paperwork,” Grace said, getting to her feet and heading to the door.
“Try not to let Zooey burn the place down while I’m gone,” he said.
“That was one time!” Grace protested. “It was a tiny fire that was quickly contained. And I wasn’t even in charge while you were at that conference. Gavin was!”
He laughed. “That’s why I put you in charge this time,” he said.
Grace smiled smugly in response. “Have a good time with your family.”
“I will. And thank you for taking the helm while I’m gone.”
“All in a day’s work,” Grace said. “Have a safe flight.”
Once he was alone again, he turned back to his paperwork. This time, he was unable to push his thoughts of home—and of the past, away.
The Cass in his mind was beautiful and bright, an eternal seventeen, a tangle of brown hair, sweet words, and fuzzy laughter he couldn’t quite remember right. She was also a white marble headstone, the tears down Mrs. Martin’s face, and why weren’t you with her that night, Paul?
He sighed, his heart aching in his chest as he thought of home, of the rows of almond and olive trees for as far as the eye could see, and of a girl who was taken much too soon and who had shaped his life without ever knowing it.
Chapter 5
Abby got back to the farmhouse late—it was nearly 2:00 a.m. before she pulled her battered Chevy truck in front of the fading rust-red barn, its tin roof glinting in the beam of the headlights.
The house was quiet when she let herself in. Roscoe, the ancient Great Pyrenees who’d grown up guarding the goat flock that used to live in the north field, barked once, but upon seeing her, started wagging his tail instead.
“Hey, boy,” she said, scratching his ears. He was a big white beast that looked like he had more in common with a polar bear than a dog.
Roscoe was much too old to guard any livestock now. These days he spent his time dozing in whatever doorway he deemed vital to guard that day. He was a sweet-natured boy who still wandered out to the north field from time to time, looking confused, like he was wondering where his herd went.
When her father had been diagnosed with colon cancer, she had sold the goats, unable to take care of an entire herd and the orchard and her father. Sometimes she thought about getting a new herd—her orchard manager had been making noises about wanting goats to help clear some of the neglected meadows. It would surely cheer Roscoe.
She knew she should sleep, but the years of being an insomniac added to the years of nursing her father, and she had some hardwired night-owl habits. Plus, her mind was still working a mile a minute, going over every second of her meeting with Wells.
She’d thought of nothing else on the long drive back home. She prided herself on the fact that she had to pull over to throw up only once, dizzy from the adrenaline, the fear, the sick realization that Cass’s real killer was still loose, that he’d been free and out there walking around this whole time, churning hot in her stomach.
She checked Roscoe’s water bowl and food, as well as the corkboard in the mudroom where her staff left her notes when they couldn’t reach her on the phone. After toeing off her shoes and shoving her feet into her rubber boots, she was almost ready.
“You want to go for a nighttime walk, boy?” she asked Roscoe, who wagged his tail enthusiastically at the word walk.
On her way out of the house, she grabbed one of her grandmother’s crocheted shawls and wrapped it around her shoulders. With a lantern in one hand and Roscoe’s leash in the other, they ventured out into the night.
The Winthrop Orchard was 150 acres of almond trees, fifty acres of olive trees, and ten acres of grapes that never quite made good wine, so they made small batches of good vinegar from the grape must. These 210 acres were her family history. Generations of Winthrops had put their blood, sweat, and tears into this place.
In her youth, this place had felt like a cage. She’d been desperate to leave Castella Rock, to explore other places, to meet other people. She’d felt stifled by the expectations of her father—he’d wanted her to stay. And maybe, if things had been different, she would have.
But Cass . . . her death changed everything.
Abby opened the orchard gate, letting Roscoe go first, tugging at his leash as she closed the gate behind them. The trees spread in neat rows ahead of her, lines and lines of old trees, good trees.
There are strong roots here, Abby, her father used to say to her. Your roots.
When she was a child, she used to play hide-and-seek between the rows of trees. When she was a teenager, she used to go out here with boys. She remembered letting herself be pressed against the trunk by eager but inexperienced hands, laughing giddily against a clumsy but eager mouth, not quite in love, but near it and everything so new and marvelous.
The shadows of the trees—their leaves lush and their branches heavy with nuts—stretched across her body as she plunged into the embrace of the orchard, the sky disappearing underneath the canopy of leaves, coolness slipping over her as she breathed in the scent of coming rain and freshly turned earth.
As she moved deeper into the trees, into the safe hold of the roots and branches that had sheltered her throughout her life, she let her mind return to Cass. And to Howard Wells.
When she moved back home, she hadn’t even thought about writing a book about Cass. She’d been focused on getting her dad healthy . . . but that didn’t happen. And then she found herself dealing with his terminal cancer and an orchard that needed to be nursed back to life, and by the time she looked up again, able to breathe, years had passed. And she needed a change.
She didn’t want to just write investigative pieces for magazines and websites anymore. She wanted to do something bigger. Something personal. And when Cass’s mother asked her to write about her daughter, she couldn’t say no. So Abby set out to write a book about Cass’s life—and her loss. A tale of a town in mourning . . . and then a town haunted, by the specter of a man too terrible to comprehend and the last girl he ever killed.
She hadn’t wanted to be focused on Wells—there were plenty of books about the methodology—and psychology—of Dr. X. She wasn’t a psychologist, she wasn’t interested in profiling him or dedicating more ink and paper and words to his evil. When it came to killers like him, the ones that were so horrible, so vile, so profane against the very humanity they came from, their victims always got lost in the shuffle.
She was interested in telling Cass’s story.
But as she began to research it, Cass’s story took a turn. It started when she got her hands on the police interviews with Wells and compared them to the FBI tapes. It had taken a lot of favors to get both—the FBI had taken over the case pretty fast—but their local police had done the initial arrest and questioning. When she compared the police interviews with those conducted by the FBI, the first inkling that something wasn’t quite right began to snake its way into her mind.
“Abby?”
A voice jerked her out of her thoughts, and Roscoe barked, tugging on his leash.
She was sure she was dreaming as the figure broke through the fog and she got a clear view of him.
It was him. Standing there like the answer to all the questions she’d been asking herself. For a moment, she just stared at him, her mouth hanging open. And then she snapped her jaw shut and said, “Paul.”
Roscoe was still pulling on his leash, so Abby snapped her fingers. “Settle, boy.”
Paul’s handsome face broke out into a smile—so familiar, but different at the same time. His eyes crinkled in places they didn’t before, but his hair was still that unruly shock of gold, dipping into his bright blue eyes.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He held out his arms and she stepped forward into them, letting him hug her. He smelled like the orchard, like green fresh leaves and summer, of memories she’d tried to avoid and promises she’d broken.
She clo
sed her eyes, breathing it all in, trying to calm her thundering heart.
It was hammering harder in her chest now than it had been at the prison. Yet she had nothing to fear from Paul.
Except her own damn weakness.
“It’s good to see you,” he said when they pulled apart. “What are you doing wandering the rows this late?”
“It’s my orchard,” she said, feeling that telltale defensive prickle up her spine. “I can walk it in the middle of the night if I want.”
His smile grew wider. “Same old Abby,” he said.
She folded her arms across her chest. Now that Roscoe knew he was a friend, the old dog had sat at her feet, his tongue lolling out of his mouth to an impressive length. “It’s been a long time,” she said pointedly.
Three years. She remembered all too well the last time they’d been face-to-face. It hadn’t ended pleasantly.
Paul’s mother, when Abby saw her every weekend at the farmer’s market, liked to complain about how her son never visited. Tandy Harrison was a battle-axe of a woman, if you ever met one. She wasn’t ever a farmer’s wife—she was a farmer herself, first and foremost.
For all of Abby’s life, the Harrisons had been their next-door neighbors—well, as close to next door as you could get with acres of land between their houses. Tandy had spearheaded a weekly rotation among her father’s old friends to sit with him once a week, giving Abby some free time to herself. Tandy was the type who looked out for her own—and she pretty much considered the entire population of Castella Rock her own.
Abby was grateful to her and admired her. When she was younger, Tandy was the closest thing to a mother figure she had. And now that she was a grown woman, she was the valued giver of insight that Abby sought when it came to all things regarding the orchard.
“I’m home for the memorial,” Paul said. “Will you be there?”
Abby nodded. “Of course.”
They looked at each other, the silence stretching between them.
It shouldn’t be this awkward. She’d known him her entire life. He was the boy next door. She’d crossed the meadow between their properties thousands of times, looking for him. He’d been her first kiss, when she was six. And she’d “married” him when they were seven, with ring-pops they’d stolen from one of his sisters.
He was woven into the tapestry of her life and stories. When he and Cass had gotten together, it had made sense. They fit together. And Abby was happy that the two people closest to her loved each other.
But by the time they were seventeen, things had changed. They all had changed.
Except for Cass. Cass hadn’t lived long enough to change.
Her stomach twisted at the long-buried thought. “I should get back,” she said, jerking her thumb behind her. “It’s late.”
He nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets, and for a second, he looked so much like the boy she knew, it took her breath away. “I . . .”
Oh, God. Please don’t let him bring it up, she thought. Please let him just let it lie.
The last time they’d seen each other, it had been a disaster. She’d been grieving. They’d both been drinking. It had gotten terribly, terribly messy. And they hadn’t spoken since then. He hadn’t come home since then. She hated the idea that maybe she was the reason he stayed away.
“It’s good to see you,” he said. “I’m glad you’re coming tomorrow.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” she said, and then mentally winced, because she knew he had missed it the past few years. She’d worried, that first year, if it was because of her. But Tandy had told her he had a case. She prayed that was the truth. She hated the idea of what happened between them keeping him from his family and their traditions.
“Then I guess I’ll see you there.”
“Yeah.”
She turned to go, and as she was walking away, she heard him say, “Night, Winny,” and the sound of her childhood nickname, the one only he and Cass called her, made unexpected tears prick the corners of her eyes.
She took a deep breath, tightening her hands on Roscoe’s leash, and continued through the rows of trees, leaving Paul behind.
It was what she was good at, after all.
Chapter 6
Two years ago
The funeral had been beautiful. Abby had made sure of that. She felt an ache down to her very bones as she dragged herself up the porch steps of the farmhouse. She’d spent the last week and a half frantically running around, arranging everything, getting the service ready, the flowers, the programs, all the food.
And now, it was finally over.
Now, she could finally grieve. Alone. Away from the well-wishers and the concerned neighbors and everyone from church who just wanted to help.
She just needed to get inside the house and lie down.
“Hey, Winny.”
The voice, soft, rough, and so familiar, sent a warm rush of relief through her.
He’d come.
She turned, and Paul was standing there at the bottom of the porch steps, looking like he’d just gotten off a plane. His hair was rumpled, and his wrinkled shirt was open at the collar.
“I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to make it for the service,” he said.
“I’m just glad you’re here,” she answered. “Come on in.”
They settled in her kitchen with a bottle of whiskey, and it was just like old times. They toasted her father, to the good memories, but with each drink, the bad ones began to come out.
“How’s work?” she asked, as they moved into the living room, sitting next to each other on the couch. She tossed her legs over his lap and he tugged at the little anklet—a string of stars—she had on, grinning.
“Cute,” he said.
“Be nice. Your niece gave me that,” she said.
“Which one?” he asked.
“Robin,” she answered. “She’s a sweetie. Very laid back.”
“You sound surprised,” he said.
“Well, she is Georgia’s kid,” Abby said, and he found this hilarious, laughing so long and hard that Abby found her eyes lingering on his lips, on the way his blue eyes crinkled at the edges. She could feel something stirring inside her—something that had nothing to do with the whiskey.
Something that would only be quelled with more whiskey. Because the other option?
The other option was swinging her legs on either side of him, straddling his lap and taking his face in her hands and kissing him.
It wasn’t like she hadn’t thought about it. Right now it was all she could think about.
It wasn’t like she didn’t know what it felt like, kissing him.
That other time, when they had been teenagers, had been fueled by grief too. By tears and by loss and by the two of them, too young and too desperate for some reprieve.
It would be like that now too.
You’re grieving, Abby, she told herself. Stop being weak. Dad wouldn’t want you to be.
Who the hell knew what her father really had wanted. He had loved her, she supposed, in his own way. But he’d never intended to be raising a daughter alone. Losing her mother had been an emotional blow the two of them had never managed to navigate.
And now they never would.
She knocked back another shot, trying to shut out the want and the grief and the pain. How many was that, now?
Did it matter? Her father was dead and Cass was dead, and now it was just her. And Paul, when he had the time to show up.
“Do you ever think about her?” she asked, suddenly, compelled to bring her up. Because if she brought Cass up, she wouldn’t have to think about the man next to her, how good he was, how right he felt, how his smile lit her up inside like Christmas.
How many times had she put Cass’s ghost between them? She’d lost count. It was such a convenient barrier against her true feelings.
You’re such a martyr. She could practically hear Cass’s voice in her head. She had clearly had too much to drink. She set the whiskey bottle on
the wagon wheel coffee table and leaned against the couch.
“Sometimes,” he said, and she realized he was answering her question. “On her birthday, usually. I like to call Mrs. Martin and check in on her.”
“That’s nice of you,” Abby said.
“I don’t know about that,” Paul said. “Sometimes I think it’s more guilt than anything.”
“You have nothing to feel guilty about,” Abby said.
She, on the other hand . . .
Don’t think about that.
“I miss her,” she said softly. “I wonder about who she would’ve been.”
He was quiet. She wondered if he let himself ponder the same things. Or if it was just too damn painful.
“She would’ve been proud of you,” Paul said.
Abby tried to arch an eyebrow, but she had a feeling she looked funny, because his eyes were twinkling at her.
“With how much she teased me about joining the school newspaper freshman year?” She laughed.
“She was jealous,” Paul said. “She even told me so, when I pointed out she was kind of being a jerk.”
She could feel her mouth twisting, trying not to smile at this revelation. “Is that why she apologized to me? She baked me an apology pie and everything.”
“Well, I didn’t tell her to bake a pie,” Paul said. “But yeah, I told her she was being mean. She was being mean. She was afraid you were going to go off with the smart kids and leave her behind.”
“I would’ve never,” Abby whispered fiercely, her heart heavy that Cass ever even thought that for a minute. It was still hard to accept that near the end, Cass had thought a lot worse of her.
“I know,” Paul said quietly. “And she knew, deep down. She was just scared of losing you. She knew you’d go off to college someday and she . . .”
