by L. G. Davis
Once I lock the door, I drop to the floor. Janella is dead? And I’m wanted for murder?
I expected that they would think I killed Brett, especially since I’m clearly running. But Janella?
I cover my mouth with my hands. My pulse is racing. It was Cole. He did it.
When I left the house, Janella was still alive, and he was just arriving. If she’s dead, he has something to do with it. But why would he kill her?
I know the answer. He wants to punish me. He wants to make sure I go to prison for life. I know what kind of man he is, the depth of his evil, and how dangerous he is, but I never thought he was a murderer. He belongs behind bars.
Is it time for me to tell the police what I know about him? Would it be enough to send him to prison?
No. I can never talk to the cops without ending up behind bars as well.
How could I ever prove that I’m innocent of two murders, especially after disappearing for almost a full day? Trembling, I rise to my feet and splash my face with cold water. I don’t bother to wipe it away so it drips down onto my T-shirt.
It’s over. My whole life has crashed and burned.
I lower myself onto the toilet.
Pressing my head between my legs, I force myself to breathe.
From a distance, Liam calls my name, but I don’t answer.
I don’t feel the vomit gushing out of my mouth, I only notice when it flows down my legs and pools at my feet.
“Mommy, open the door,” Liam begs from the other side.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and force myself to get up. “I’m coming,” I say, my voice shaking.
I wish I was alone and could allow grief to break me apart without it terrifying my son. But I can’t. I can’t stay frozen for long. I need to force myself to function.
I wash my face again and rinse my mouth, then I use one of the towels in the bathroom to wipe away the vomit before rinsing it as well.
When I opened the door again, Liam is standing there. He’s all I have left.
“Are you okay, Mommy?” He gazes up into my face, frowning a little.
It hurts to smile, but I try. “I was a bit sad.”
He gathers me into his arms. “Don’t cry. Daddy is sleeping in heaven.”
More tears come, falling onto his little head. I hold him until he pushes away again.
I drop to my feet and hold his hands in mine. “You and Mommy are going on a great adventure.”
“Are we going camping?” he asks.
Liam loves everything that has to do with the outdoors. The one time we went camping, he had the time of his life.
“No, not camping, but we’re going far away. We will have so much fun together.” Fun is not a word I’ll ever use to describe my life again.
“I’m in.” He raises his little hand for a high-five. As my palm meets his, I promise to never let him down. I promise silently to never let him get hurt, even if I get hurt in the process.
PART TWO
8
One year later
Willow Creek, a small town of only three thousand residents, is located in Tennessee and a little over three hours from Fort Haven.
The residents of Willow Creek remain in the dark when it comes to my true identity. I prefer to keep it that way. They think of me as the crazy widow who lives in an old cabin in the woods with her son, Clark. I am a widow, but I’m far from being crazy.
Or am I?
Maybe it’s a good thing. Being eccentric keeps them away from us.
My new name is Zoe Roberts, but not many people call me that. “Crazy Lady” is more interesting, I guess. Fine by me.
Liam chose the name Clark for himself, like his favorite superhero. I told him we were spies and needed new names to stay undercover. After using Clark for a while, he got used to it, and I got used to even calling him by his new name in my dreams. It both relieved and broke my heart.
Mrs. Ruth Foster is one of the few people who see me as a normal person, and she’s my lifesaver.
“You go and have yourself a good day,” she says with a bright smile as she reaches for Clark’s hand. “I’ll take good care of your little man.”
“I know you will.” My lips stretch into a smile, a small gift for the woman who has given us shelter for nine months. The old cabin we call home belongs to her, and she takes care of my son when I go to work. She even homeschools him, as she used to be a teacher.
She doesn’t know who I am either, but she’s not the curious type. Nine months ago, when she caught us squatting in her abandoned cabin, all she needed to hear was that we had nowhere to go and we needed shelter for a few days. In exchange, she asked me to pay very little rent. Days morphed into weeks and weeks into months.
My little boy stole the fifty-eight-year-old woman’s heart, and she gave us permission to stay for as long as we liked. She laughed when she told me that the cabin had once belonged to her late husband, Jacob, who escaped to it a few times a week to get away from her nagging.
When Mrs. Foster offered to care for Clark when I worked, I was hesitant at first, but she insisted, and I did need her help. As a young woman, she had founded the first kindergarten in town, and she said that seeing kids every day lit up her life. In a way, I feel like Clark may be safer with her than with me.
“I’ll pick him up at eight.” I ruffle Clark’s hair.
One thing I’ve learned while being on the run is that I need to keep every single one of my promises. The last thing I need is to get on someone’s bad side. I do what I promise to do, and I try my best to be where I say I’ll be at the agreed-upon time.
Rocking the boat is not part of the plan.
I step away from the door and wave at both of them as I walk to my used Chevy hatchback. Behind the wheel, I draw in a shaky breath.
It’s been a year, and I have not been found, but it doesn’t get any easier. Every day I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the cops to arrest me or for Cole to show up.
Even though I try not to think about him, I can never forget his last words to me.
You can run, but I will find you.
I don’t doubt for a second that if he finds me, he will punish me for the crimes he thinks I committed.
As soon as I saw on the news that I was wanted for murdering two people, I abandoned our car at the motel, took my son and the little money we had, and got on a bus out of town. Before moving to Willow Creek, we hid out in several towns across Florida, never staying in one place for longer than a week.
Mrs. Foster is at the window now, so I drive away before she wonders why I’m not leaving.
Finding a job as a newcomer in a close-knit town was tough, but Mrs. Foster helped get me a waitressing job at the Lemon Cafe’ & Restaurant, which belongs to her acquaintance, Tasha Lake.
As I drive through town, I focus on my destination. I go where I’m going and come back when I say I will. I don’t go to visit unnecessary places. I go to work, I buy groceries, and I take care of important chores.
Like the fruit it’s named after, the Lemon (or just Lemon, as the locals call it) has a bright yellow exterior and round tables with striped yellow and white tablecloths. Even the air inside is lemon-scented. In case it wasn’t obvious, lemons are Tasha’s favorite fruit.
When I walk into the restaurant, there are only a handful of regulars occupying the tables. They glance at me briefly before returning to the pork chops and potato salad lunch special, along with the signature fresh mint lemonade that’s always on the menu.
A part of me is always expecting to find Cole sitting at one of the tables.
I only have a short discussion with Tasha, the owner, before getting to work. I always aim to do more than what is expected of me.
The days are long and it’s one of the hottest days this year so far. There isn’t even much of a breeze coming through the open windows.
The lunch special displayed on the chalkboard outside the restaurant draws in more people than usual. Normally
, it’s my cue to help out in the kitchen for a while.
Two months ago, Raphael, the head chef, suffered a terrible migraine and had to leave work early. Since there was no one to replace him, and the guests were demanding their food, I asked to step in. My cooking skills impressed everyone to the point that I now work with one foot in the kitchen and the other in the dining room. I prefer it that way. When my anxiety takes over and I become paranoid about Cole walking in, I can retreat to the kitchen.
But not today. Today we only have three waitstaff instead of the usual four and the kitchen is fully staffed.
“You are a godsend, you know that?” Tasha comes to stand next to me as the lunch guests start trickling out, and we have a moment to catch our breaths.
“What do you mean?” I wipe the sweat off my brow with a napkin.
“You seriously don’t know what I’m talking about?” She raises an eyebrow.
Tasha is a year younger than me, with dark brown skin and dark hair in twists that are always piled up in a messy bun on top of her head when she’s working. In her long, flowing skirts, melon-colored tops, and the lemon earrings she is so fond of, she fits right into the feel of her restaurant.
The Lemon is Tasha’s pride and joy that she built from the ground up. Before I came along, she apparently ran it with her brother until he left to open up his own club. According to her, his new place attracts a lot of locals and visitors, but I wouldn’t know. I don’t visit bars or clubs.
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Tasha.” I grab a rag to go and wipe down the table of the last guests to leave.
She follows me, arranging the chairs while I wipe away crumbs and gravy.
“You are a really hard worker. Do you ever take a moment to breathe?”
Breathe? I have forgotten how to do that, especially since I tread water every day. But, of course, she doesn’t know that.
“I love working. You pay me to do it.” My pay is not much, but it’s enough to pay the rent and buy groceries. I always put the tips in a savings jar at home for rainy days. “I’m grateful for this job.”
“Tasha, Zoe, see you tomorrow.”
We both turn to wave at Sandy, one of the other waitresses. She studies at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville and works at Lemon when she comes home for the weekends.
“I guess I’m telling you that I appreciate having you as an employee. Sometimes, I wonder what we would do without you.”
“What you did before me.” I give her a smile.
“Trust me, before you came along, we could barely hold our heads above water.” She touches my arm. “You really do a lot here, but I want you to take some time off to get some rest and spend time with your son.”
“I do take the weekends off.”
“I know, but you still come in sometimes when we’re short-staffed.”
“I love working here.” I don’t tell her that working hard keeps me from thinking too much and every tip I get from a customer makes a difference.
“That makes me happy to hear.” Tasha squeezes my arm. “But if you ever need a couple of days off, let me know. I already feel guilty as it is. As your boss, I insist that you take a short break now before the dinner guests arrive.” She stretches out her hand for the rag. “We could have coffee together if you like.”
“Yeah, that would be nice.”
She wants us to be friends. She always takes time out of her day to chat with me, and three times she invited me and Clark to her house to have dinner with her, her husband, and their twin boys. I always decline. Being a recluse is safer for me. I only get out of the cabin when I absolutely have to. Socializing is not a necessity.
But an occasional coffee with Tasha at the restaurant when things are slow is appreciated. But it’s also exhausting because it takes a lot of effort to filter every word I say, so I don’t blow my cover.
The news of Brett’s and Janella’s murders was so big that it reached Willow Creek. Not long after I arrived, my old face was still in the newspapers with the word “wanted” in the headlines. Now things have died down, but I still need to keep my guard up.
After our short break, a man with black jeans and a leather jacket struts in, and we stop what we’re doing and stare. He has a square face, a well-formed nose, full lips, and perfectly shaped eyebrows above moss green eyes.
We’re not the only ones staring at him. Eva, the youngest waitress, is practically drooling. She was watering the plant near the restaurant entrance, but now the water can is neglected at her feet and her mouth is wide open.
Tasha leans into me and whispers. “If I weren’t married to my dream man, I’d gladly commit a crime just so he can arrest me.”
“He’s a police officer?” I instantly snap back to reality.
“Brand spanking new in town. He’s probably off-duty, hence the lack of uniform. Apparently, he’s been working for the WCPD for a week or two now, but it’s his first time dropping by.” She gives me a small shove. “You should go and get his order.”
“I... no.” My pulse is starting to race. “I was going to ask Raphael if he needs a hand with dinner preparations.”
“No need. He has everything under control. I checked with him. Now go and help the gentleman. We need to make a good impression. That’s why I’m sending him my best employee. Make him feel very welcome.” Tasha winks. “I have some paperwork to do in the office. Call me when more guests start arriving.”
I swallow hard. “Okay.”
She’s my boss. I have to do what she asks, even if I’d rather run.
With trembling hands, I take my notebook and a pen, push back my shoulders, and head to his table. He’s already flipping through the menu.
When I arrive at the table, he looks up with a smile. “Hey there.”
“Hi, welcome to Lemon,” I say, my pen hovering over my notebook. “What can I get you?”
“How about a big glass of vodka?” His eyes crinkle at the corners as he grins.
“I... sorry, umm, we don’t have vodka. Is there anything else I can offer you?”
“I’m kidding.” He chuckles. “I’m about to start my shift, so no alcohol for me.”
“Okay.” I do feel slight relief that he hasn’t come to arrest me, unless he’s just getting ready to pounce and handcuff me by surprise.
“Let me see.” He lowers his gaze to the laminated menu and takes his time choosing something else.
“Please bring me a fish burger with lots of hot sauce and a large Coke.”
“Of course. I’ll be right back with your drink...first.”
I can feel his gaze following me to the front of the restaurant. What is he thinking? Is he wondering why I look so nervous? Does it show from the outside?
When I return to his table, his drink is chilling my palm and my knees are so wobbly with fear I can barely walk.
“I haven’t seen you around.” He lifts the drink to his lips. “It’s been interesting getting to know the locals. I’ve only been in Willow Creek for two weeks. So, what’s your name?” he asks.
“Zoe,” I murmur.
“Zoe,” he repeats. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Zoe.” He stretches out his hand.
I glance past him and notice Tasha watching us from the kitchen entrance. She’s clearly pleased.
“Nice to meet you.” I shake his hand quickly.
“I’m Officer Tim Roland, but you can call me Tim.”
“Okay.” I don’t want to call him anything at all. I want to serve him his food and then hopefully never speak to him again.
“I’ll bring your meal.” I turn on my heel. My knees are threatening to give away.
Tasha hurries to me. “Is he as good-looking close up? I think he likes you. He actually has his eyes on you right now.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not interested.”
“But you said your husband has been dead for over a year now. You still don’t want to date?”
“I’m not ready.” I swallow hard.<
br />
Tasha tries to get me to open up some more, but I don’t lower the wall between us.
She gives up and we have to return to work because more guests have arrived. I throw myself into the dinner service, glad for the distraction.
I don’t speak to Officer Roland again until he leaves, giving me a tip larger than the amount he spent on his food. I tried to give some of the money back, but he refused.
I hope he won’t come again during my shift.
At the end of my shift, I drive to Mrs. Foster’s to pick up Clark. My heart almost breaks inside my chest when I don’t find them at the house. She’s not answering her phone, either.
I drive around town frantically, afraid that Cole found us and has taken Clark.
I’m close to going crazy with worry when Mrs. Foster returns my call. They’re back at the house.
When I get there, Clark runs into my arms. “Hello, Mommy.”
I’m still shaking as I pull him close.
“Good evening, Zoe,” Mrs. Foster says. “Clark was such a good boy that I promised him ice cream after dinner.”
I shut my eyes, trying hard to control my emotions. I can’t lash out at Mrs. Foster. I need her, and in a normal world, she did nothing wrong. She cares about my son and wanted to give him a treat.
“Thank you,” I say through my dry throat. “But next time, please let me know if you want to take Clark out.”
“I didn’t think you would mind.”
“I... I don’t want to worry, that’s all.”
She clasps her hands in front of her. “Okay. I understand. It won’t happen again and certainly not this late.”
I nod and force a smile. “Thank you again for your help.”
The fear of losing my son almost killed me. Hopefully, my worst nightmare will never come true.
9
Cole is standing in front of me, the end of his cigar glowing at the tip, the smoke rising to mask his features.
