All This Time

by Melissa Tagg

  “Follow through with what?”

  She ignored him as she entered the kitchen. This room was lighter at least, thanks to the window over the sink and a flickering streetlamp outside. But that meant it was easier to see the disarray of this space—the empty takeout containers littering the counter, the stained tile on the floor, the pile of dishes in the sink.

  And the duffel bag on the table, bulging and unzipped. Rosa immediately went to work, stuffing in a pile of clothes. “Rosa, talk to me. What is this?”

  “This is everything you need to take the kids. We’re being evicted. I just received a thirty-day notice today. So I’d appreciate it if you’d take the kids for two or three weeks while I sort everything out. Perhaps a month. Get them out of Atlanta. Out of the state, if you can.”

  Shock froze his thoughts, his words. She wanted him to do what?

  “Even if we weren’t being evicted, it’s too dangerous for them here. Someone threw a brick in their bedroom window two days ago. There was a note tied to it—only one word: Rio. My husband may be in jail, but his activities still affect us.”

  Bear’s mind spun. She’d mentioned threats in her letter. He hadn’t realized—“Rosa, if things are that bad, we need to go to the police.”

  “The police don’t help people like us.”

  How many times had he heard that exact sentiment? From his father, his mother, his stepdad. From the relatives and friends who made up the tight-knit world he’d grown up in where there was always something to hide and someone else to blame.

  “They’ll help if we go to them. We’ll give them all the facts we can. You’ll have to be honest about anything you know of Rio’s actions. Drugs, stealing, whatever he’s been up to.” Had Rio gotten in the middle of a turf war? Sold on someone else’s beat? Cheated a buyer?

  Rosa yanked on the bag’s zipper. It caught and snagged. “I’m not going to the police. I’m going to work extra hours and find a new place to live. And maybe I can find out what Rio has done, try to fix it. But I can’t do that when I’m constantly concerned about the kids.”

  His aggravation finally spilled over, and he yanked the bag from Rosa’s grasp. “You’ve got to listen to reason. I know you’re worried about Rio—”

  “Aren’t you? Do you even care about him?” Anger flashed in her eyes.

  And he simply couldn’t help it—the crack in his voice, the bitter pain in his words. “That’s not fair, Rosa. You know all I gave up for him. And for you. You know.”

  An eerie calm settled over her. “I’m thankful for the price you paid, Bear, but it is no good to me now if you walk away again.”

  How could she say that? “I’m trying to help you. If you’d only listen—”

  “There’s no more time for that. Come see Jamie and Erin.”

  Jamie and Erin. Why did hearing their names make this all worse somehow? How could you do it, Rio? Endanger your kids, send your wife into a crazed panic?

  But Rosa didn’t seem panicked now. She walked evenly, albeit briskly, across the apartment to an open door. Muted lamplight blurred through the blanket taped over the room’s broken window. In a quilt-less twin bed, the kids lay together, spindly limbs sprawling. They both had Rio’s thick, black hair—well, and Bear’s.

  “Jamie and Erin.” An unexpected sheen of regret tinted his whisper. His nephew and his niece. Family. He tasted the word, and for once, it wasn’t sour.

  “Rio has tried to be a good father, Bear,” Rosa said softly. “He’s had a good job as a truck driver for almost three years. We don’t see him much, but he’s done his best to provide.”

  Oh, Rosa. She knew as well as anyone that in their circles, truck driver generally translated to drug runner. She’d grown up with it just like him.

  “It’s only been in the past six months that something has changed again. I don’t know what he’s doing, but it’s different this time. I need to find out why we’re receiving these threats. My father will help.”

  “Your father is this neighborhood’s equivalent of a mob boss.” And last Bear knew, the man hated Rio. Hated Bear, too. Hated anyone with the last name McKinley, really. Probably why Rio had been drawn to Rosa in the first place. Any chance at defiance, he’d take it.

  “Which is why I need his help. He knows everything that goes on. But I will not risk Jamie and Erin’s safety. Whatever Rio has done—or is somehow doing still—it’s hitting too close to home.” A churlish gust of wind blew against the window, loosening one corner of the blanket. Rosa crossed the room. “I was going to take them to a friend, but this is better. You’re family.”

  “I just got back to the States, Rosa. I don’t even know where I’m going to live.” Although instinct kept suggesting he return to Iowa. To Maple Valley, where everyone seemed to think the best of him. He’d landed there originally thanks to a prison chaplain’s connections—a cousin’s spouse’s friend who owned a construction company. There’d been a job waiting for him as soon as he was released from prison.

  For a time, he’d made a life for himself in that peculiar little town, made friends. Seth Walker, who’d become his best friend. Seth’s cousin, Raegan, who . . .

  Who probably could have been more than a friend if the timing hadn’t been so off. If he hadn’t been . . . well, who he was.

  But the point was, no matter what the future held, he needed a job for now, and it shouldn’t be hard to find one in Maple Valley. Plus, he still had his apartment there. He’d had it on the market a full year before moving away without a single bite.

  Rosa’s sharp inhale sliced into the room, cutting off his thoughts.

  “What is it?”

  He covered the room in two long strides to stand beside her at the window. Black sedan in the back parking lot, two figures emerging.

  Rosa rushed past him. “Jamie, wake up.” She rustled the larger of the two kids in the bed.

  Bear turned from the window. “What’s happening? Do you know those men?”

  Jamie rose groggily from under a stained sheet. Rosa reached for the girl, thrusting her at Bear. “Take Erin.”

  The child—was Erin four or five by now?—tucked immediately against his chest. “Who are they, Rosa?”

  But she was already hustling from the room, pulling Jamie with her. “You need to go, Bear. Out the front.”

  “Mama?” Erin stirred in his arms.

  Rosa swiped the duffel bag from the floor in the kitchen and shoved that, too, at Bear. “Please do not go to the police. Give me some time.” She practically dragged Jamie through the living room, her every movement frenzied. “Just leave Atlanta. They’ll find my kids if you stay here. If they could find you in South America—”

  Every muscle tightened from so much more than the weight in his arms. “Wait, what? They found me? Who—?” He forced himself to breathe as he stepped outside the door Rosa now held open. “Come with us.”

  She shook her head. “I’ll call you when I know more. You need to go. Now.”

  She slammed the door in his face. And for a moment, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. What was happening?

  And then he felt the tug on his shirtsleeve. He met the frightened eyes of his nephew, Rosa’s now still ringing in his ears. If there was even an ounce of validity to her fear . . .

  He grabbed Jamie’s hand. “Let’s go.”

  3

  “How could you say no?”

  Raegan froze at the sound of the voice that belonged to the man she’d done her best to avoid for nearly ten years now. If she stayed down here, crouched behind the circulation desk in the public library, would Mr. Hill go away?

  “The mayor offered you a wonderful chance to put your talent on display and you turned him down flat.” Mr. Hill actually tsked. He tsked! Wasn’t that kind of thing supposed to be reserved for little old ladies with knitting needles?

  Maybe she deserved it, though. She had given the mayor a black eye, after all. And yes, she’d turned him down flat. He’d asked for a favor, framed it as
“the opportunity of a lifetime,” and had seemed more upset about her no than his bruising eye.

  “You can stay down there as long as you want, Raegan Walker. I’m not going away.”

  Raegan suppressed a sigh and forced herself to her feet, pasting on a smile for her former high school art teacher. “Hi, Mr. Hill.”

  Thin, wire-rimmed glasses sat low on the man’s nose. His face was a maze of lines, all tugging downward as he looked at her now. All because she’d dared to politely refuse Mayor Milt’s request for a painting—an original piece of artwork, meant to be the centerpiece in Maple Valley’s upcoming art show.

  Not just any art show. The Heritage Arts Council sponsored a regionally renowned event once a year in cities throughout the Midwest. It drew critics from around the country and at least three or four of its best-in-show winners had gone on to earn national acclaim over the years. Scoring the show had been a feat never accomplished by Maple Valley. And, in fact, Maple Valley hadn’t technically been chosen to host this year’s show—not originally. That honor had gone to Dixon, a larger city to the north.

  But just a week back, a major sewer line had burst along Dixon’s main street. It flooded downtown businesses, tore up sidewalks, and wreaked such havoc that the town had been forced to pull out, even though the show—slated for late July—was still nearly two months away.

  Mayor Milt had tried so hard to hide his delight when relaying the whole thing to Raegan. But he was beside himself with excitement. And he couldn’t understand why Raegan wasn’t.

  “It’s tradition, Raegan. A local artist from the hosting city always produces an original piece to be revealed during the show. Something grand that captures the spirit of the community. It could be a painting, a sculpture, a mural, you name it. You are the first and only name on my list. You have to say yes.”

  Except that she didn’t. Couldn’t.

  “Why in the world would you say no?” Mr. Hill’s glasses slid lower on his nose. He nudged them up with his shoulder, something she’d seen him do a dozen times every art period in high school.

  Wasn’t the better question why in the world Mayor Milt had approached Raegan in the first place? Yes, she’d been something of a standout amateur artist in her teenage years, but that was forever ago.

  And yet, Mr. Hill looked at her now as if it was only yesterday he’d spent numerous hours after class working with her, nurturing her love of oils and canvas, teaching her advanced techniques. He’d entered her paintings in area shows, had written letters of recommendation to art programs around the country.

  Two of which had offered Raegan full-ride scholarships. And she was pretty sure Mr. Hill had never stopped being disappointed in her for turning them down.

  “Mr. Hill, I’m honored that Mayor Milt asked me. Really, I am. But I haven’t kept up with my art and—”

  “Oh, come now. I know you ordered a new set of brushes at the craft store a few months ago. And Sunny Klassen saw you load an easel into your car a while back.”

  This town—one big merry-go-round of spinning gossip. She loved the place, but a girl didn’t have a hope of keeping a secret around here. Although why she’d felt the need to hide the fact that she was dabbling in painting again, she had no idea. It just felt . . . personal. Somehow significant in a way she didn’t quite understand. Private.

  But apparently not that private if people in town had picked up on it. So wait, did that mean everyone in Maple Valley knew about the apartment? Surely not. They would’ve asked. They would’ve pried. And somehow word would’ve reached Bear . . .

  Her neck warmed just thinking about it.

  “I’m really sorry, but the library closes in fifteen minutes and I’ve still got books to shelve. Maybe we could talk about this another time?” Or not at all.

  She turned to the loaded cart full of alphabetized books. Since the library had nearly emptied of patrons, she might have time to get them all put away before closing up. She veered the cart around the circulation desk and started for the Mystery section.

  “We’re not finished here, my girl.”

  My girl. He’d called her that back in high school, as if she were his granddaughter and not his student. She’d eaten it up, the attention he’d shown her, his belief in her art. Which was probably why it pained her to see him now. He must feel so let down.

  “I can’t commit to a painting,” she said as she wedged the cart into the narrow aisle between shelves. “I know this whole event is a huge honor for Maple Valley. It’ll be great for all the businesses in town with all the extra foot traffic. But trust me, I’m not the artist who should be representing the community.”

  Mostly because she was pretty sure she didn’t have the right to call herself an artist in the first place. She’d gone almost an entire decade without picking up a brush.

  Until this past New Year’s Day, when sentiment or curiosity or yearning or something had caught her in its grip long enough to send her to the hobby store for supplies. But she’d barely been able to bring herself to do anything with said supplies. She’d swirled colors over a couple canvases, but she didn’t have a single finished piece to show for these past five months of dabbling.

  No, she wasn’t an artist. She was just a twenty-six-year-old adult wondering if there was anything left to a long-dormant talent. Who snuck away to paint in someone else’s apartment.

  “I know it’s a tight timeframe. Two months doesn’t give your creative muse much space to percolate.” Mr. Hill gripped the opposite end of the book cart. “But you love this town. I know you do. Unlike so many young people who can’t wait to get away from their hometown, you’ve chosen to stay.”

  Raegan pulled a book from her cart, letting her hair fall over her eyes, an attempt to hide all the doubt Mr. Hill might see residing there.

  Or rather, the truth. She hadn’t chosen to stay in Maple Valley. Not really.

  She had to stay. There was a difference.

  “It would mean so much to so many people here,” he went on. “It’d mean so much to me. And I think, perhaps, it’d mean more to you than anyone.”

  She stared at the line of Agatha Christie spines on the shelf. There’d been a time when she would’ve jumped at a chance like this. When Mr. Hill’s words of praise had filled her mind with ambitious hopes, when those scholarship offers had lured her into imagining a life beyond the borders of this quaint Iowa town.

  But then Mom had gotten sick for the final time. Life had turned inside out. And the attacks had begun in earnest, squeezing Raegan’s lungs and stealing her breath, inescapable and . . .

  She shoved a book into place, closed her eyes, inhaled.

  One year. Seven months. Fifteen days.

  “Raegan, are you all right?”

  She nodded too quickly. “I’m fine.”

  “You put The Mystery on the Blue Train before Murder on the Orient Express.”

  She swapped the books, then slid a piece of hair behind her ear.

  “You have a gift, my girl. I wish I knew why you were so scared to use it.”

  Silence hung thick in the air around her—air that smelled of books and lemon Pine-Sol, the same mingling scent that greeted her every time she walked into the library. She loved this place, she did. So why, tonight, did it feel so confining?

  “Mr. Hill—” she began, but when she looked up, he no longer stood in the aisle with her.

  “Miss Walker?”

  Raegan turned in the opposite direction to see her favorite library patron—Elise Linder, with her mother standing close by. She shook her hair out of her face and Mr. Hill’s visit from her mind—tried to, at least. “Hey, I was hoping you’d get here before closing.”

  The nine-year-old’s hazel-eyed gaze was fixed on a spot over Raegan’s shoulder. Ever unseeing, this adorable bookworm. And yet, somehow, Elise was one of the most observant people Raegan had ever met.

  Raegan reached into the bottom shelf of her cart. She came up with a stack of books. “As requested: one
Percy Jackson, one Boxcar Children, and two Nancy Drew mysteries.” She bent in front of the girl. “Brand new, unabridged, in braille—just like you like them.”

  Elise’s bobbed hair bounced around her pert chin as she inclined her head toward the sound of Raegan’s voice. Raegan placed the books in Elise’s outstretched hands, then watched as she roved her fingers over the cover of the top one. “The Mystery of Crocodile Island.”

  “It’s a good one. Nancy, Bess, and George go to Florida. Ned Nickerson shows up, of course. There’s a dangerous submarine, snakes—”

  “Don’t give it all away,” Elise said with a laugh. Propping the books under one arm, she reached with her other for an embrace—finding first Raegan’s cheek and then winding her arm around Raegan’s neck. “You’re my favorite library lady.”

  Raegan grinned up at Elise’s mom as she hugged the girl. “I like the sound of library lady so much more than librarian’s assistant.”

  A mother’s love gleamed in Mrs. Linder’s eyes. “I’m pretty sure Elise would live here if she could.”

  Raegan just wished Elise could see the beauty of the library she loved so much—the domed ceiling, the marble stairway, the rich cherrywood archways and pillars. One of Maple Valley’s most eccentric and wealthiest residents had donated the mansion to the community back in the seventies. It’d housed the public library ever since.

  Raegan pulled back and donned her best librarian’s tone. “Now, you just make sure you return those books by the time they’re due.”

  “As if she won’t have all four finished by the end of this week.” Mrs. Linder patted her daughter’s back. “Elise, can you go sit on the bench and get your books loaded into your backpack? I want to talk to Miss Walker for a second.”

  Raegan straightened as she watched Elise make her way to the bench a few feet away. The child knew exactly how many steps to take, when to stop, feel, sit.

  She turned to Mrs. Linder. “Does she have another surgery coming up?”