by Emily James
But my mailman must have put his back out carrying all the condolence cards I received from former students who’d learned of my dad’s passing. It’d helped a little to know I wasn’t the only one who would miss him.
I craned my neck to check out the pews reserved for family at the front. The back of Claire’s head looked like she’d recently had her hair cut and styled. Unless her husband also dyed his hair, he couldn’t be the man sitting beside her. The hair of the man beside her was much too dark, and the blonde child beside him made me think it might be Dan Holmes.
There were a few men with the same blond hair as the man who ran into me in the parking lot in the front pews, but until I saw their faces, I couldn’t be sure if the one I was looking for was there or not.
The pianist hit the notes of the first hymn, and the minister invited everyone to stand. My legs responded instinctively, my years growing up in the church coming back to me.
I let the music flow around me. It felt as though it drew the tension out of my body like a poultice draws out an infection. I almost felt like that little girl again—the one who used to snuggle into her daddy’s side, sucking on the caramel-flavored candies he kept in his suit pockets, special for church.
A church was the one place I knew Jarrod wouldn’t look for me. He’d been almost militant in his atheism, mocking people of faith as stupid and taking every opportunity to point out when one of them was caught in hypocrisy. I’d been so angry at God over my dad’s death when I met Jarrod that I’d gone along with whatever he said.
It was why, when I’d decided to try to leave, I’d walked the two miles to the nearest church on a Sunday morning while Jarrod was at the golf course. It was less than a week after losing my baby. I’d finally realized it was only a matter of time until he killed me, too. And I wasn’t ready to die.
Walking away isn’t as easy as some people think, even when you want to. I didn’t have a car. I didn’t have any friends left to call. Even if I had, he had my cell phone linked to his somehow so he knew everywhere I went and everyone I called. He’d know who helped me, and he’d find me. I’d had to figure out a way to get help that he couldn’t trace.
That Sunday, I left my cell phone under the bed, packed what I could into a backpack, and went straight into the pastor’s office while he was preparing for the service. I told him I needed help leaving my husband.
The why don’t we make an appointment to talk about this and we can set you and your husband up with a Christian counsellor stopped as soon as I pulled up my shirt and showed him the bruises across my belly.
“Do you want me to call the police for you?” he’d asked. “You should report this.”
“My husband is the police,” I replied.
While the pastor preached his sermon, his wife drove me to a women’s shelter two towns away in the hope that it would make it harder for Jarrod to find me. The next day, I emptied out the one bank account Jarrod and I hadn’t shared—the one that contained my dad’s life insurance.
Even though I wasn’t sure what I believed about God anymore, standing in a church still soothed my nerves. That probably made me morbid since I was here for a funeral, trying to catch a murderer, but the truth was the truth. A church felt safe to me, like a haven, regardless of why I was there.
The minister gave an overview of Harold’s life that made me wish I’d gotten to know him. It also left me even more confused about why someone would have wanted to end his life early. It had to be for money.
Of course, funerals were a lot like movie trailers—showing you the highlights. Behind the scenes, he could have been a mean drunk, and you’d never know about it from attending his funeral. No one knew what Jarrod did to me behind closed doors.
The minister invited anyone who wished to go to the cemetery for the internment and then meet back in the basement of the church for the luncheon.
I straightened in my seat, ready to get up. Now was my chance. The pallbearers would take the coffin out to the hearse, and the family would file out afterward, giving me the perfect opportunity to see if the man from the parking lot was here. I could melt into the crowd of departing people right alongside him.
Six men from the front pews rose and headed for the coffin—the pallbearers.
They took their place and turned around to face the congregation.
My heart felt like it slammed into the underside of my ribcage.
The pallbearer on the other side of the coffin from Dan Holmes was the man who’d run into me in the parking lot. My odds of being right about who killed Harold when up in equal proportion to how my chances of actually getting to him in time to find out his name went down. Unless I sprinted out of the church now, in front of the casket—which would draw the attention of everyone in the place—I’d have to have the speed of Superman to catch him.
That didn’t mean I wasn’t going to try, though. While I might be able to find him at the gravesite or at the luncheon after, doing either of those increased my chances of Claire spotting me. I wasn’t entirely sure she wouldn’t call the police on me if she saw me here.
The casket passed by, and I shifted to the edge of my seat. I glanced up to watch for the first person who looked like they weren’t immediate family to make their move so I could make mine.
My gaze met Claire’s.
The old cliché talks about a person’s eyes shooting daggers. Claire’s eyes shot harpoons, pinning me to my chair.
Not good.
I hunched down, but she held eye contact. She passed within five feet of me, and only looked away when she reached the point that she would have had to walk backward to keep watching me.
I needed to get the man’s name and get out of here fast. Even more than I didn’t want to cause a scene, I didn’t want to cause a scene at a funeral.
The problem was that Claire would likely stop beside the hearse to watch Harold’s casket being loaded. If I tried to approach the man now, I’d be heading straight for her.
My only recourse seemed to be to try to blend into the crowd. It increased the risk of the man disappearing before I could catch him, but I wouldn’t catch him anyway if Claire cornered me.
I didn’t wait for anyone else to pass by. I got to my feet and eased into the moving crowd, letting the natural momentum carry me forward. I edged to the right. If I could come out of the church on the opposite side of the doors from where I’d been sitting, I’d be between the hearse and the parking lot. That should mean the young man would have to pass by me to reach his car and that I’d be separated from Claire by enough people that she’d lose track of me.
I exited the door. The entrance went down four steps. From the top, I had a view of everything below. The funeral home’s employee slammed the door on the back of the hearse. The blond man was already on the fringe of the crowd, heading toward the parking lot.
And Claire was leaning close to Dan. She pointed up at me.
That couldn’t be good in any scenario.
Maybe I shouldn’t have left Fair Haven. It wasn’t safe, but Lakeshore wasn’t safe anymore, either. At least in Fair Haven, people had believed me when I said I didn’t kill anyone, and I’d had someone who wanted to call me a friend.
Of course, that was exactly why it’d been necessary for me to leave. The only thing worse than Jarrod killing me would be Jarrod killing someone else because of me.
I strode down the stairs in the direction of the parking lot, trying to look like I was simply heading for a car, even though my truck was parked two blocks away. If they thought I was leaving, they might let me go.
And I might still be able to get the man’s name if I could catch up to him. I’d get his name and keep on walking.
He stepped over the curb into the parking lot, and I lengthened my stride.
“Excuse me,” a man’s voice called from behind me. “Ma’am?”
It was probably Dan calling for me, but since I didn’t know that for sure, it gave me plausible deniability.
I
kept walking. The man ahead of me raised his hand slightly in a gesture I recognized as him pressing his car clicker. A tan SUV’s backlights flashed one row in front of us.
“Ma’am?” The voice was closer now.
A hand brushed my shoulder. I cringed to the side and spun around.
Dan Holmes stood behind me. He must have stepped back after I’d flinched from his touch because he now stood far enough away that an outstretched hand wouldn’t make contact with me.
A small feather of grudging respect tickled my heart. He could have sensed my fear and closed in like a predator stalking wounded prey. Given what Claire had probably told him, that’s what I would have expected. Intimidate me. Scare me. Threaten me.
He hadn’t. Instead, he’d given me some space, trying to make sure I didn’t flee.
He smiled in a way that most women would have found disarming. I’d learned my lesson about being lulled into a false security by a handsome face—and Dan Holmes was exactly the kind of man I tended to find appealing, with his dark hair, stubble, and broad shoulders—but that smile did make me feel ten years younger and a lot prettier than I knew I was.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. “You’re the cupcake lady from Grandpa’s birthday, aren’t you?”
As if he didn’t know. “That was me.”
“Isabel…”
He let my name drag out so that I could hear the question mark on the end. He wanted me to supply my last name.
A car engine started behind me, and I glanced back over my shoulder. Oh no. The tan SUV. I’d missed my chance.
He backed out of his parking spot, moving closer to where we stood. I could easily read his Michigan license plate—C8L 364D. I currently had no way to figure out who a license plate belonged to, but it was better than nothing. Assuming I could remember the correct plate number.
I turned back to Dan and gave him a return smile that I hoped looked natural. What had he said before I got distracted? Right, he’d been fishing for my last name. “Isabel of How Sweet It Is Cupcake Truck.”
It felt like a situation where I should offer to shake his hand, but his hands were so big. If he got a hold of me and refused to let go, I wouldn’t be strong enough to break away.
He gave me another smile that made me think he recognized my dodge but was too much of a gentleman to call me on it. It was a smile with a laugh behind it, and it made his eyes crinkle at the corners, something I couldn’t help but find endearing.
“My cousin pointed you out to me, and I wanted to thank you for what you did for Janie.”
This conversation wasn’t going how I’d expected so far. Maybe that’s why Claire sent him instead of coming herself. He was cagier—the lock pick to her stick of dynamite. I was sure Claire hadn’t actually been pointing me out because I saved Janie.
I repeated the license plate number over to myself, but it was going to be hard to keep it straight if he held me here for long. I needed to make it memorable somehow.
Sherlock Holmes would have used a mind palace, but the only place I knew well enough for that was my truck. It wasn’t big enough to walk through a license plate number. Making up a silly story might work though.
Like Claire eating lice for 364 days…because of course she wouldn’t eat regular old lice on Christmas.
I fought back a grin. My thought life was the one thing no one else could control. That said, I didn’t need Dan thinking my smirk had something to do with the horrible situation at Harold’s birthday party.
“I recognized the signs.” I took a step backward. Maybe he’d let me leave if I moved away slowly. “I’m glad I was in the right place at the right time.”
Dan moved forward as if he were going to walk along with me if I decided to try to leave. “With everyone else clustered around Grandpa, we might not have seen her in time. To have someone there who wasn’t distracted by what was happening and who understands allergies was a blessing.”
That slight smile was still on his face, but there was something in the way he held my gaze that made me think his words meant more than it seemed on the surface.
Like he thought it was more than a fortunate coincidence. Like he was really asking why I hadn’t also been distracted by Harold’s collapse. Like he was wondering whether my knowledge of allergic reactions came because I’d been hired to make sure Harold suffered one.
Even contract killers probably had a line they wouldn’t cross. Maybe he thought mine was killing innocent children by accident. It wasn’t an implausible explanation for what had happened. My rescue of Janie had probably been the one thing Claire hadn’t been able to make fit into her story that I’d been behind Harold’s death.
It was strange standing there facing him because, unlike with Claire, I felt like he actually wanted me to be able to provide a good reason. He wanted me to be innocent and uninvolved.
The pull of having someone believe me was too strong. I stopped my backward momentum. “My dad died from a wasp sting.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Dan said, and I believed him.
People were now flowing around us on their way to their cars.
Dan motioned back to where the hearse still waited at the curb. “Are you staying for the luncheon?”
I shook my head. “I have to get back to work.”
“Thanks for coming. And for what you did for Janie.”
He turned around and strode away. His arms swung at his sides in a way that spoke of a calm and confidence that some people seemed born with.
A cold pinprick feeling skittered over the back of my neck and down my arms. Why did it feel like I’d just given something away? Did he plan to use the information about my dad to try to figure out my last name?
I was probably being overly paranoid again. Everything Dan had said or done might have been for exactly the reason he’d given—I’d saved his daughter’s life and he wanted to thank me.
But it’d felt like it could be fishing for information.
Each year in the U.S., fifty-eight people died from bee, wasp, and hornet stings. I’d looked it up after my dad died. Dan might be able to find a list of those people somewhere, but he didn’t know when my dad died. It’d be easy for him to guess that I was in my thirties, but he’d still have well over two thousand people to look at if he tried to make a list. Even assuming half those people were women, it’d take him a lot longer to look up over a thousand people to see if they had a daughter named Isabel than I planned to be in Lakeshore.
By the time he figured out that he couldn’t find me that way, I’d be long gone.
Or at least, I would be if I could figure out a way to match the license plate number I’d gotten with a name.
Chapter 8
Two days passed and I still hadn’t yet figured out how to identify who a license plate belonged to. It looked like that information wasn’t available to just any member of the public. Private investigators might be able to access a database, but I definitely couldn’t afford to hire a PI.
On the positive side, my carrot cake pops sold out both days. One of the women who’d become a regular told me carrot cake was her favorite, but she’d never bought my carrot cake cupcakes in the past because of the nuts. Her building had a nut-free policy. The daycare center in the building had some children with severe nut allergies, and management had decided it wasn’t worth the risk to even have nuts in the building.
She said she was going to recommend me to cater meetings instead of the baskets of dry muffins they’d been bringing in. She’d seen the article on me in the paper and thought it would win me the contract. I clearly understood how dangerous allergies could be. Too many food places didn’t. One time they’d brought in clients and had nothing for them because the bakery they’d ordered from sent brownies with walnuts in them.
Instead of telling her I wasn’t likely to be around past next week, I handed her my card. If I could cater even a meeting or two before I left, it’d help my flagging bank account.
A
fter fifteen minutes without another customer, I figured the lunch crowd was back to work.
I pulled the mostly empty displays off the counter and dropped my flap. I stepped outside and clicked the locks into place. My hope had been to commission a painted sign I could snap to the top of the truck when I set up someplace for more than a few hours. It’d catch attention better and be easier for people to read from a distance than the words painted on my truck. That would have to wait as well.
I closed my eyes and turned my face up to the sun for a moment. Michigan was finally starting to feel as warm as a Florida winter. It was beautiful sports weather. The online local newspaper said the boy’s high school baseball team from Lakeshore’s biggest high school was playing their archrivals tonight. I’d called the school secretary this morning, and she’d told me food trucks were allowed as long as we parked in the one small area designated for vendors and didn’t take up parking meant for spectators.
I planned to head straight there now, even though the game was still hours away, to make sure I got a spot. From what I’d read in the paper about previous games, the boy’s ball team was on a hot streak, and the stands should be packed.
My cell phone rang, and I jumped. It’d been stupid and indulgent of me to close my eyes that way. Jarrod could have sneaked up on me, and I wouldn’t have seen him coming.
I climbed back into my truck and grabbed my cell phone on the last ring before it would have funneled the call to my voicemail.
“This is Alan Brooksbank,” a man’s voice said, “the Positivity Project columnist.”
It wasn’t lost on me that he made sure to tell me what he wrote this time. Like I could forget. Had I had enough time to look at the phone before I answered, I might not have picked up.
Though it wasn’t like he could do much more damage to me now.
I also couldn’t think of anything to say to him other than do you have any idea of the problems you’ve created? And I certainly couldn’t say that. Or how tired I was of running. Or how what I wanted more than almost anything was to sleep for a few nights on a real mattress. To think I used to like camping as a kid.
