by Frankie Love
I don’t tell him that I have been seeing a familiar face. That Luke keeps checking in on me, and me on him. I stopped by his work site yesterday with sandwiches for him and Chris. Before work today, he swung by with coffee. And I keep myself up late every night thinking about the way he pinned my arms above my head, the way he said, It doesn’t mean I won’t have you.
I’ve been biding my time.
But it’s time.
"Thanks for the offer," I tell him. "But I’m trying to get a business started, and everything here feels really heavy. You don’t need that at the holidays."
"But if I came," he presses. "You wouldn’t turn me away, would you?"
Feeling pressured, and not wanting to be short with him, or really anyone right now, not when there have been so many tears this month already, I sigh. "If you showed up here I wouldn’t refuse to see you. If that’s what you’re asking."
We end the call, and I didn’t ask when he wanted to come, because honestly, I have too many other things on my mind.
Like figuring out who murdered my old best friend. And clearing the name of the guy I am falling for.
Kind of a lot of things.
I toss my phone back on my bed and try again with the clothes.
It takes me about twelve seconds to realize I have no adult clothes, and instead I put on a pair of boyfriend jeans, roll up the cuffs, and lace a pair of Cons on my feet. In the clean laundry basket at the foot of my bed, I find a favorite tee, this one as appropriate as any other ones I own.
With the words I’M A BELIEBER written across my chest in all caps, I accept that as my truth, because right now I have to believe that I can get some answers.
It helps knowing Justin has my back.
At the mortician's office downtown, I plead my case with cranberry orange scones. The man working the desk listens, but at the end of my spiel, he shakes his head gravely.
"I remember the case, but I don’t think I have anything that can help. Have you spoken with forensics?"
Shaking his hand, I thank him for his time, letting him know the forensics lab is my next stop.
I drive right over, knowing if I go now my baked goods will still be warm from the oven.
"How can I help you?" a man in a dark suit asks.
"I’m looking for answers about Julie Barton’s murderer. A lot of pieces to the case don’t line up and we’re looking for some answers."
"We?"
I hold up my basket of scones, smiling tightly and knowing the moment I mention Luke’s name this well-dressed man won’t be interested. "Cranberry orange? They’re my specialty."
A few minutes later I’m back in the car with a half-empty basket and no leads. Forensics suggested I go ask Sheriff Lee Barton if I have any questions, and I know they are right. Lee is going to know the most; everything.… It’s just, Luke’s perception of his father isn’t exactly generous. And poking around the Sheriff’s office is going to let the entire town know I’m not satisfied with what’s happened.
Still, I need to be brave. Fight for what’s right.
And so I march up to the station, determined to speak with Mr. Barton.
"Hayley Adams," he says warmly, welcoming me into his office. He looks like an older version of Chris and Luke, handsome and fit. I remember Stacy always joking back in high school about how he was such a hottie. I couldn’t see it then, but now, sitting in his office, I can see the appeal. He is confident in the way Luke used to be, with broad smiles and a booming voice.
I’m not saying Luke is insecure. Not in the least. But he doesn’t wear his self-assuredness the same way anymore. His shiny parts are worn away, and most people would say he looks worn; ruined.
I say he’s been refined by fire.
"So how can I help you, darling?" Mr. Barton sits behind his desk, setting his phone and keys in front of him.
"Well, actually, I had a few questions for you, Mr. Barton,” I said, holding up my scone basket.
He nods sagely. "I thought so. I got a few calls this morning. Sounds like you’ve been making your rounds."
"Oh." My voice falters, and I instantly feel like I’m way out of my league. "The mortician and forensics office told you I was there?"
"Sure did." He runs his palms across his empty desk. "Now listen, Hayley, I know you’re a good girl, always have been, with a good head on your shoulders—"
I cut him off. "This isn’t about me, actually. It’s about what happened to Julie."
"Let’s leave Julie out of it," he says sharply.
My face flushes with shame. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone."
"I know you didn’t, Hayley. But that’s what I’m trying to say. You walking around town, digging up the past, the things Willow Creek has buried, will only hurt people."
"It hasn’t been that long, Mr. Barton. And if I could just take a look into the old case file—"
"That’s classified. It’s out of the question. And you’re in way over your head here, Hayley. I need you to drop it."
I nod in understanding, not wanting to upset him anymore than I already have.
Before I get up to leave, though, a fight breaks out in the station with a man who was just arrested and brought into the station for questioning. Mr. Barton stands. "Give me a second, Hayley."
The moment Mr. Barton leaves to calm things down, I quickly grab the set of keys on his desk. I know it is reckless. Stupid. But honestly, what do I have to lose? Are they going to arrest me? Fine. At least I will know I did my part to help Luke. To help Stacy.
I use the keys and start opening his drawers, guessing that with a case so personal Mr. Barton would keep it nearby. I swallow my fear, my eyes darting up, looking through the office window into the station. I see Mr. Barton raising his arms, shouting for everyone to calm down.
Of course he’s upset about me going around town and reminding everyone that a young girl was raped and murdered in Willow Creek. No one wants to think about that.
Especially her father.
I feel bad that I’m going against the will of a man who lost so much, but I can’t help it. Luke was obsessed years ago, and in a fraction of the same way, I understand that now.
I’m not going to walk out of this office without trying.
My intuition proves right. In the bottom drawer, I see a file clearly labeled JULIE BARTON: CLASSIFIED INVESTIGATION. My heart pounds and I lock up the drawer behind me, standing quickly, my heart pounding in my chest as I place the keys where I found them.
Shoving the file in my purse, I adjust it on my shoulder, pulling open the closed office door.
The commotion is settling in the station, and Mr. Barton excuses himself to say goodbye.
"You know where I’m coming from with this, right darling?" he says, resting his hand on my shoulder as he walks me to the lobby. His hand rests precariously close to my purse and I will his eyes to stay on mine, not on the manila folder that is tucked in my bag.
"I totally understand, Mr. Barton. And thank you so much for seeing me. Enjoy the scones, okay? I’ll bring donuts next time, promise," I say with a wink, forcing my face to convey innocence.
Innocence.
That word carries so damn much.
Outside, tiny snowflakes litter the town’s sidewalks, the air frigid, the sky almost too blue. I’m not even wearing gloves; snow wasn’t in the forecast.
As I pull out my phone, texting Luke to come over right away, I can’t help but think it’s much too early for snow in Willow Creek.
I get in my car, my gut telling me things are going to get a hell of a lot colder before they start warming up.
12
Hayley
Luke is here, sitting on my front porch, when I show up. Stepping out of my van, I pull my purse onto my shoulder, knowing the folder I stole is safely tucked inside.
Luke grins, watching me step over the gravel drive. The light snow from earlier has stopped, and for that I’m grateful. Winters in NYC were full of snow–but I also
never had to drive in that weather.
"I don't think I'll ever get over seeing you driving around in that big-ass van," he teases.
"I already told you it's for my up and coming business. Eventually I'll be a famous baker, delivering things all over Willow Creek."
"Is that what you want to do long-term, Hay?" he asks, getting up from where he was perched to watch me roll in. "Like, can you see yourself running a bakery forever?"
"Look at you, Luke Barton, asking about long-term plans. Always thought you were afraid of commitment."
Luke shakes his head slowly and I unlock the front door, considering his question. It’s unexpected. It makes me wonder where he sees himself, what his long-term plans are. If I fit in them.
His hand finds the small of my back as we step inside and he tugs on the belt loop on the back of my jeans, sending a current through my body.
"I'm not the same Luke Barton you used to know, Hayley."
"And this new Luke Barton, he plans on sticking around Willow Creek forever?"
"Could be worse. I can see it now, coming out here to your Gram’s house every day after work, you feeding me, teasing me with that sweet ass. I could get used to that." He pats my ass cheek, and I feel my other cheeks flush.
"Damn," I tell him, eyebrows raised. "Prison made you horny."
That gets me a smile, and I'm glad I can still do that. Make Luke smile.
"Honestly though, Hayley, is your plan to run this bakery business here in Willow Creek?"
"Why do you think I’m back here? Of course I want this. And the great thing is, if I get the business up and running, I can get the kitchen here in Gram’s place a commercial license and I can do all my baking right here. It just feels right, to be in this kitchen, baking pies and cookies and cakes. It would have made her happy."
Luke turns to face me and in an instant, I'm in his arms. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear as a sweet smile spreads across his tired face.
"I think your Gram would've liked that too, Hay."
I look down, smiling to myself, but Luke won’t let me get away.
He lifts my chin with his finger, pulls my lips to his. Kisses me in a way that is tender, a way that is raw. I like that Luke Barton asks me questions about what I want in life. It's like his words find a part of my heart that no one else seems to even care about trying to look for. It's like Luke Barton knows me in ways no one else does.
He pulls away, but then instantly presses his lips together as if not wanting the kiss to be over.
I want to tell him it doesn't have to end.
Not now, not ever.
But I don't want to be the one pushing whatever this is between us. If Luke wants me, he can have me.
"So what did you call me over here for? You know I left work early," he says. "So this better be good. Otherwise Chris will have me in a chokehold."
The moment he says chokehold, both of us seem to realize the gravity of his word choice.
It forces us to step apart, and the pleasure spreading through my chest dissipates.
I nod tersely and set my purse on the kitchen counter, opening it. His words brought me back to reality and I pull out the manila folder and set it on the counter.
"This is why I called you over."
Luke's eyes narrow, confused. We talked about searching for justice, but maybe he didn't think I would actually follow through.
"I went to the mortician's and the coroner's office; they weren’t talking. I knew there was only one place where I was really going to get answers in Willow Creek. So I went to the station, asked–"
"What the hell, Hay? You talked to my dad? "
Luke's burst of anger surprises me, but I press forward, knowing there are so many unresolved issues between him and his dad, issues I don't even understand.
"Listen, Luke," I say firmly, not having any of his hissy fit. "I wasn't doing anything behind your back. I was doing this because this is the only way we're going to figure out what the fuck happened."
Luke looks genuinely surprised. Maybe he’s never seen me angry, furious.
After all, I'm Hayley Adams. The sweet girl who lived next door. The girl who makes pies and sugar cookies.
Not the girl looking for revenge.
"Sorry," he says, running his hands through his hair. "I know you’re just trying to do anything to help, Hayley. I just don't want you to get so mixed up in this that you end up having a target on your back. I already went through hell in that prison, but that was me—I don't want anyone, or anything, fucking with you."
His fist is tight in his palm, his jaw and neck muscles tense—so much is under this man’s surface.
I press my hands to his chest, wanting to calm him.
"Listen, Luke, I'm on your side. And no one's going to fuck with me, not as long as you're the one who has my back. I'm not scared, because we are in this together. Understood?"
Luke closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, exhales. I run my hands over his biceps, past his forearms, until my fingers lace with his.
"How difficult was it to get that file, Hayley? I would have killed for it two years ago."
"Don't get mad," I tell him. "But I sort of took it. Well, I stole it. I'm a thief, basically. That's what I'm trying to tell you."
Luke doesn't get angry this time, maybe because our hands are knit together. I'd like to think I'm someone who steadies him, keeps his feet planted on solid ground when the world around us shifts like sand.
"Hayley Adams, everyday petty thief." Luke grins. "You never cease to amaze me, you know that right?"
I exhale, my relief filling the room. “Let's look at this folder,” he says.
Over the next two hours we pore over every piece of paper. We study the photographs of the crime scene in detail and try to make sense of the reports. Every so often I stand to get us a snack or to make us coffee. Carbohydrates seem to be the only thing getting us through this grueling task—reliving the painful past.
"I remember finding all this, all this information about the killer. Makes me feel like a fucking psycho to collect so much about him. The crazy thing is, I was right. I just don't know who else would have been willing to risk everything to kill this man."
I pause mid-bite of my cookie, thinking it through. "So after your father stopped you from committing the crime, what happened exactly?" I ask.
"The killer was found dead. My father didn't even bother to come when he knew I was being held. The cops showed up at his own house to arrest his fucking son. I mean I get it, he was probably ashamed of me. But damn, it hurt being there alone. Chris was MIA, but his head wasn’t on straight anyways, not after Julie died. He came unhinged, you know?"
I nod, understanding in some small way. I remember reading a novel about a man suffering from PTSD, and how during the day he seemed normal enough, but at night the demons came out to play.
We all handle grief differently.
I wish I could see the beauty in that—our differences—right now, but right now all I see is Luke.
And right now, Luke looks lost.
"Maybe going through this evidence isn't going to help us." I bite my bottom lip over the coffee table, Luke on the couch beside me. I sort papers from the pile, trying to see if there's something we missed. "Maybe we were stupid to think we could crack a case that the Sheriff’s department can't.”
As I move the papers, something falls from them. It drops to the hardwood floor, and I pick up a small silver key.
Holding it out to Luke, I ask, "Now what is this?"
Luke smirks, shaking his head. "Maybe that's what we spent all afternoon looking for."
"What do you think it opens?" I pinch the key between my thumb and my forefinger, trying to think of what it could unlock. Wishing, selfishly, that it was the key to Luke’s heart; that with one turn, I would be able to open it, crawl inside, and stay there forever.
"I could go to the locksmith tomorrow," Luke suggests. "They might have an idea."
"It’s the closest thing we have to a lead," I tell him, smiling. I stand and look out the living room window, realizing that the afternoon has turned to night. The sky gets so dark so early, now that winter has rushed in.
"So," I say, "I know I've been feeding you snacks all afternoon, but are you ready for a well-balanced meal?"
He stands too, ready to answer, when there’s a large loud thud at the door. Frowning at one another, Luke takes my hand and leads me to the foyer.
"Strange," I say, supposing that stating the obvious is better than silence.
The truth is, the silence kind of freaks me out.
Luke opens the door, and at first it seems as if nothing is out here, as if nothing made the noise at all. As if it was a figment of our imagination.
A ghost.
"Maybe some kids were out throwing balls?" I suggest, knowing how improbable that is. I'm on a dirt road, on the outside of town. There are no kids, not since the Barton family moved from the rambler three doors down.
"Or maybe it's a warning." Luke’s voice goes cold as he bends over to pick up a rock with a sheet of paper tucked beneath it.
A message written in blood.
I move to turn on the porch light, then step closer, wanting to read it but also wanting to bury it. To pretend this isn’t happening.
This is Willow Creek. Not a place where teenage girls are raped and murdered, where criminals are strangled and best friends are killed.
No.
This is Willow Creek. Not a place where bloodied messages are left to warn those seeking justice.
The message reads, STOP DIGGING OR DIE.
Every hair on my body stands. Shaking, I step away from the porch, from the message, wanting to be as far as possible from whomever left this message outside my Gram’s door.
"Who would do this?" I ask, trembling and standing in the doorway.
"Only one person would want us to stop digging up the past, Hay. The murderer knows we are looking."
I bury my knuckles in my lips, terrified at the realization that this is not some petty crime we are trying to solve.
This is a murder case.
Multiple counts of murder.
