by Mariah Dietz
I have to apply the brake and come to a complete stop as a sheep wanders close to the road.
“You’re going to love this,” I tell her.
“What?”
I honk as two more sheep follow the first. “Are you trying to die?” I yell.
“What’s happening? Where are you?”
“There are sheep stopped in front of my car!” I tell her as more wander forward with several others following close behind.
She squeals. “Send me a picture! I want to see the cute sheep.”
“They aren’t cute. Have you ever seen a sheep’s eyes? They’re creepy, like goats’.”
“Oh my gosh! If you see a goat, you have to send me pictures of it.”
“There’s an entire flock of sheep in the middle of the road.”
Violet laughs. “You’re like Little Bo Peep.”
I lay on the horn, ignoring her as one finally moves to the side of my car and a few more file in behind it. “That’s right, off the road.”
“Are they going? Where’s my picture? Better yet, send me a video.”
“You don’t want to see this.”
“I do! Send it.” She hangs up without another word, and because she’s my best friend, I open the camera app on my phone and press “Record” as more pass by.
“Why are you stopping?” I ask a group of the sheep staring at me over the hood of my car. “You’re sheep! You’re supposed to be following each other. It’s what you do!” But they don’t. They continue staring at me, even when another sheep begins its own course on the other side of my car.
“Shoo!” I yell. “Go!”
But they don’t budge.
I lean my head back against the seat and sigh. “I’m pretty sure Haven Point might have more sheep than people,” I narrate for Violet as more pour onto the road from a grassy field. “However, for the record, this is not normal. Someone obviously has a broken fence, or kids are playing a practical joke.” I turn off my car and open the door, heading out to face them with my video camera still rolling.
“Get your fluffy butts back on the grass! You’re going to become roadkill.” I turn my phone to face me. “That’s a lie, because everyone will stop for these demonic creatures. But don’t tell them that, okay?” I shut it off and clap my hands, hoping to startle them into moving.
“Where did you all come from?” I work to recall which farmers in town might have acquired this much mutton. As they continue streaming toward the road, I decide to explore exactly where they’re coming from and see if the owner realizes his livelihood is attempting to play chicken on the main road leading into town.
“These are not the right shoes to traipse through a pasture,” I mutter, following the line of sheep until I reach a wooden fence that has been broken for what appears to have been years, the wood no longer jagged and sharp, but weathered and abused. Beyond the field, I see the Porters’ home.
The ground is uneven and covered with grass and weeds. It’s clear the sheep haven’t spent much time in this area because it’s up past my knees, ensuring I’ll need to check for ticks as soon as I get to my parents’.
“Hey!” I yell, spotting someone in the distance. “Hey!” I yell again, waving an arm to catch the attention of a man wearing jeans, a red plaid shirt, and a cowboy hat. Violet would likely appreciate a picture of him far more than the sheep, but I pocket my phone as he draws close.
“What are you doing out here?” he asks when we’re within earshot and don’t have to yell.
His gaze rakes over me, and with that simple gesture, I know who he is: Billy Porter. He was in Grace’s class and was known for his shameless appreciation of women.
“Your sheep got out,” I tell him.
His eyes gleam as he looks at me. “Are you new to town? I don’t recognize you.”
I sigh. “It’s me, Billy. Kennedy.”
“Kennedy?” His eyebrows rise, and I regret even considering taking a picture of him for Vi. “I don’t know anyone named Kennedy.”
“Kennedy Wallace.”
He scratches his head. “Kennedy Wallace?”
“Jelly Bean.” My sarcasm is deadpan.
A smile turns his face boyish and familiar. “What are you doing home?”
“I’m here for a couple of months.”
“A couple of months?”
My stomach flips, hitting the intersection between relief for being home and the regret of failure, where my heart stutters with hesitation.
“Your sheep are blocking the road,” I tell him, pointing in the direction of my car.
He swallows his frustration, and without another word, Billy breezes past me, hopping over the fence and jogging to meet the herd.
One of the biggest differences between people who grew up here in this small town and in Boston is how they speak. It’s considered impolite to swear, especially in front of women. I pause, taking a second to send the video of all the sheep to Violet.
Me: I found the farmer who lost all his sheep.
Violet: Is he hot?
Me: No. I’ve known him since I was 2.
Violet: . . . that doesn’t mean he isn’t hot.
With a frown, I slide my phone back into my pocket.
Once I reach the road, Billy is behind all the sheep, quietly ushering them forward.
I watch, waiting for him to lead them away or do something other than gently nudge them, because at this pace I won’t be able to get to my car for a week.
Surprisingly, they move. Voicing their objections as they slowly tread forward, they suddenly stop, as though an invisible barrier has sprung up from the ground.
“You need to move so they can’t see you,” Billy calls.
I look around at the sheep and then to him, confused; the field is so vast, and I am a single person standing still. I huff quietly, nearly indiscernibly, and shuffle to the left.
Billy watches me, his chin dipping with disapproval before he begins waving his arm in large, dramatic gestures. “You have to keep moving.”
“Are you kidding?”
“You’re in their point of balance. They won’t move with you standing in front of them unless you’ve got a grain bucket in your hand. Come on, Jelly Bean. You’ve been living the city life too long.”
I stare at him for just a moment before he waves his arm again, making me clamp my teeth together to stop from telling him how ridiculous this is. I have no idea if he’s making fun of me, but it certainly feels like it. Slowly, I drift down the road, keeping an eye on my car and the flock of sheep to see exactly what they’ll do.
Chapter 3
Joey
“What the fuck are you doing, Coen?” I grumble, staring at my younger brother, who has widened the hole we have been digging by at least another foot in the time it took me to grab a couple of water bottles.
“What the fuck do you think I’m doing?” His short dark hair lies flat against his head, wet with sweat.
I grin, watching his face turn from calm to annoyed—maybe even angry. My kid brother is so rarely riled up that although I’m sunburned, exhausted, and coated in sticky sweat, humor tickles my lips. When we were younger, I’d push him around when he got mouthy. Now that I’m nearing thirty-four and he’s thirty-one, I don’t doubt my little brother would hesitate giving as good as he received.
“I’m digging a goddamn hole all the way to fucking China. By myself!” He glares at me.
“Why are you expanding it?” I ask. “We measured it all and marked it off. And didn’t you tell me that if I swore again, you’d cut off my fingers with the goddamn shovel?”
He tries to hide his grin by digging another scoop of soil that he throws onto the large tarp beside us. “You forget to pay attention. Hayden was out on the porch with Ella, you asshole.”
The immediate reflex to tease my brother doesn’t come as expected. Not this time. Not when he talks about his girlfriend, Ella, and her nine-year-old son, Hayden. My brother deserves happiness, and as far as I’m conc
erned, Ella is already my sister-in-law and Hayden is my nephew, whether it’s been made legal yet or not. Instead, I find myself joining in his efforts to widen the large hole we’re digging to fill with stones to create a fire pit for their new house.
I swipe at my brow. We’re taking a beating today with the sun. “So you got out of the big city, out of suburbia, and into the sticks. How are you feeling about things?”
“It’s peaceful.” Coen’s voice is uneven as he continues to dig. “There are some giant-ass bugs, but I’d much prefer dealing with them than neighbors.”
“Ella and Hayden seem to be liking it.”
Coen nods, stopping to wipe his brow with the sleeve of his T-shirt. “I think being away from all the negativity Ella was always facing has been really good for her. It’s like a fresh start—a new start—and Hayden sees that.”
“You gave that to her,” I tell him.
Rounded brown eyes reveal his shock at my compliment. Then he shakes his head. “We did it together.”
My brother will likely never take credit for helping Ella recognize the good she deserved, but he was certainly a key component to it when he convinced her to move here to Haven Point, Virginia, with him. She had lived in a town that spread rumors and lies about her and her past, and while those stories created a hurdle for my brother and Ella to be together, I know they’d both do it a thousand times over again.
“I think this is it, though,” Coen continues. “I think this is going to be our house. Our forever home.”
“Wow.” I lean back on my shovel, staring at my younger brother, who has never voluntarily brought a woman besides Ella home. “Those are some big words.”
Coen’s eyebrows raise. “Actually they’re small, but their meaning is pretty significant.” He flashes the quick smile I always picture him wearing and slices back into the ground with his shovel.
“Ma’s planning your wedding already, so I’m glad you’re ready for it.”
He laughs but doesn’t protest it, and for the first time, the reality of his situation sinks in fully. My kid brother is ready. He’s met his soul mate. He wants to get married.
“Stop standing around. It’s supposed to rain tomorrow, and I don’t want a mud bath back here.” Coen smacks my thigh with his shovel.
“Dude, free labor here. Don’t be an asshole.”
“‘Free labor,’ my ass. You’re crashing in the apartment over my garage for the next few weeks and can only tell me it’s to lay low, which in your profession isn’t a good thing.”
“You know I’d never put your family at risk. You maybe, but not them.”
His familiar smile returns. “So you can’t tell me anything about it?”
“It’s been intense,” I tell him, shaking my head. “Everything about working as a detective is worse than they portray on TV. Everything.”
Coen mirrors me, shaking his head. “I don’t know how you do it. I hate being away from Ella and Hayden when I have to be on for twenty-four hours; there’s no way I’d be able to be gone for weeks at a time.”
“Being away is usually the easiest part of this gig. It’s what I see and what I know—what I learn people are capable of—that really get to me.” I suck in a deep breath, trying to calm myself down, but the anger hits me like a tidal wave, drowning me in regrets and resentment. An operation for a single perpetrator or single crime uncovers dozens more, and to prevent compromising the end goal, you often have to report them and look the other way, hoping another line of justice will ultimately prevail.
“I thought I’d be making a big difference in the world, and now I feel like I can’t look at anyone without suspecting they’re some kind of monster,” I tell Coen.
He frowns. “There are some seriously fucked up people out there. I don’t know how you manage working with them every single day. I can’t imagine ever having to deal with that shit or being around it. Especially now.” Anger flushes his face, his temper deriving from our Italian ancestry and the love he has for Ella and Hayden.
“You won’t have to consider shit like that. Not here. I have a feeling this entire town knows when someone sneezes.”
Coen tilts his chin, doubt likely clouding his thoughts. I understand. Seeing what I have—doing what I have done—often leads me to leave a dozen messages a day for my twin sister, Arianna. Unfortunately, my fear goes much further than her. All of my nieces and nephews, and two older sisters, also get the brute of my paranoia.
“Someone isn’t after you, though, right?” Coen tosses his shovel out of the hole and then climbs out. He looks at me, his face stoic, attempting to assess the situation.
I shake my head. “You know that case I’ve been working on?”
Coen nods once.
He does. The entire country knows, to some degree. But Coen and my family knew about it before the perpetrator had a name and a face, when he was dozens of files that I combed over, searching for evidence and similarities, and then again for differences that might stand out and lead me to him. While I couldn’t share much of the case with them, it was on the news constantly due to his frequent attacks—rape cases are too often unseen and unannounced, yet a serial rapist has the ability to nearly paralyze a city. Each family discussion about the case was waived and ended with concerns over me pursuing the sociopath. Coen knows how much time I’ve spent on this case and its victims, whom I want to get a small ounce of redemption for.
“You guys named Holden as a possible suspect last week.”
I grab one of the large bags of sand and haul it over to the freshly dug hole. “Because he went missing,” I tell him.
“So, what happened?” Coen asks. “How did you go from publicly naming him, to hiding out here?”
“Captain said I was too close to the case. Thinks I’ve made it too personal.” I pour the contents into the hole before jumping down with a rake in hand.
“He didn’t just reassign you new cases?”
“Oh, he did,” I say, spreading the sand. “I just didn’t listen to the first part about leaving the Holden case alone.”
“So you’re here on an insubordination issue?” Coen’s eyebrows arc.
“Until Internal Affairs gives me the green light.”
He chuckles. “So you might be my free labor until the new year, then?”
I flip him off and resume raking as my brother’s phone rings.
“Sorry, Joe, I’ve got to take this. It’s the station.” My little brother is the new captain of the Haven Point Fire Department, which requires a great deal of his time. I made the choice to come out here in an attempt to clear my head while hopefully helping him to get things moving forward with the new house.
I’m spreading the second bag of sand when Coen returns with an appreciative wolf whistle. “You might have earned yourself some supper!” he says with a heavy southern twang that is neither genuine nor convincing, but it is funny as all hell.
“What are you cookin’ for me?” I try out my own southern accent.
“More like what am I buying you?” Coen grabs the large metal ring that is the interior of the fire pit and carries it over.
“You’re sure you don’t want it flush?” I ask as we set it inside, seeing the six inches that protrude out of the ground.
“Yeah, we’ll add those stones and get it a solid eighteen inches; that way Hayden can’t get too close to it, and no one will risk falling in.”
I don’t know why I questioned him. Coen’s been a firefighter since he was twenty, and a decade later, he knows his shit so thoroughly I don’t doubt he’s planning to make his entire house fire resistant with every method possible. He doesn’t make me feel stupid or bad for questioning him, though. Coen simply pushes the wheelbarrow holding large concrete blocks closer, then grabs the bucket filled with paver base, and begins pouring a thick layer.
Our words slow as our mutual need for perfection leads us through hours of placing the stones in a seamless pattern.
“This might be the coolest fuck
ing thing I’ve ever seen,” I admit, taking a step back to admire our work.
“There’s still so much work to be done.” Coen looks around the vast yard.
“Yeah, but you’ll get there.”
He expels a sigh. “I hope it’s soon. Ella’s getting stressed out about leaving her job in North Carolina and starting her own PR firm, and I know the extra hours I’ve been having to put in to get the station running the way I want isn’t helping matters.”
My gaze travels over the immense space. He built an expansive deck when they first moved in, and they have fenced it in and planted all sorts of trees and bushes. Now with this fire pit, the place is like a piece of heaven carved out of this small town.
“We’ll start working on the inside tomorrow,” I tell him. “Tearing down that old wallpaper will probably take us the longest, but it won’t be a problem. You’re worrying about nothing.”
Chapter 4
Kennedy
“Maybe part of your problem with finding a job had to do with how late you sleep.” Dad stirs his coffee while looking over a newspaper spread in front of him on the kitchen table. It’s a familiar scene, one I grew up witnessing.
I stop the frown that wants to curve in his direction and look at the clock above the stove, which reads 6:55 a.m. “Is Mom here?”
He turns the page as Mom enters the kitchen wearing a pair of capri pants and a shirt covered with embroidered butterflies, her brown hair tied back into the same customary french roll she’s worn it in for years. “Don’t act ugly, Tom.” She swats his shoulder. “Kennedy just got in last night.”
Dad keeps his eyes trained on the paper. “It’s Saturday morning and Jackson’s at the store alone. We need to get a move on.”
The fact they’re still here insinuates we includes me. I was hoping to spend the weekend getting my things unpacked and in order, but I don’t mention this. “I’ll get showered.”
