Dedication
For the wonderful England family who helped so much in the research of this novel! You guys are the best!
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
A Note from the Author
Discussion Questions
Acknowledgments
An Excerpt from Strands of Truth Prologue
Chapter 1
About the Author
Acclaim for Colleen Coble
Also by Colleen Coble
Copyright
Prologue
May
Button eyed the compound’s exit and forced herself to trudge behind her parents as the pain intensified in her belly. She stifled a groan and filed into the Mount Sinai meeting hall.
State forest surrounded the compound, and the breeze blowing through the door held the scent of pine. The white-board structure had once been a Methodist church and still turned blind stained glass windows toward the road. The church held about forty people, and Button slipped onto a bench by the door while her parents proceeded to their spot on the front pew.
The small community was all she’d ever known, but as the pain in her back grew and wrapped around to her enormous belly, she wished she’d been able to talk her father into taking her to a hospital. Indecision had filled his eyes, but her mother’s quick refusal to her plea had hardened his gaze, and he’d shaken his head too. Their leader never allowed anyone to leave, least of all for something as basic as childbirth.
But she was afraid. The pain made her tremble inside with the uncertainty of what else she’d face. Her best friend had died in childbirth just last fall. What if Button died, too, and someone else had to raise her baby?
She wanted to hold her child herself, and she’d spent countless nights wondering if it would be possible to escape with her baby. But even if she managed to get outside the compound gates, where would she go? How could she care for herself and a baby? It seemed impossible.
Moses Bechtol rubbed his hands together as he approached the podium. The place quieted as the group leader started his sermon, a thunderous harangue that shook the windows. Button cringed and closed her eyes. The man wasn’t the godlike figure he thought he was, and Button grew more and more weary of listening to him.
Was she the only one here who saw through his posturing?
She’d tried to talk to her mother a few times, but Mom loved the man. Maybe more than she loved Dad.
Button’s awakening had started about six months ago after she’d recruited two girls in a nearby town. They’d brought some books with them, and she’d been particularly captivated by The Princess Diaries. It had opened up the possibilities of an entirely different world from the one she inhabited.
Button’s woolgathering shifted to the growing pain in her midsection. She stifled a groan and wiped perspiration from her brow. The walls seemed to slide toward her, and her stomach roiled. She had to get out of here. She wanted her mother, but Button didn’t dare try to get Mom’s attention.
She slipped out the old back door into the cool Michigan air. Last fall’s dry leaves scudded across the remains of the spring snowstorm. The chill on her cheeks was a welcome relief from the heat washing up her skin.
Half crouching, she stumbled toward the cabin she’d been assigned. The enclave of twenty or so cabins and tents cluttered the clearing around the church, and hers was on the western perimeter. The viselike grip on her back eased slightly, and she hurried.
She fumbled at the doorknob and practically fell inside as another pain gripped her. Liquid pooled at her feet. Was she dying? She gasped as the pain moved from her back to her belly. The baby was coming today.
She found her way to the hard cot in the bedroom and fell on it. As the pain came in waves, she lost track of time. What felt like hours later, she felt a firm hand on her forehead and looked into her mother’s face.
“It’s the baby,” Button whispered through dry lips.
“Yes, it’s nearly here.” Her mom dipped a rag in water and wiped her forehead. “You’re doing great, honey. I’ve sent word to Moose.”
The baby’s father was the last person Button wanted here. She’d never even seen his face clearly. Her parents had betrothed her to him when she was twelve, and Moses had tied their hands together a year ago when she was fourteen. He’d come to her twice before she found herself increasing, and he would be no comfort now.
She clung to her mother’s hand. “It hurts so bad, Mom. I’m scared. I want to go to the hospital.”
“I know it hurts, honey.” Her mother soothed her with a calm hand on Button’s forehead. “Breathe through the pain. I’m going to deliver it now.”
The world narrowed to this room, this pain blotting out everything around her. It seemed an eternity before the thin, reedy cry of a newborn emerged. Button had no strength left to ask the baby’s gender.
“It’s a boy!” Her mother plopped the baby on Button’s breast. “He’s good sized too. And listen to those lungs. He needs to nurse.”
Button had seen the procedure plenty of times over the years in the community, but her mother had to help her figure out the actions to get him to latch. She smoothed her hand over his thick cap of black hair. “He’s beautiful.”
His skin was pink and perfect. She ran her finger along his arm. So soft. An overwhelming love for him surprised her by its intensity. She closed her eyes and breathed in his scent as her mother snapped several Polaroid pictures. There had to be a way to give him more than she had in this compound.
Button was barely aware of her mom finally moving the baby to the small box prepared for him, and she fell asleep.
* * *
A loud sound outside awakened her and she sat upright. “Mom?”
No answer. She caught the whiff of smoke and heard screams from outside her cabin. Then more loud noises. Gunshots? Were they under attack? Moses had warned them it could happen anytime.
She rolled out of bed and went to grab the baby from the box, but he wasn’t there. Maybe her mother had taken him to bathe or to show him to her father and Moose. Weak from the ordeal, she lurched out of the bedroom into the living room. A curl of smoke drifted around the door, and flames licked at the frame.
“Mom!” Where was her baby?
Frantic, she darted her gaze around the small cabin, but there was no sign of her son or her mother. The smoke burned her throat all the way down to her lungs. She coughed and backed away from the fire shooting up the cabin’s front wall to the window.
She had to get out.
The glass shattered in the window behind her, and the flames intensified with the fresh insurgence of air.
“Button!�
�
She turned at the sound of her dad’s voice. He’d broken out the window and was holding out his arms. “Hurry, there isn’t much time.”
She rushed to him, and he helped her through the window and out into the fresh air. “My baby. Where’s Mom and my baby?”
“Come with me.” He swung her into his arms and carried her through thick smoke.
Flames crackled from cabins all around, and the acrid stench made her cough again. More screams and gunshots rang out. A bullet whistled by her head, and she buried her face against her dad’s chest. What was happening?
He reached his old Jeep, a dented green vehicle that was a good thirty years old. He put her down by the passenger door and opened it. “Get in.”
She shook her head wildly. “No! I have to find my baby. And Mom!”
“Your mom refuses to come. She’s staying with Moses.”
Button’s eyes widened in horror. “She took my baby? She can’t keep him here. He’s mine!”
Dad looked at the ground. “Honey, the baby died. We have to get out of here or we’re all going to jail. You need to get in the Jeep.” His words were gentle.
Dead? Her perfect little son had died? “I don’t believe you,” she whispered.
Her dad held her gaze. “I saw him, honey. He was blue and cold. Your mom gave me this photo for you to keep to remember him by.” He thrust a Polaroid picture into her hand.
Tears filled her eyes, and she fell into the Jeep barely conscious as her dad drove through the inferno to safety.
One
Fifteen Years Later
“Last net of the night, Boss.”
Alfie Smith nodded at Isaac, his sixteen-year-old helper, and started the hoist motor to bring up the nets. Nearly eighty, he’d plied these waters aboard his boat Seacow for more than sixty years. The lights of Gulf Shores shimmered in the distance and more lights passed to his starboard side, other shrimping boats pulling up their last nets of the night before heading for a berth at Pensacola, Gulf Shores, or Mobile.
Sunrise pinked the clouds in the eastern sky and spread an iridescent shimmer over the waves. This was Alfie’s favorite time of day, when his muscles ached from good use and shrimp filled his hold. Most people said the smell was bad enough to gag a maggot, but to Alfie it was the aroma of money.
He glanced at Isaac, who looked like a surfer with his vivid blue eyes and his tanned face. His hair was streaked blond by the sun and tousled by the sea air. In spite of his good looks, he had a mariner’s soul and a natural aptitude for shrimping.
Isaac pulled out his phone. “Your daughter said this is your last trip. Maybe we should commemorate it somehow. I’ll take a picture.”
“She told you that?” Alfie scowled and stared out at the horizon. “Put that blasted phone away. Dr. Cosby is an old busybody, and she’s got her knickers in a knot over it. I’ll be out here on the water as long as I’m still kicking. She wants me to plop down in my recliner and die right there. I plan to keel over right here on my boat.”
Isaac gave him a doubtful look, then stuck his phone back in his pocket. “If you say so. Your daughter was pretty adamant.”
“She’s not the boss of me.” She was a good girl, much like her mother, who’d gone to glory ten years ago. But she was too big for her britches when it came to trying to dictate his actions. “I’m going out tomorrow, and you can take that to the bank along with your paycheck.”
Isaac pushed his curly hair out of his eyes. “You still want me then?”
“Yep. When you see me in the casket, you’ll know your job is done.”
That old goat of a doctor claimed Alfie’s ticker was having problems, but he felt fine. A little more tired maybe, but he was an old coot.
A harsh whine in the engine caught Alfie’s attention.
“The engine is straining. We must have a good haul,” Isaac said.
Alfie nodded and maneuvered the net over the sorting table, then dropped the contents. Something heavy banged on the table, and he flipped on the floodlights.
Isaac groaned. “There’s a big cooler in here, Alfie. It’s damaged the net.”
The big Grizzly cooler, one of the four-hundred-quart ones, was nearly five feet long. Alfie had always wanted one, but they were dear. The one he’d priced had been nearly seven hundred dollars. Mother Ocean had brought him a nice gift today.
It made Alfie madder than a wet hen the way people dumped things right in the shrimping grounds. They took their trash just far enough offshore to toss it overboard unnoticed. Sometimes he thought people did it on purpose to snare the shrimping nets.
Alfie turned to look at the big hole. “We’re done anyway.” The net would take some mending before he could go out again.
Isaac grunted as he pulled the cooler toward him. “Too heavy to be empty.” He struggled with the lid and managed to open it.
When Isaac cussed and stumbled back, Alfie hurried to the boy’s side. “What is it?”
Eyes wide, Isaac’s hand shook as he pointed. “I-I think there’s a dead woman in there.”
Alfie approached the cooler and peered inside. A bloody wedding dress was bunched inside. No, wait, not just a dress. A human torso. He backpedaled, spun around, and retched over the side of the boat. After he emptied his stomach, he reached for his phone.
* * *
Jane Hardy sat in a chair in front of the five executive committee members seated at a shiny curved table. Her golden retriever, Parker, lay at her feet. Her mouth was dry, and she wasn’t sure why she was even here. They couldn’t seriously be considering promoting her already, could they? But the group of three men and two women seemed to regard her with some sort of approval in their eyes.
Jane’s gaze met the pale-blue eyes of Victor Armstrong. He wasn’t smiling.
Armstrong cleared his throat. He was a big man in his fifties and the only city council member to wear a suit and tie. He sold commercial real estate and was well known in town.
She realized he’d spoken while she was daydreaming. “Excuse me?”
His eyes narrowed. “I hope we’re not keeping you from something important.”
“No, sir.” She clamped her mouth shut because any kind of excuse she offered would make the situation worse. Jane tucked a strand of light-brown hair behind her ear and sent a nervous smile toward Mayor Lisa Chapman, who was seated beside him.
Lisa had befriended Jane the day she’d come to town. Lisa also owned Petit Charms, the beignet and pastries shop, but after being elected mayor, she’d given over running the shop to her daughter. Though in her fifties, Lisa appeared to be in her thirties with her unblemished dark skin and trim figure.
Lisa smiled. “We’re appointing you chief of police, Jane. Congratulations.”
Chief of police. Jane sat up straighter. “I-I don’t know what to say. I’m humbled by your trust in me.”
“You’re well qualified for the job. We conducted extensive interviews with the department. Your management skills are excellent, and you’re organized and highly intelligent. All of us”—Lisa glanced at Armstrong and put a slight emphasis on all before she continued—“know you’ll represent the department as well as your father has all these years.”
Jane felt woozy as the blood drained from her head. She hadn’t dared to hope for a permanent appointment. “Thank you so much, all of you. I won’t let you down.”
Armstrong frowned. “I must say I’m not sure about appointing a woman to this position. I’m sure it’s politically incorrect for me to voice my concerns, but I’ve never cared about being PC. You’re a small woman, Jane, and your appearance isn’t likely to put the fear of God into criminals. And you’ve made no progress with the vigilante cases over the past two months.”
Jane’s smile died on her lips, and she barely bit back the gasp of outrage gathering in her throat. “The vigilante is hardly a priority, Victor. We have a small police force, and putting drug dealers and criminals in jail has taken more of my attention.”
&nbs
p; Lisa leapt to her defense. “Victor, I can’t believe you’d say something like that. Jane has acquitted herself well in every role she’s filled at the department from patrol to detective. As a detective she made more arrests than anyone we’ve employed.”
Armstrong shrugged. “The mayor has the final say, but I predict we’ll be back here in a few months reversing our decision.”
Lisa moved her paper and pencil around, a sure sign of her anger. When she spoke, her voice was careful and modulated. “I don’t want to hear anything more from you, Victor. This meeting is adjourned.” She rose and came around the table to shake Jane’s hand.
Jane clung to her hand for a long moment. “Thanks so much, Lisa.”
“My pleasure. We have full confidence you’ll do an outstanding job. I’m proud we have such a wonderful officer to step into that position.” Her eyes gleamed. “I’m sure the news of this will get around.”
Jane’s smile faded. Was the publicity of being female the reason she got the job?
She barely registered the congratulations and well-wishes before she escaped into the heat of the Alabama spring with Parker. Chief of police. Paul Baker would not be happy at this turn of events.
Could she do the job? Was Armstrong right about the challenges she’d face as a woman? She gave a slight shake of her head. Her town was riding on her ability to do this. She’d rise to the challenge. In a larger police force the chief ruled from the office, but with only five officers including her on the force, she had to be a hands-on chief of police.
Pelican Harbor sat along the blue water of Bon Secour Bay between Oyster Bay and Barnwell. The town had mostly escaped the influx of tourists heading to Gulf Shores for many years, but times changed when Pelican Harbor’s beignet shops and shotgun houses had appeared in National Geographic Traveler. The tourists brought prosperity to the village of two thousand souls, and the residents had begun to spruce up the wrought-iron balconies and paint the quaint French homes. The town reminded visitors of New Orleans’ famous French Quarter.
This was her town to protect now, and she intended to do it to the best of her ability.
One Little Lie Page 1