by Destiny Ford
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Acknowledgments
Books by Angela Corbett
Thank you, From Angela Corbett
About the Author
Copyright © 2020 by Angela Corbett
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Cover design by Kat Tallon at Ink and Circuit Designs
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America by Midnight Sands Publishing, Utah
Dedication
For my dad, who, despite numerous threats from my mom, still told me the shrimp story.
Chapter One
“So, let me get this straight,” I said, trying hard not to narrow my eyes. It was an exercise in futility. I’d arrived at the scene ten minutes ago and had so many questions.
Officer Bob, my favorite Branson Falls police officer and former high school classmate, crossed his arms over his stout chest, shifted on his heels and prepared for my onslaught of queries. Most times I thought Bobby liked me just fine, but sometimes his squinty eyes and pinched expression when he looked at me gave me the impression that I might not be his favorite journalist, or Branson Tribune newspaper editor.
“There was a burglary at the Popes’ house,” I said.
Bobby nodded.
“Your one and only witness is six-year-old, Cory Lawrence, who saw the alleged burglar.”
Bobby nodded again.
“Cory identified the perpetrator as a man who looked like a spider climbing up the wall of the house.”
Yet another shift of Bobby’s head.
I took a deep breath and pressed a hand to my forehead to try and quell the headache I was sure I was going to have momentarily. “That sounds like someone with ninja warrior capabilities, and if they have those kinds of skills, they probably aren’t hurting for cash enough to resort to common burglary.”
I checked myself as soon as the words came out of my mouth because I had intimate knowledge of someone who could easily put “warrior ninja, war hero, mercenary—probably, millionaire,” and a slew of other titles on his resume. His name was Ryker Hawkins, Hawke for short, and he had less body fat than Superman and was a hell of a lot stronger. I knew Hawke well enough to know that he hadn’t had anything to do with scaling a house and robbing someone…at least, I thought I did. And he certainly wouldn’t have been dumb enough to do it in the middle of the day with witnesses.
“What was Cory doing outside?”
Bobby shrugged. “Playin’ with other neighbor kids.”
“But none of the other kids saw the man crawling up the Popes’ trellis?”
Bobby scrunched up his nose. “Nah. Cory said the guy was super speedy.”
I couldn’t decide if “super speedy” was Cory’s description, or Bobby’s, but decided not to ask.
I wasn’t sure what Cory Lawrence had seen, but I had a feeling it was just a spry criminal who was adept at climbing walls. Normally, I’d ask a witness questions, but even if I got permission from his parents, Cory was only six and I didn’t think he’d be the best informant. I also didn’t feel like I’d get any more information than the police had already given me. I could include Cory’s information from the police report in my article however, and that would be enough.
“Have you finished your sweep with the Popes to figure out what was stolen?”
“We’re still workin’ on it, but so far we know they didn’t steal cash.”
My eyes widened at that. Most robberies were financially based. “How do you know that?”
Bobby pointed his thumb over his shoulder indicating the Pope residence behind him. “Because when Brandy and Scott Pope were walkin’ through the house fifteen minutes ago, they noticed the hundred bucks in cash they’d left on the counter was still sittin’ there.”
I raised my brows. “Why did they have that much money in cash sitting out?”
“Their teenage son was supposed to take it to pay for his clarinet lessons for the month.”
I’d taken band in high school. In the wrong hands, the clarinet was one of those instruments that sounded like a cat screaming violently. I’d pay copious amounts of money for my kid to practice it somewhere else too. “That’s odd the money wasn’t taken when it was sitting in plain sight. When do you think you’ll know what was stolen?”
Bobby lifted a shoulder. “Hopefully soon. The Popes are going to do a more thorough walk-through once they’re not in shock. I’ll call you when I know more.” Apparently, Bobby had decided to like me again for the moment, which made my job much easier.
“Thanks,” I said. “You know you’re my favorite police officer in Branson.”
He pushed his brows together. “There’s about six of us, so I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”
“Of course it is,” I answered, giving him a wink.
I walked over to where the Popes were talking to some neighbors in front of their grey and white farmhouse themed two-story home that looked like it had been expertly styled by the crew of Fixer Upper. Scott was a dermatologist, and Brandy owned an aromatherapy company. They were recent transplants to Branson Falls, which automatically put them at a disadvantage in the social hierarchy of town. Small Utah towns are like royal families and names, family heritage, and Mormon Church attendance records matter. “Hi Brandy and Scott,” I said. They both nodded toward me. “I’m sorry about the robbery.”
Brandy wrapped her arms around herself. “The thought of someone coming into our home like this and taking things…I just feel so violated.”
Scott put his arm around Brandy. The protective gesture was sweet. “Hopefully they’ll be able to find out who did it,” Scott said.
“Did anything weird happen leading up to the robbery?” I asked. “Like, did you notice any strange people around your house?”
Scott and Brandy both thought about it for a few seconds and then shook their heads. “Nothing odd that I can think of,” Scott said.
That wasn’t surprising. Most people weren’t on the lookout twenty-four-seven for strange things that might cause trouble because most people weren’t related to my mom. “You haven’t lived in Branson Falls long. Do you think this could have been done by someone who knew you from your old city?”
They both thought about it for a minute before dismissing the idea. “No one comes to mind,” Scott said. “Can you think of anyone, honey?” he asked Brandy. She shook her head.
“Okay, well if you think of anything else, feel free to give me a call.” I handed them my card and
got back in my dark blue Jeep Grand Cherokee. The day was young and I had more stories to cover.
Branson Falls is a tiny farming community in Utah, surrounded by the towering Rocky Mountains. It has clean, crisp air, four seasons, and a slew of small town traditions that people outside of Branson—or a Hallmark movie set—might find odd. The town was built on agriculture, but it was growing, and that meant new businesses and more jobs. Some people still owned farms, but almost everyone else worked at one of the businesses that make up the Branson Falls Industrial Park. Everyone knows everyone in Branson, and attendance at The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, also known as the Mormon Church, is viewed as a barometer of a person’s character. I’d left the church as a child, so my character had been in question for years. I was fine with that, especially since most of the people doing the judging weren’t supposed to judge at all—according to their beliefs—so that made them hypocrites in my book.
I stopped to grab some lunch and then went back to the Tribune office to eat and catch up on some messages. My inbox gave me anxiety and I tried to keep it at manageable levels, though with daily emails containing everything from story tips to suggestions that the Tribune publish a weekly list of “sinners” caught frequenting the new local coffee house, I had a feeling that I’d never be a zero-inboxer again.
“Heard about the robbery,” Ella announced as I walked into the office, my foot snagging on the worn low pile black and sage green speckled carpet. I dropped my food on my desk, chipped from years of use, and sank into my chair.
Ella was a spry young seventy-something with bluish-white hair, bright amber eyes, and was roughly the height of a hobbit. She’d started volunteering at the Tribune as a way to get out of the house after her husband had passed away a few years ago. She pushed boundaries, kept me updated on the mostly untrue gossip about my love life, and drove her Lexus convertible like a bat out of hell. She retained her license only because she bribed the police force with pies.
I raised a brow at her robbery knowledge. “Facebook?”
She sliced her head down once matter-of-factly. “The Ladies are all abuzz.”
I rolled my eyes and started eating my sandwich. “The Ladies are always abuzz about something.” The Ladies are Branson’s version of The Real Housewives, but with a lot less money, influence, and no hair and makeup team. I’d never met more gossipy, unkind women in my life. Considering I despised gossip, and was frequently the subject of The Ladies wrath because they didn’t agree with my life choices—like drinking coffee, having pre-marital sex, and not being married with two kids by age twenty-five—I didn’t get along with most of them and avoided them whenever possible. Ella was the only exception and I hadn’t known she was a member of The Ladies until after we’d already become friends.
“What was stolen?” Ella asked. “No one seems to know.”
I gave her a look. “I feel like if I tell you anything, you’re going to immediately post about it in The Ladies secret Facebook group.”
Ella discreetly put the phone she’d been holding, and poised to type on, down on the desk. “I’ll keep it between us.”
I didn’t believe that for a second. But the news would get out fast enough. “The Popes couldn’t find anything missing when they initially walked through. They’re going to go through the house again and see if they missed something and if so, Bobby will call me.”
Ella pinched her brows together. “Nothin’? Seems like a lotta trouble for someone to go through if they weren’t even gonna take anythin’.” Since I’d grown up in Branson, I usually didn’t notice the Utah accent of dropped Gs, Ts, and words that all ran together like a stream of consciousness, but sometimes it was more apparent than others—and Ella was fluent in it.
I nodded in agreement and finished up my food. “I have to get to the tattoo shop grand opening. I’ll be back in a while.”
Ella gave a long whistle that sounded like a sigh. “Good luck. It’s gonna be hairy.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Why do you say that?” Ella often had helpful insider information that she didn’t share until after the point when it would have actually been useful. I was slowly trying to get her to start imparting information before I walked into a FUBAR situation.
“People ain’t happy about that shop and I don’t think anythin’ good is gonna come of it.”
I sighed. “Everyone said that about the coffee shop too, but Satan hasn’t risen from the underworld and life as we know it did not end.”
Ella tapped a finger on her lips. “He doesn’t live in the underworld, and I’d say opinion on his current whereabouts depends on who you ask.”
I rolled my eyes and had a feeling that it might have been suggested by some Ladies that my current whereabouts and Satan’s were the same. “I’ll watch myself at the tattoo shop.”
“I would,” Ella said, nodding in agreement.
Chapter Two
Inked AF, was having their grand opening today and I felt like it was absolutely cause for celebration. The fact that a tattoo and piercing shop had been allowed to open in Branson Falls was shocking in and of itself. Like the coffee shop that had opened in Branson a couple of months ago, people thought tattoos were a gateway to other morally reprehensible and even illegal things. There had been a fight during the business approval process, and additional fights ever since. I’d covered more protests in the last month than I’d covered in my entire journalism career.
Personally, I was in total support of the tattoo shop. I’ve always believed it’s important to expose people to a variety of different ideas and cultures, especially the ones they vehemently disapprove of even though they’ve had no experience with them. The fact that the tattoo shop was named Inked AF made me chuckle every time I heard it; the shop owners had chosen a very clever name. The younger generation would get it, but the older generation and religious minded people of Branson Falls definitely would not.
The shop was on Main Street, next to the antique shop that had been there since before I was born. It was about two miles from the Branson Tribune office. I drove by Inked AF multiple times a day and had watched the progress as they got the shop ready to open. I was excited to see what it looked like, but as I drove up and tried to find a parking spot, I realized I couldn’t even see the front of the shop. The place was jam packed with people, and based on the angry expressions and homemade poster board signs with opinions written in craft paint—or maybe strawberry jam, I really couldn’t tell—most of these people were not supporters.
I got out of the car and realized that instead of covering the opening of the first tattoo shop ever in Branson Falls, Utah, there was a good chance I was going to be covering a riot over needles and ink.
Bobby hadn’t been kidding about the size of the Branson Falls Police department. It consisted of six officers, and they were all trying to prevent complete civil disobedience. Some people were yelling that the tattoo shop never should have been allowed in Branson Falls. Others were defending the shop and saying it was about time Branson joined the current century. I sided with the current century activists, but as editor of the Tribune, I was being objective and would get both sides of the story regardless of my personal opinion.
I passed by the protesters first. I saw several people from the Branson Falls community, but by far, the biggest angry contingent consisted of The Ladies. They were out in force, wearing fall fashion acceptable jeans, sweaters, scarves, oversized accessories, and holding pumpkin spice hot chocolate in one hand—which they’d bought at the coffee shop they’d also protested recently—with signs about the evils of ink on skin in the other hand. That seemed a little hypocritical, considering how many of them were sporting permanent cosmetics.
I walked up to Jackie Wall, the ringleader of The Ladies. She’d recently cut her blonde hair in a style where it was short on one side and long on the other. I had a feeling that particular cut hadn’t been done on purpose and she was trying to pull it off as a new trend. She’d undoubtedly ge
t other Ladies to follow her example and then they’d all look like their heads had been caught in a close encounter with a weed wacker.
Jackie and I had a history. She was older than me, which I liked to remind her of whenever possible, and she and her manipulative little friends had spent high school ridiculing me in every possible way. The nice thing about becoming an adult is that you realize you no longer have to care or give any energy to people who treat you poorly. So I avoided Jackie and her cohorts in my personal life. However, when they decided to make themselves part of a news story, I still had to engage them. “Hi, Jackie.”
“Kate,” Jackie said, her eyes going over my comfortable jeans, form fitting navy blue sweater, and my messy bun like she was getting paid to critique me. She tilted her sign so it blocked as much of my face as possible. Manners weren’t part of Jackie’s wheelhouse.
“Do you want to tell me why you’re here with The Ladies protesting the opening of Inked AF?”
Jackie moved the sign and seemed like she was trying to melt me with her stare—a feat since she was wearing dark, oversized round sunglasses that made her strongly resemble a drugged up bee. “You gotta be kiddin’!” she said like I was the dumbest person on the planet. “You know tattoos are against church rules. This is horrible! And unacceptable! It’s gonna teach our kids that this kinda thing is normal when it’s not! And the nerve! Namin’ the shop Inked And Fantastic to lure kids in!”