by Tess Diamond
“She wanted to stay,” Abby finished. Cass had always wanted to stay in Castella Rock. She had never been that small-town girl who harbored bigger dreams of the city. To her, all those big dreams were right there at home. “But then she never got to leave.”
“Hey.” He shifted in his seat so he was facing her, and he cupped her cheek, brushing away the unexpected tear. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We shouldn’t talk about heavy stuff. Not after today.”
Because she’d buried her father today. God, she was exhausted. She let out a shuddery little breath, the realization hitting her as the warmth of his skin spread against hers.
It felt so good, his skin on hers. Like the memory of something she’d lost a long time ago. His hand came up, almost as if it had a mind of its own, covering hers.
Her eyes met his, and her heart flipped over in her chest, a rush of yes coming over her as his thumb stroked down her neck and he murmured her name.
The kiss was feather-soft. Almost a suggestion, full of hesitation, of tightly restrained desire. And then her mouth opened underneath his, a surge of heat and finally rushing through her, blotting out everything else, just for a moment.
For a moment, it was the two of them and nothing else existed. It was his hands in her hair and his lips moving against hers and his taste—spice and whiskey—on her tongue.
For a moment, there was no history, no past, no future. Just then.
Just them.
But when that moment shattered, she remembered.
Cass.
She jerked back, pushing herself away, off the couch entirely, trying to ignore how even as she was retreating, he was reaching for her.
“You’re drunk. I’m drunk. We . . . this isn’t right,” she said, trembling, trying not to feel like there was a hole forming inside her. Like the memory of his lips against hers wasn’t going to haunt her till the day she died.
“Abby,” he said, a slow rumble of sound that shot through her like a bullet.
“Don’t,” she begged. “Don’t let me dishonor her memory. Please don’t do that to me.”
“Wait—” Paul said, but she had whirled around, hurrying upstairs, her heart aching for so many reasons.
The next morning, she woke hungover as hell.
When she went downstairs, the living room was empty. But there was a note on the wagon wheel coffee table.
All it said was: I’m sorry.
Chapter 7
Paul looked out across the meadow that separated his family’s orchard from Abby’s. The rows of picnic tables had been set up in the center of the meadow, lupine and California poppies speckling the tall grasses. There were big tin tubs of ice set all over, full of bottles of specialty old-fashioned homemade sodas—his father’s hobby after he had quit drinking, and one his sister Faye had picked up. A huge BBQ pit had been set up, the coals already layered with a fine coat of ash as the tri-tip and chicken sizzled above them.
It had been a beautiful memorial. They’d risen early and gone out to the hill at the very back of the property, where a simple wooden cross lay. His father’s ashes were in an urn on the mantel, but the hill, his father’s favorite place, was sacred to his mother. He knew she went there often to feel closer to him, and it was fitting that each year they gathered at the hill, to speak their piece and their hearts about the man who’d helped shape them.
And now it was time to celebrate him in the style he would have loved, with good music, good food, and good friends.
“Uncle Paul!” Robin, his oldest niece from his sister Georgia’s family, bounded up to him and hugged him. “I’m so glad you came.”
He hugged her back. “Me too,” he said, and he did mean it, even though this day had been difficult.
“Come sit with me!” Robin tugged on his arm, heading toward the picnic tables. “I want to talk to you.”
He followed her, the two of them taking a spot at the end of one of the tables, away from most of the crowd. The smell of barbecue was heavy in the air, and the music and talk floated along the meadow.
His father would have loved this. Laughter. Family. Food. Friends. A celebration of life, of his memory, instead of something somber. He looked over to his mother and smiled, thinking how lucky his dad had been—how lucky his entire family was, to have such a strong and gracious woman as the head of their family.
“So, how’s school?” he asked Robin, grabbing a chip from one of the bowls on the table and dipping it in his sister Faye’s famous nectarine salsa. It was just like he remembered: tart, fruity, with a slow burn of heat. He used to joke that Faye should jar the stuff and sell it—and she had taken him seriously. Now Aunt Faye’s salsa—along with other specialty condiments and the entire soda line—was for sale all over the West Coast in only the finest grocery stores. A few months ago, both Costco and Trader Joe’s had reached out. Expanding had been a lot of work, but Faye thrived in stressful environments. Before she’d become a salsa and soda maven, she’d been an EMT. She still worked for the volunteer fire department in town.
“It’s great,” Robin said. “I got all the AP classes I wanted and I successfully lobbied the school board to let me join the wrestling team.”
“I heard about that,” Paul said. He’d been incredibly impressed with Robin, who, when she signed up for wrestling tryouts, had been rejected by the coach because she was a girl. Considering Robin had been taking mixed martial arts classes since she was a kid, it was a hard blow for her. But not one to be discouraged—she was a lot like her grandmother in that way—she’d taken her fight to the principal and then the school board—and won.
She’d also won three of her first six matches. Turned out she had a real talent for multiple fighting arts.
“The guys on the team aren’t giving you a hard time, are they?” he asked, concerned.
Robin shook her head. “We’re cool,” she said. “A lot of them are in my MMA classes. They respect me. Coach is the only one who thinks I’m weird.”
“You’re not weird,” Paul said firmly, wondering if he had time to swing by the school and have a little talk with Coach Patten. He remembered the guy from his school days. He was a hard-ass who was just getting his start in coaching back then and clearly still had that misogynistic streak that made him complain mightily to the baseball team about being forced to coach the girls’ softball team. “And if Coach Patten gives you any shit, you call me.”
“Uncle Paul!” She laughed at his swearing, and he laughed too. Georgia, her mother, hated cursing. His oldest sister was an absolute sweetie, but she was a little traditional and prim. So, naturally, she ended up with a five-foot-ten daughter with wild hair and a wilder spirit.
She’s got more of Jason than me in her, his sister would say with a smile. And that makes me love her even more.
“I’m really glad you’re enjoying school,” he said. “Your mom start in on you about college yet?”
“That’s actually kind of what I wanted to talk to you about,” Robin said.
“Oh?” he asked. “Are you looking at some colleges in DC or back east? Because I’d love to show you around if you want to tour them.”
“It’s not that,” Robin said. “Though I’d totally love to do that. It’s . . .” She looked over her shoulder, scanning the crowd, and Paul realized she was making sure her mom was out of earshot. His curiosity piqued, he leaned forward.
“I wanted to talk to you. About the FBI.”
“What about it?”
“I know I need a degree before I’m even considered for Quantico,” Robin said. “And I know I have to be twenty-three. But I was curious if there were, like, degrees or schools that would be better for me if the FBI was my end goal.”
Paul’s throat felt tight with emotion. “You want to join the FBI?” he asked. If she knew the requirements she needed to get into Quantico, she’d obviously done some research on this.
“Yes,” Robin said. “I want to help people. Serve my country. I want to be like you, Uncle Paul.”<
br />
His heart suddenly felt too big for his body, pride rising inside him.
“Do you . . . do you think they’d want me?” Robin asked, a flash of insecurity playing across her round, freckled face.
“Yes,” Paul said. “You are exactly the kind of young woman that the FBI would want. You’re smart, you’re capable, you think on your feet, and if your mother’s bragging isn’t exaggerated, you have a real gift for languages.”
“I’m taking Spanish and French 4 this year,” Robin said. “And I’m learning Mandarin on the side. Dad found me an online class. We’ve been taking it together.”
“Those are all big assets in the FBI,” Paul said. “And the fact that you’re very physically fit and know how to take care of yourself? Also big plusses. We would need to work on your marksmanship, though.”
“We?” she asked.
“If you want, you can come stay with me next summer for a while. I won’t be able to take you on cases, of course, but we can go to the firing range, you can meet my team, tour Quantico, tour the headquarters, get a feel for the place. See if it’s a good fit. I think it will be.”
Robin’s mouth twisted, unsure. “You think Mom would let me?”
Oh. There was that. Georgia wasn’t exactly a helicopter mom, but Robin was her only child. His big sister had dealt with infertility and then a very difficult birth, and she and Jason hadn’t been able to have more kids. They’d poured their energy into Robin and their extended family. And Robin had cousins her age, which was like having a sibling when you were a Harrison.
Paul was the only one who’d left California. At least, until Robin flew the nest in two years. She was the oldest grandchild, and he knew that it would make Georgia and his mother simultaneously proud and terrified if Robin decided to pursue the FBI as a career.
“I will talk to her,” Paul said.
“She doesn’t know. About the whole FBI thing,” Robin explained. “I think she might freak out a little. She worries about you a lot.”
“Your mom is a worrier,” Paul said, with a smile. “But she does have reason to worry. My job’s not always a safe one.”
He hadn’t told his family about the events nearly a year ago, when he’d made a terrible call and paid the price. Three nights out of seven, he still woke up in a cold sweat, the weight of that bomb vest a phantom memory against his skin. It used to be every night, so he figured he was making some progress. After Grace had confronted him about his PTSD during a difficult case where he kept pulling her back in fear of one of his team getting hurt, he’d made himself return to therapy.
“But the job’s worth it, isn’t it?” Robin asked earnestly. “You wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t.”
“It’s worth it,” Paul said, trying not to think of that weight pressing on his chest.
“What are you two talking about?”
His mother came to sit next to him, putting her arm around him.
“Oh, just thinking maybe Robin might come visit me in DC next summer,” Paul said. “Check out some of the colleges on the East Coast. We gotta ask Georgia and Jason first, though.”
“That’s a wonderful idea,” his mom said. “Dear, we’re almost out of the homemade sarsaparilla. Abby was a sweetie, she’s storing all the extra beverages at her place because it’s closer. Will you go get us a few crates? The dolly’s over there.”
“Sure,” Paul said, getting to his feet. He needed to walk off all the barbecue he’d eaten anyway. And he couldn’t help but crave a few moments of silence to himself. He loved his family, loved the hustle and bustle of it, but he’d been gone a long time, and it was sometimes hard to adjust. “Be back in a while.”
“Thanks, sweetie,” his mom called, losing herself in a conversation with Robin about her upcoming wrestling meet.
Paul snagged the dolly, stopping to greet Gray Teller, one of his old teammates from baseball, before heading out across the meadow. The music and noise faded as he walked farther away from the party, and he made his way down the winding path that led to Abby’s house, thinking he could walk this road with his eyes closed.
He’d certainly walked it enough drunk when he was a teen, he thought with a wry grin.
The Winthrop farmhouse was just as he remembered it—a slice out of time—the red shutters gleaming against the white two-story edifice. The double wraparound porch rails were painted a shiny black that gleamed under the porch light, and the old oak tree in the front yard—the one he’d learned to climb on—still had the tire swing roped to the biggest branch.
Abby and her giant beast of a dog were still at the party, so he didn’t knock, but just let himself in. It felt a little strange walking through Abby’s house without her permission, but technically, his mom had permission. And she sent him.
Inside, the house was the same as he remembered, but also different. There were flashes of modern touches amongst the 1930s farmhouse decor—a gray suede couch had replaced the ancient brown one he remembered, a deep purple chenille throw tossed over it, a book lying on the wagon wheel coffee table that he did remember. He glanced at the cover, amused when he saw it was Grace’s latest book. Maybe he’d get her to sign a copy for Abby, send it to her as a way to mend what was broken between them.
God, he hated where the two of them were. Seeing her in the orchard last night—and at the memorial today—had just brought it all back.
The last time he saw Abby, when her father had died, he had fucked things up royally. And he’d never apologized. He’d run, like a coward. He didn’t have any excuses. It had been a shitty thing to do. The fight they’d had . . .
He’d lost a piece of himself when he left her. The piece of him that she’d always held in her hand, the fiery girl across the meadow who was in half of his childhood memories and almost all of his teenage ones. She was a permanent fixture in his life that he’d spent the last few years ignoring because he hadn’t been big enough to say I’m sorry.
He needed to make it right before he left, he decided as he headed into the kitchen to search for the crates of soda. He couldn’t find them, so he headed to the mudroom, thinking they might be there. But it was mostly empty, with just Abby’s bright yellow gardening boots and Roscoe’s hair-covered dog bed. He began to search the downstairs for the soda, opening each door as he went. When he reached the study, he glanced inside. The room was dark, the blinds pulled. He searched along the wall for the light switch, flipping it on.
As soon as the light filled the room, he wished he hadn’t.
There were four whiteboards set along the far wall of the study, one labeled CASS, the second labeled X, the third with a question mark, and the fourth . . .
The fourth just said EVIDENCE.
Paul stepped farther into the room, his mouth going dry as his eyes fell on Cass’s whiteboard. On the picture of her there.
God. He hadn’t looked at the photos he had stashed away in years. He’d left himself with just his memories of her.
He’d forgotten how bright her smile was. How her dimple used to flash at him when she teased him.
His eyes tracked lower, to a piece of paper affixed to the board. His frown deepened as he read the paper, scribbled in what he recognized as Abby’s cramped handwriting:
1:30 PM: C calls to cancel
2:00 PM: C leaves house
2:30 PM: C arrives at Physical Therapy
4:00 PM: C leaves Physical Therapy
4–7: ???? Unknown
7:00–7:40: Unsub takes Cass
His eyes snagged on the last entry on her little time line of Cass’s last day. Unsub takes her.
Why wasn’t it Wells takes her?
Why was she using the word unsub? That meant unknown subject. She was a journalist. She’d done crime stories. She wasn’t going to use a word like that incorrectly.
Unless . . .
Paul’s eyes flew to the third bulletin board, the one labeled with a question mark. But before he could move toward it, he was distracted by the sound of poundin
g footsteps and the bang of the porch screen door.
He turned around just as Abby burst into the study, her red hair a wild tangle around her redder face. She must’ve sprinted the entire way here. Probably to stop him from seeing . . . whatever this was.
The sickness churned inside him. He could feel that weight on his chest, pressing into his shoulders, like the vest was still there. Fuck. He needed to get out of here before he made a fool of himself.
But that required looking at her, and when his eyes finally met hers, all his resolve weakened.
And then she said the one thing that strengthened it like steel:
“I can explain.”
Chapter 8
Abby stared at him, a horrible mix of fear, embarrassment, and defiance filling her as he looked at her.
“I don’t want an explanation,” he said. “I want . . .” His eyebrows drew together, and he ran his hand over his stubbled jaw. He hadn’t shaved, and her eyes caught there for a moment, fixing on the strong curve of his chin. She watched as it crossed over his handsome face: that control, the calm facade, even though a storm raged in him.
“I’m getting out of here,” he said firmly, walking past her, heading down the hall of the farmhouse.
And just like that, any fear or humiliation she had disappeared, and anger roared to life inside her chest like a bobcat caught in a trap. She whirled, stalking after him. He’d already made it to the porch, and she slammed through the screen door so hard it rattled on the hinges.
“Don’t you dare walk away from me!” she spat at his back. “Not after what happened last time.”
He froze. The air seemed to go from hot and muggy to ice in just seconds as he turned, his eyes burning with the anger she was feeling.
“That’s low, Abby,” he said, but he wasn’t walking away now.
“I don’t care,” she said. She couldn’t. She would use his guilt because she needed his help. “You owe me.”
“What do you want?” he asked, incredulous. “This is ghoulish.” He gestured behind her, meaning the house, her room, the board she’d set up, detailing the time lines. All the evidence. “That’s no way to honor her. This isn’t healthy.”