by Lisa Jackson
She’d told herself she was just being paranoid, that no one was pointing fingers, that they couldn’t know she was a runaway bride escaping from what had turned out to be the scene of a deadly assault. Her admonitions had only partially worked as she’d fought tears and seasickness while Uncle Kent had steered steadily northward, skirting the San Juan Islands through pelting rain, eventually landing here in the dark. White-knuckled and scared to death, Rory had miraculously managed to get through Customs with the fake ID she’d had Uncle Kent create for her two years before she’d ever met Liam Bastian.
Just in case, she’d told herself.
Rory had known from the time she was thirteen that she would likely need an escape plan, and a new identity if and when things ever went sideways. Sadly, she’d been right.
As it had turned out, Point Roberts had been perfect and now, settled in this small town on a scrap of the United States that dangled from the Canadian peninsula, Heather had no intention of leaving until Charlotte was too old for school in this U.S. enclave, and until she was certain that her past would never catch up to her.
Still, she checked. All the time.
The short hallway opened to the area behind a long counter that separated the work area from the dining section. Seated at tables and in booths, a few customers had collected in groups of twos and threes and were deep in discussion or reading the paper or on their smartphones as they sipped coffee and picked at scones or dug into breakfast.
Hearing the soft ding of a bell that indicated a car was inside the Buzz’s drive-up lane, Heather stepped forward to the window just as Joanna called, “Incoming!” and tossed a glance over her shoulder to make certain Heather had heard.
Joanna, who was all of thirty, sometimes acted like a mother hen. Tall and lean from years of running, she had a brush of blond hair that she knotted up to the top of her head, messy strands forever escaping.
“I’m on it.” Heather assured her, putting a smile on her face as she spoke into the microphone, her eye on the camera mounted over the sign where customers placed their orders. She could see the driver, a woman, as she turned toward the microphone. Tammi Forsythe. One of the Buzz’s regulars.
“Good morning, Tammi,” Heather greeted her. “What can I get started for you?”
“Medium double mocha, no whip, just foam,” she said succinctly into the microphone. As ever, Tammi was in pajamas and a coat, a baseball cap low over her eyes, studying the menu through owlish glasses. “Add a bagel, would you? Cut in half. Jam and cream cheese?” She turned in the seat to talk to the two preschoolers strapped into their car seats and her voice was a little muffled. “Bagel, okay?” Looking back to the camera, she confirmed. “Yeah, make it strawberry jam and a couple of apple juices. God, what’s that gonna cost me?”
“You got it,” Heather said, hitting the appropriate buttons on the register, tallying the total bill in Canadian dollars. Tammi was one of the customers who always paid in Canadian currency, though the Buzz had two tills, one right above the other, one with U.S. dollars and one with Canadian.
“That’ll be—” she began, rattling off the cost of the order, but Tammi was already driving forward, the nose of her older model Toyota becoming visible in the garden window that allowed Heather a view of the lane.
Joanna was already placing a warmed bagel into a sack with packets of cream cheese and jam while Heather started the coffee drink. Soon, cash was exchanged for breakfast and Tammi rolled away, her kids yelling from the back seat as Heather went into full barista mode. A second car rolled in after the first. The early risers had been arriving for a few hours now, Joanna catching the earliest ones as Heather’s shift always started after school drop-off.
Between customers, Heather cleaned the station, stocking supplies and checking her phone. No text from the day care center. Maybe her baby was doing better. She sure hoped so. Another ding indicated an approaching customer as the cars began stacking up, a line forming. She and Joanna worked in tandem: Joanna, tall and gaunt, pulled together the orders while Heather, a few inches shorter with natural red hair, the dark dye she’d used when she’d first arrived in Point Roberts having grown out over the course of the last two years, dealt directly with the customers.
“Mutt and Jeff,” Connie had called them on more than one occasion. “Complete opposites, you two.” Today, though, she had no time for observations as the surprisingly robust morning crowd arrived.
Joanna started working double duty, making drinks for both the drive-up and the inside counter, while Connie was busy both in the kitchen and with customers in the dining area. Carlos, who also worked in the kitchen, was handling one of the registers this morning. His quick smile, dimples, and flashing eyes were a welcome relief from Joanna’s dour expression. The customers loved him and the dining room worked better whenever he was at the register; at least in Heather’s opinion.
“A well-oiled machine,” Connie had often said of the operation, though usually sarcastically whenever there was a glitch in the system and someone got the wrong order or was left waiting for their food.
Every day by noon the Buzz ran out of Connie’s cinnamon rolls, but Connie refused to budge when it came to baking any more. The ovens could only handle two dozen at a time and that, she figured, was plenty. “I’m not coming in earlier than four a.m., no siree,” Connie had said whenever the idea was posed to her. “I know that Jake, over at the inn, starts work at two or something ridiculous. That’s just nuts.”
“Five thirty in the morning is nuts,” Joanna agreed, and Heather always felt a little jab of guilt that she didn’t have to be at her station until seven fifteen bcause she was single and had a preschooler. Everyone else’s shift started earlier to tend to the early risers and set up for the day. But she knew no one really minded. Even Joanna understood. She just liked to grumble.
As there was a break in the drive-through line she took another moment to check her phone, but there was still no text from Miss Evers.
That was good, but she sent a quick message: How’s Charlotte?
When there was no answer, she decided not to wait. She called the pediatrician’s office and explained Charlotte’s symptoms to a nurse who told her to keep her eye on her daughter, but if she wasn’t feverish, showing signs of infection or not unusually listless, to wait for twenty-four hours.
“Call back and make an appointment if she doesn’t get better or if her temperature rises,” she added just before they ended their call. Heather had just clicked off her phone as the next customer, an elderly man, pulled up in a dented pickup. Mr. Selby. The old guy drove in about three times a week, always complained about the price of coffee but ordered a double mocha and left Heather a quarter in the tip jar sitting on the window ledge.
She started his drink before he started to either order or complain.
The next three hours she had a fairly steady stream of cars at the to-go window while other customers gathered inside. Between the rattle of silverware, hum of conversation, bursts of laughter, squawking over the speaker for the drive-up, and hiss of the espresso machine, Heather was lost in white noise. Only after the last car, a van with four kids, a harried mom, and now, five iced drinks, rolled to the exit, did Heather have a chance to check on Charlotte again. She blew a strand of hair from her eyes and caught a glimpse of Connie approaching. The inside crush had disbursed and Connie had just finished wiping down a table after a lingering group of five men—regulars who thought the Buzz was their private club—finally packed up their hats, canes, newspapers, jackets, and filed out.
“So what’s up?” Connie asked as Heather fished in the pocket of her apron for her phone and rapidly texted Miss Evers again. Connie leaned heavily against the counter as Heather placed the phone back in her pocket. Behind her rimless glasses, her brown eyes showed a touch of worry. “You have to be somewhere?”
“No, why?” Heather began refilling paper cups and lids in a dispenser and called to Joanna, “We have a pot of decaf going?”
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br /> “Ready in two minutes,” was the response. Joanna was wiping down the machines as she was about finished with her shift. When the green light switched on, indicating the pot of coffee was ready, she added, “All set.” She whipped off her apron, tossing the soiled towel and apron toward the bin.
Heather heard the ding of an incoming text and grabbed up her phone again. It was Miss Evers: Not her best. Hard to scare up a smile.
Heather felt a pang of worry.
“It’s just you keep checking your phone. And looking worried.”
“Oh. No. Charlotte was just a little off today and when I dropped her off she seemed kind of out of sorts. No fever. No runny nose, but . . . she just wasn’t herself. That’s all. I don’t want to miss a call from the preschool.”
“Ahh. Got it.” Connie, who had raised two sons, nodded. “Hope she’s okay.” Worry creased her forehead.
“Me, too.”
“But?”
She showed Connie the phone.
“Oh, too bad. She’s a little imp, that one,” Connie said with genuine fondness. “Maybe you want to pick her up early? Joanna can take over.”
“I heard that!” Joanna said and poked her head in from the back hallway. She was throwing her jacket over her arm as three men in full beards strolled in.
Connie grabbed some menus. “Let me know,” she said to Heather.
“Hey, I’m outta here!” Joanna started for the door.
The inside bell dinged, indicating another drive-up customer had arrived.
Catching a glimpse of a black SUV pulling into the drive-up lane, Heather stepped into her station and switched on the microphone. “What can I get started for you?” she asked, then looked at the image from the camera mounted in the drive-up lane.
She froze.
Good God! Liam? No! Couldn’t be.
Her heart missed a beat and she blinked, telling herself she’d made a mistake. Her thoughts of Liam must have conjured up his image in her mind. Swallowing hard, she stared at the screen. He was looking right at the camera and she recognized his deep-set eyes, sharp features, and rumpled near-black hair. His jaw, still strong, was shadowed by stubble and his lips were as blade thin as she remembered.
It was Liam. It was.
Liam is here. In Point Roberts? How? Why? Why now?
She couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. This couldn’t be a coincidence. He’d found her.
“Just a regular coffee. A small. Black,” he said, and his voice resonated in her ears. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. It was Liam! No . . . God no! When she couldn’t find her voice, he repeated the order.
“Yes. Uh, got it . . . please drive forward.” She automatically lowered her voice, an instinct of self-preservation, as she killed the microphone and stepped speedily out of her glassed-in work area. Trying not to sound frantic, she yelled to Joanna, who was just stepping outside through the back exit. “Hey! Before you go, could you get this customer?” Heather was already heading to the restroom. “I’ve got kind of an emergency.” She didn’t wait for an answer but pushed open the door and stepped into the tiled room. Fortunately it was empty. Without thinking about it, she walked into one of the two stalls, drew a deep breath, locked it behind her. She was shaking all over.
Liam couldn’t be here.
It’s not him. Can’t be. Not after all this time.
Your paranoia got the better of you. That’s all. Pull yourself together.
Her hands were clenched so tightly she could feel her pulse in her palms. Or was that because her heart was pounding so heavily in her chest? As if it were trying to jump from her rib cage? This was all just her wild imagination playing tricks on her. Had to be.
She gasped sharply when she heard the door to the restroom whoosh open.
“Heather?” Connie’s worried voice reached her. “Are you all right?”
“Yes . . . yes . . . I-I will be . . .” She didn’t bother trying to keep the anxiety from her voice.
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah . . . just give me a few minutes.”
“Okay.” Connie sounded hesitant and it was nearly another full minute before Heather heard the door open and close again. As soon as it did, she leaned down to peer under the lower edge of the stall, checking to see if she could view Connie’s white, heavy-soled shoes. Satisfied she was truly alone, she stood, then immediately sank against the stall door.
Liam?
Here?
After all these years?
How? How?
But the image she’d seen in the camera’s eye kept her rooted to the spot.
How had he found her? She’d known he’d survived the attack, of course. The Internet had kept her well informed. But there had been mention of an injury, and she hadn’t discovered, despite repeated searches, how serious it was. She shuddered and placed her hands over her face, wondering for the millionth time if somehow the horrific attack at the wedding was her fault, if her marriage to Liam had somehow prompted the violence and bloodshed.
She let out a long breath and checked her phone. Three minutes or four minutes had passed since she’d spied him in the camera’s lens. Surely that was long enough for him to pick up his order, pay the bill, and drive off.
Right?
But what if he came inside? Decided he wanted a late breakfast? What if he is even now ordering a cup of coffee and settling in?
She glanced around the stall as if an emergency exit would miraculously appear, which was pointless. She knew this tiny restroom, and the only exit was the door to the dining area. There was a narrow window mounted on the back wall, but it was so small a child couldn’t slip through, even if it hadn’t been painted shut, which it had been, several times.
It’s not him. He probably never even thinks of you. It’s been five years. Rory Abernathy is part of a distant, painful past that he’d rather forget and probably has.
Calmer, she walked to the sink, and worried because her disguise was no longer intact. She threw a bit of water over her face, but was careful not to smudge her makeup or dislodge her false eyelashes. Just in case.
What about Charlotte?
What if Liam found out that he has a daughter?
Her heart tumbled. A new fear gripped her.
What if he’s here in Point Roberts not because of you, but because of Charlotte!
At that moment the door opened again.
Chapter 3
Something was up. Connie Fellows could feel it—sense it. She hadn’t worked with the public for damned near forty years and not learned a thing or two. About people. Friends, customers, coworkers, even strangers; she could read them. Despite their outward attempts to appear “normal” or “calm,” most of the people gave off little hints to their emotions, be it internal turmoil, happiness, fear, or indifference. Connie had become adept at deciphering the truth. She recognized people’s fears and worries, unmasked as they were by body language, tics, eye contact or lack thereof, or general tension.
She was rarely wrong.
And right now she was willing to bet the Buzz’s income for the day, that Heather Johnson was scared out of her mind. But why? If she was freaking out over Charlotte, she would share that with her. So, this had to be because of the man who had pulled into the drive-up window. Heather had left her station in a panic and hightailed it to the bathroom about that same time. It was as if Heather had seen a damned ghost.
“What’s going on?” she asked, finding Heather at the sink in the restroom.
Heather had frozen at the sight of her, the water running, her newly, and overly, made-up face tense. But now she feigned nonchalance as she reached for a paper towel from its dispenser, dabbed at her cheeks, and met Connie’s gaze in the mirror.
“Nothing,” she said, trying for a smile.
“This isn’t about Charlotte?”
She seemed about to say it was, but Connie could tell there was more, and maybe Heather understood that, because she said instead, “I just felt sick, you know, like a su
dden attack of cramps.”
Connie did know. But she wasn’t buying it.
Heather wiped her hands. “Maybe . . . maybe whatever Charlotte’s got, I’ve got a touch of, too.”
“But, you’re okay now?”
A bit of hesitation. “I . . . don’t know. I’m still queasy. As I said, it might just be cramps . . .” She let her voice trail off. Beneath all that face makeup, she’d paled. But Connie guessed whatever was bothering her wasn’t cramps. Nor the flu. No, it was something else.
“I was just wondering if the last customer you were dealing with was the problem,” Connie suggested.
“The customer?”
“A man.” Connie watched Heather’s reaction as they walked back into the dining area together. “In a dark SUV of some kind. Good-looking guy. Probably in his midthirties. Strong jaw. Thick, brown hair. Grim expression.”
Heather shook her head. “I think the last customer I dealt with was a woman. Yeah, Denise Cromley. She ordered her usual skinny latte.”
“I saw a guy come through after that.” Connie walked to the register, touched the screen, then studied the list of recent receipts. “Here it is. He ordered a small regular coffee.”
“Oooh. Right.” As if suddenly remembering, she nodded slowly. “Uh-huh. You’re right. That’s about when it hit.”
“He didn’t bother you? Because the transaction is recorded, you know. Cameras at the sign where a customer orders, and here, in the workstation. Through the window.”
Heather’s lips parted. Obviously she’d forgotten that little fact.
“No. I barely remember taking his order.”