June—brain damaged and wheelchair bound—had been a vibrant, caring obstetrician who’d helped birth nearly every baby in lower Coastal Georgia.
Now most days she didn’t remember where she’d grown up, whether she’d gone to school, or if she’d ever married Sheriff Lee Gaines. Her emotions were erratic, rising and sinking like the tide. Her moments of lucidity were brief and jarring—bitter reminders of what June couldn’t have. It made Gaines physically sick.
But he hadn’t missed a visit. Not one day.
It wasn’t because he was expected to make pilgrimages, as the long-suffering, dedicated husband. Sure, Gaines was a public figure. He had endured, stayed strong in the face of tragedy. Kept the people’s confidence.
That was his job. This was his wife and he loved her.
“Privacy, please.” He’d wink at the aides. “I need time alone with June,” he’d add, and they’d scurry away to count meds or make notes in charts, closing the door behind them.
Gaines’s emotions, grief, sorrow, bitter disappointment—the enduring anger at the man who’d robbed these years with June—emerged only in the safety of his wife’s presence. And she wouldn’t tell a soul.
“How are you, sweetheart?” Gaines would ask, taking her limp, soft hand. Chief, who at first would sit and cock his head expectantly, didn’t bother now, choosing to lay under Gaines’s feet and doze.
After remarking about his morning run, the weather, or potential weekend fishing plans, he’d kiss his wife’s cool cheek and duck out the back door, swallowing back the pain.
Everyone had a cross to bear. His was just heavier than most.
Gaines entered the station, a low brick building marked with an American flag and the bright red and blue of the state flag beside it. His entrance caused a flurry of activity, and, as usual, a chorus of greetings and acknowledgments rang from his deputies, the secretaries, and a couple of attorneys. Even when the sugar-sweet smell of doughnuts hit his nostrils, he didn’t stop. He headed, unsmiling, straight for the glass door to his office.
“Boss?” Dwayne Johnston, his most senior officer, followed a step behind. They’d worked together since Johnston came on the force, wet behind the ears. Now, a dozen years later, though he’d never say it, he often thought of the deputy as a son. June, tragically, had never been able to bear them any children.
Pushing aside the thought, Gaines turned and gazed at Johnston, who wore a worried expression, eyebrows furrowed.
“This better be good,” Gaines growled. “I haven’t had my coffee yet.” He opened his office, stepped inside, and motioned for Johnston to sit.
“She’s out,” Johnston replied in a hushed voice. “The Marshall girl. What do we do?” The deputy plucked a notebook from his back pocket, poised to take down any directive.
The temperature in the room dropped twenty degrees.
Gaines’s grip tightened on the desk, but he kept his face devoid of any expression. Instinctively, his eyes shot to his secretary’s desk. She’d know. She’d confirm it in less than ten seconds, but her chair was empty.
Gaines swung his attention back to Johnston. “Allison Marshall?” He already knew the answer.
“The one,” his deputy said.
Tension pooled in his neck and shoulders. The information could be wrong. It could be a rumor, idle gossip, something that held no weight. But Johnston wasn’t that kind of deputy. He was solid, a go-to man, one of the few who didn’t vomit at the sight of his first dead body or call in sick after pulling a double shift.
Gaines scratched out a few notes, the graphite marking the memo with short, dark letters. His arm stiffened as he marked the end of the last sentence, pressing so hard the tip broke in two, sending shards flying. Without waiting a beat, he tossed the pencil in the trash, making the slender piece of wood clang against the metal can.
His jaw tightened. He should have been told. What in the world had happened? Some screw-up at the state level? Gaines straightened in his chair. He didn’t need to pretend with Johnston, but with the rest of the staff—with anyone else—he couldn’t give the impression he didn’t know what was going on in his own jurisdiction. Gaines tightened his fist under the desk.
“Time and date stamps from late Friday night.” Johnston glanced back at the assistant’s area. “I found it on her desk. Just sitting there.”
Gaines held up a finger—his signal for silence at all costs. Someone had put the fax down; some idiot who’d grabbed it off the machine, assuming the news would filter into the right channel. Namely his.
The light on his assistant’s phone blinked with a message. The warden had probably called her too. He’d bet a fortune on it—if he had one—and then some.
“Anything else, boss?”
Gaines shook his head.
Johnston shifted in his work boots, inching back toward the door.
With a curt nod, Gaines dismissed him. “Thanks, that’ll be all.”
The door slammed, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
Gaines pressed his roughened fingers to his temples, squeezing hard.
Allison Marshall was out. It was one heck of a way to start his week.
FIVE
ALLIE
2016
The same everything remained, Allie marveled, as the ocean breeze caught strands of her hair. They’d driven the highway hugging the Georgia coast into Brunswick, taking Newcastle Street along the train tracks as soft light trickled through the trees, bathing the afternoon in muted shades of forest green and amber. Allie gazed out the window, resting her chin on one hand. She caught a glimpse of Selden Park, and then Brunswick Landing Marina, where the white masts of dozens of sailboats bobbed through the trees. The sight made her heart swell. How she had missed the unspoiled beauty of the area, the maritime forests and pristine shoreline. She could almost taste the salt air.
Allie searched for something to fill the silence. “So, still lots of tourists here for spring break?”
Emma slid her sister a sideways look. “I don’t know if they can fit another golfer on Sea Island. I was lucky enough to have dinner in the Georgian Room at The Cloister last week. Oh my goodness, I never wanted to leave.”
Allie sat up straighter. She could have fresh shrimp again. Oysters, scallops, and red snapper. All of it, straight from the ocean, caught off the barrier islands around Brunswick. Sea Island, Jekyll Island, St. Simons Island, and Little St. Simons Island made up the four Golden Isles, named for the gold-seeking Spanish explorers who arrived in the territory four centuries earlier.
In town, she and Emma passed the three-story Ritz Theater, with a new neon sign hanging from the front façade. At night, her sister said, the letters glowed gold and could be seen from blocks away. They turned left on Gloucester, continuing past the downtown shops and restaurants. She strained to see more of what she’d missed, reading signs and looking into store windows.
Allie drew in a breath at the sight of a Wolverines poster. Football fever was always in season. In Georgia, the sport was like blood and oxygen, sustenance for living. It was all anyone talked about.
For a stranger, a quick drive through downtown would prove Brunswick’s devotion to the gridiron. Banners hung on every corner, each proclaiming “Home of the Mighty Wolverines” or “Wolverine Spoken Here.” Spirit signs appeared in front lawns every August, each bearing a player’s name, position, and jersey number. Most cars and trucks sported at least one black-and-silver football sticker.
For Allie, it was a reminder of the past. Of the man who was responsible for putting her in Arrendale, the man whose face filled her nightmares. She shivered, thinking about the sheriff.
To the best of her knowledge, he was still involved in Mansfield Academy—still hanging out on the football fields during practice and on the sidelines during Friday night games. Every time he was on the school’s campus, he had access to Caroline.
Until now, there had been absolutely nothing she could do about it.
Her sister roll
ed to a gentle stop and parked, the hum of the idle engine blending with the pulse of the fading day. They had stopped in front of a tiny little house on a quiet street, just a short walk from the Marshes of Glynn Park and Fancy Bluff Creek. Allie imagined walking near the marshes again, fragrant with sea air, watching egrets and herons fly about the rustling tall cordgrass and needlerush.
Emma interrupted her daydream.
“Mom and Dad said to go ahead in,” her sister said, handing her the key from the glove box. “They said they’d be here in a bit, since they didn’t exactly know what time we’d get back. No way to predict, right?”
“Right.” Allie swallowed, folding her fingers around the metal edges.
“Good luck,” Emma said with a half smile, casting her eyes toward the house. Her fingers tapped at her knee. “With everything.”
“Thanks,” Allie replied. She pulled the car door handle, swung her legs to the ground, and stood up. She stretched, feeling her spine pop and her neck loosen.
“So, let’s do dinner—maybe tomorrow or the next night? To celebrate.” Emma brightened and then hesitated.
“Sure.” Allie couldn’t think about dinner. Or eating. Or later this week.
She was home.
Her parents would be here soon. With or without her daughter.
Allie closed the car door, backed away, and waved. Make sure Caroline knows. She wanted to call out the words, making them echo down the street. Make sure she knows I’m home.
But all that Allie could hear and see was Caroline’s anguish the day she’d received her verdict. Her daughter’s face crumpling. The tears. And the promise she’d made Caroline.
January 2007
As the jury foreman announced the decision, Allie went numb.
Guilty.
Allie imagined herself slipping into a coma, unable to move or protect herself from harm. Unable to cry or beg for mercy.
Behind Allie, her mother gasped and cried out while her father murmured words of comfort. Caroline began to sob.
On the opposite side of the courtroom, speculation rattled through the aisles. The courtroom doors opened as people raced out with the news. One of Allie’s lawyers patted her hand. “We’ll appeal it,” he said.
The judge banged his gavel. “Quiet!” he demanded. Sentencing would take place the following week. The rest of his directives were lost to Allie.
She felt a touch on her forearm. Her parents stood so close their bodies seemed melded together. Her mother cried openly, her face awash with grief. Her father’s shoulders sagged, his eyes dulled with pain and disbelief.
On either side of Allie, officers took her by the elbows and pulled her to her feet. She wobbled like a newborn calf, legs shaking, hands trembling.
An anguished cry pierced the air. Caroline.
Allie turned. Her daughter wrestled her way out of Emma’s grasp and ran up the center aisle. Her dark hair flew out like a cape behind her. She was calling, “Mommy!”
With the force of a comet hitting the earth, Caroline launched herself at Allie, throwing her thin arms around her waist, pressing her head to her mother’s chest.
“Don’t leave me,” Caroline shrieked. “Come home, Mommy. Home. I’ll do anything.”
Officers moved in to pull her away. She flicked a desperate glance in their direction. “Please. One minute,” she pleaded. Miraculously, the uniformed men stepped back.
“Caroline, sweetheart.” Allie knelt down eye level with Caroline. “I want to come home. More than anything. Don’t you believe me?”
Her daughter’s crying slowed to hiccupping sobs.
“I am going to do my best to get back to you,” Allie murmured. “As soon as I can.”
Caroline eased back to look at Allie’s face. She glanced up at her grandparents, then to Emma. “They’re saying bad things. They say you did bad things.”
Allie felt her heart collapse in on itself, the chambers deflating, the arteries bursting. The only thing more agonizing than leaving Caroline was disappointing her.
“It’s not true. We’re going to find out who really did this.”
“Miss Marshall.” One of the officers nudged Allie’s arm and motioned for the door. “It’s time.” He stepped closer, ready to move Allie back to her holding cell.
Caroline stood motionless, her body slack and lifeless.
Allie grasped at the remaining seconds. She needed time to stop, for the earth to quit rotating. “I love you. No matter what—you’re in my heart.” Allie held her daughter’s gaze.
“P-promise?” Caroline asked, choking back a sob.
“I promise.”
2016
Allie wiped a tear from her eye with the bottom of one sleeve. It was the first day of her new life, and she was determined to make the most of it, starting with this moment.
With a deep, cleansing breath, Allie straightened her shoulders and walked toward the house. She examined the exterior of the little cottage her parents had picked out. It was small and tidy, unobtrusive, painted gray with white trim. The house was flanked with trees of all shapes and sizes—hickory, water oak, and sweetgum with its red-brown bark. A small porch held two wicker chairs and a tiny table. Empty flower boxes sat at each windowsill, waiting to be filled.
Home.
Allie rolled the word around in her mouth. It was strange, even thinking it. A place of her own. Somewhere without bars. Or guards. A space she could stretch out in and not touch cement wall.
Allie’s breath quickened.
Home was the ability to walk down a street and still be able to pick out the house where your first-grade teacher lived. Home was the knowledge that the local library still held that musty smell and books stacked to the ceiling. Home meant that when you went for a drive, every single person you passed waved.
Allie loved Brunswick, always had. She’d grown up here, and had planned on coming back to practice after going to med school and completing her residency.
Now, though, she was in many ways a female version of Robinson Crusoe. Shipwrecked, sea-salt brined, and beaten from the surf. Left to her own devices. A stranger in a strange land, empty-handed, wishing to God she had a compass and a radio to signal for help.
She was starting over in Brunswick, but she was a survivor.
After all, she’d lived through Arrendale, a jungle in its own right. A place so treacherous, so full of predators, many women didn’t make it out. She’d existed, however, relying on her own wits, her instincts. Tamping down fear and pushing away despair.
Allie would prove her innocence. She would find the clues that linked Sheriff Gaines to Coach Boyd Thomas’s murder, if it was the last thing she did.
And then, only then, Allie would be truly free.
SIX
CAROLINE
2016
After splashing her face with water, Caroline pressed her forehead against the cold tile in the girls’ restroom.
She didn’t need to go to an assembly, or any school event, for that matter. And Caroline certainly didn’t need to attend Mansfield Academy’s Career Day, with its parade of smiling working professionals in uniform, telling her about the great future available as an airline pilot or an Army Ranger. Or listen to someone’s uncle who spent the last thirty years working as a boat captain. Or, God forbid, listening to some all-knowing healer with his bright white doctor’s coat and shiny stethoscope. If someone announced that a lawyer or judge was talking today, she might actually scream.
She couldn’t think about the future.
Life as she knew it was over. Caroline needed an escape plan—now. A one-way ticket out of Brunswick, Georgia. A legitimate excuse to move to Switzerland. Or join the Peace Corps in Tanzania.
Anywhere but here.
The bell rang. She couldn’t procrastinate any longer. Caroline glanced in the long mirror to smooth her dark hair and made her way into the hallway, through the throng of jostling students, out the doors, toward the auditorium building.
She followe
d the brick-lined walkways dusted with golden sand. The powdery crystals were everywhere—on the edges of the road, in sparse patches of grass on the middle school playground, and, on a windy day, in her hair and shoes.
Inside the double doors, standing on tiptoes, she scanned the room for Maddie’s blonde head. Someone had waxed the floor to a dull shine, making everything smell of lemon. But the space was also dark and stuffy, like someone had flipped off the air-conditioning hours ago. It figured, when cramming together four or five hundred kids.
Fanning her face, Caroline dodged a group of girls. With a glance at the rear of the room, she noticed Maddie’s hand in the air, waving. Gotcha. Third row back, fifth seat in. Relieved, Caroline quickened her pace. Stepping over book bags and easing past knees, she made her way down the aisle, finally sinking into the seat that had been saved for her.
Caroline exhaled, leaning toward Maddie. “I really have to talk to you—”
On stage, someone tapped a microphone. The dull sound reverberated around her. Teachers nearby clapped their hands and shushed students. The principal’s voice asked for quiet.
As the room settled, Maddie tilted her head closer, lifted an eyebrow. “What’s up?”
As she opened her mouth to speak, Caroline’s neck prickled. She turned her head. From the middle of the room, one of the history instructors glowered in their direction.
Swinging her eyes back to Maddie, Caroline pursed her lips and tilted her head ever so slightly. Sharing it now wasn’t worth the attention.
Scooting down in her seat and folding her arms across her chest, Maddie shrugged, looking briefly annoyed, then smothered a yawn. Stretching her arms out in front of her, Caroline feigned an equal amount of boredom.
They’d talk later. She’d tell Maddie everything.
Forcing thoughts of her mother from her mind, Caroline attempted to concentrate on the brawny FBI agent behind the podium. His deep voice echoed as he spoke about his training, and his story seemed to resonate with a few people sitting near the stage.
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