Questions without answers.
“Now what?” he asked his companion.
Wynter shivered, her face pale in the fading afternoon sunlight. “Let’s go home.”
* * *
Noah kept the bumper of his Jeep directly behind Wynter’s truck on the journey back to Larkin. She’d insisted she was fine to drive home, refusing his offer to take her home and return to pick up her vehicle. He believed she was physically capable, but he also knew she was emotionally exhausted. He had no intention of leaving her on her own until he was sure she wasn’t going to have a meltdown.
Three hours later they pulled into the parking lot next to Wynter Garden and Noah rolled down his window.
“Get in,” he called as Wynter climbed out of her truck and locked the door.
She sent him a puzzled glance. “What?”
“The best restaurant in town is closed, but we can still find something to eat,” he told her.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Then you can watch me eat.”
Her lips parted, as if she was intending to say no, then, glancing toward the brick building that was shrouded in darkness, she abruptly moved to climb into the Jeep. “Yeah. Let’s go,” she muttered.
Noah pulled out of the lot and headed two blocks north to the old diner, parking in front of a low, stone building with large windows and wooden shingles. It was after seven P.M., but there were several cars lining the street. The gathered crowd was no indication of the quality of the diner food. The majority of the customers were in the back, in the barroom, enjoying the fine selection of microbrews.
They entered the empty dining room, setting off the tinkle of a bell, and took a seat at one of the tables with a Formica top and chrome legs. At the front of the long room was a counter with a few stools and the old-fashioned register. Beyond that was a kitchen where a lone man in an apron leaned against the sink with his attention glued to the phone in his hand. Overhead, the flickering fluorescent lights cast a greenish glow that did nothing to add to the ambiance.
Neither Noah or Wynter bothered to grab one of the greasy plastic menus stuck between the ketchup and mustard bottles. The diner had never been famous for its delicious food. It was quick, cheap, and occasionally edible. The only reason it’d managed to stay open was because Wynter Garden was closed during the dinner hours.
A bored waitress wandered over to take their order, and ten minutes later returned to place the plates in front of them. Waiting until the older woman returned to the counter at the back, Wynter leaned across the table to study his large wedge of apple pie topped with vanilla ice cream and whipped cream.
“How old are you?” she chided.
He smiled, grabbing his spoon to dig in. The diner food was sketchy, but they bought their pies from a local bakery. Delicious.
“Thirty-one,” he murmured, licking the whipped cream from his lips. “About the same age as you.”
“No way.” She settled back in her seat, plucking a carrot stick from her salad. “I’m still in my twenties.”
“For what? Three more months?”
She crunched her carrot between her teeth. “Still in my twenties, old man.”
He scooped up another large spoonful. “That’s why I have to savor each day.”
“That sounds like something we learned in therapy,” she teased. She wasn’t eating as much as he’d hoped, but a bit of color was returning to her cheeks.
“Probably.” He swallowed the pie and ate some of the ice cream. “I liked therapy,” he said, his lips twisting as Wynter snorted at his claim. She obviously remembered the angry, sullen teenager who’d first joined the group. He’d done everything in his power to disrupt the sessions, hoping to get kicked out. “I’ll admit it took a while, but after a few months I stopped being an angry jerk long enough to start listening. It didn’t stop me from missing my parents, but at least I wasn’t constantly punishing my grandmother for being the poor fool to take me into her home.”
“Yeah.” She picked a slice of cucumber out of the salad. “It was nice to know I wasn’t alone.”
“Plus I got to spend time with you,” he murmured. “Bonus.”
Her smile was faint, but it had never looked more beautiful to Noah. “That was a bonus.”
Noah polished off the last of the pie and shoved aside the plate so he could rest his arms on the table. “I’ve always wondered why you dropped out.”
“My dad didn’t want me going anymore.”
Noah arched a brow. He’d assumed that Wynter stopped attending therapy because she’d just gotten her driver’s license. Why go to grief counseling when she could run around with her friends? At the time he’d been disappointed with the thought she’d no longer be a part of the group, but happy she felt ready to move on.
“Why would your dad want you to stop?” he demanded. “Wasn’t he the one who insisted you go to counseling?”
She tossed aside her cucumber, wiping her fingers on a paper napkin. “Erika suggested that I start seeing a hypnotherapist,” she explained, referring to Dr. Tomalin who’d been the therapist who’d organized the grief counseling sessions. “She thought my nightmares might be caused by suppressed memories from the night my mother was killed.”
Noah nodded. Wynter never described her nightmares in detail, but she did share that there was rarely a night when she didn’t wake at precisely 11:11 P.M., screaming in terror. Once she’d left therapy, he’d never talked to her about why she’d stopped showing up, or if her nightmares had disappeared.
The first thing you learned in therapy was that it was like Fight Club. What happened in that room never left. Period.
Now, however, Noah was willing to break the rules. The past hours had shaken Wynter and stirred an unease in the pit of his stomach. What happened twenty-five years ago wasn’t just the stuff of nightmares. It might very well have cost Tillie Lyddon her life.
“He didn’t want you to be hypnotized?”
“No. He thought if I did have memories, it would be more upsetting for me to have them retrieved.” She rolled her eyes. “And my grandpa was furious. He thought hypnosis was some sort of scam. In fact, he thought any sort of therapy was a scam.”
“Your grandfather is a . . . um . . .”
Noah didn’t have to imagine Sander Moore’s reaction to the suggestion of hypnotherapy. The older man owned a farm just a few miles from Larkin and was a well-known pain in the ass. He was gruff, opinionated, and ready to point his rifle at anyone stupid enough to step foot on his land. He also unashamedly adored his only granddaughter.
“Yeah.” She chuckled. “He is.”
Her smile faded, her brow furrowing as if she’d been struck by a painful thought.
“What’s wrong?”
“I wonder . . .”
“Wonder what?”
She met his questioning gaze, her expression troubled. “I wonder if my dad refused to send me to the hypnotist because he suspected my mom was having an affair. Maybe he was afraid that’s what I would remember.”
Noah slowly nodded. “Not a bad theory.”
* * *
Drake retreated to the garage, opening the fridge he kept out there to pull out a beer. His head still throbbed from his night of heavy drinking after he’d visited Laurel’s grave, but he needed something to steady his nerves. A damned shame he gave up cigarettes. But Laurel hadn’t liked the smell that clung to his clothes and . . .
“Do you think I didn’t know?”
The shrill voice pierced into his aching skull like a drill. He slouched lower in the lawn chair that he’d set next to the workbench. Dammit, this was his private space. The only spot in this godforsaken house that he could have a bit of peace. Now even that was being ruined.
“Not now, Mona,” he growled, his gaze locked on the bead of moisture dripping down his beer bottle.
A short, thin woman with faded blond hair and even more faded blue eyes stepped around the riding lawnmower to stand in front of him. She
was wearing a waitress uniform from the truck stop outside town. The same place she’d been working since she graduated from high school thirty-five years ago. She smelled of fried hamburgers and diesel fuel.
“Why?” she demanded. “Because you’re mourning the loss of your lover?”
Drake pressed a finger to the center of his forehead. “Because I have a headache and your yakking is making it worse.”
He expected his wife to blink as if she was about to cry and scurry back into the house. It was her usual habit. No doubt she thought she was making him feel guilty. Nothing could be further from the truth. He didn’t care enough to feel guilt.
“Tough. You’ve been giving me a headache for years.”
Drake frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Her face that had once been pretty was now lined with wrinkles and was hard with an ugly emotion.
“It was one thing to suspect you were having sex with those skanks at the local bar,” she ground out. “They were nobodies that you used and discarded. But Laurel Moore—” Her voice cracked with pain.
Drake surged to his feet, the lawn chair scraping against the cement floor. “Don’t say her name.”
Mona flinched, but wrapping her arms around her too-thin waist, she stood her ground. “That year you spent sneaking off to that cabin to spend your weekends with her destroyed me.” She regarded him with accusing eyes. “Did you love her?”
“Shut up.”
“Did you?”
“Yes. Satisfied?” Drake took a deep swig of his beer, lowering the bottle to glare at the woman who’d become little more than an unwanted squatter over the years. “I loved her since high school.”
Mona flinched, as if his words had caused her a physical wound. And maybe they had. “Then why didn’t you marry her?”
Drake clenched his teeth. He’d been pissed as hell when Laurel had left town to attend college in Madison. He had known deep in his heart that she would never return. She was too beautiful. Too talented. Too ... everything, to settle for a man like him.
“Because she wanted more than a small-town construction worker.” He didn’t try to disguise his bitterness. “She thought that professor of hers was going to take her places. Instead she was stuck in another small town with a man who had no appreciation for the fact he possessed an extraordinary woman.” He swallowed the last swig of beer. “That’s why she came back to me in the end.”
“And what was I?” Mona demanded. “Second best?”
Drake shrugged. At one time he’d thought this woman was pretty enough. And his ego had been soothed by the knowledge that she loved him to the point she would endure any insult or betrayal. Who could have suspected that her fawning adoration would be so annoying?
“You were convenient.”
Mona made a strangled sound, her face flushing to a weird shade of purple. It wasn’t pain. Or betrayal. For the first time in their marriage she was truly furious.
“I followed you.”
“What?”
“That last night you spent with Laurel,” she said, white flecks of spittle forming on the corner of her mouth. She looked rabid as her eyes smoldered with emotion. “I followed you to the cabin.”
Drake glared at his wife. Laurel was the only good thing in his miserable life. How dare this bitch try to taint his memory with thoughts of her creeping around, peering in windows, like some sort of perv?
“Why?” he growled.
“I was going to confront the two of you. I was tired of being treated like I was too stupid to know my husband was having an affair.”
“So you spied on us?”
She paused, almost as if she intended to lie. Then she shook her head. “I didn’t get out of my car. I didn’t have the nerve.”
Drake’s anger didn’t ease at her confession. Just the opposite.
“Of course you didn’t. You’re as timid as a mouse. I barely notice you skulking around this house,” he taunted. “If it had been Laurel, she would have crashed in and stuck a knife in my heart. She was a woman with courage. A woman who knew how to capture a man’s passion.”
A strange expression settled on Mona’s flushed face. “You want a woman with courage? Fine. How is this?” She sent him a tight, humorless smile. “I think Laurel’s daughter will be very interested in what I saw that night.”
Spinning on her heel, she turned to march out of the garage, her back stiff.
Drake watched her leave, his protest jammed in his throat. Had the world gone mad? First Wynter showing up on his doorstep with his private letters, and now Mona acting as if someone had shoved a backbone up her ass.
A darkness clouded his mind, his gaze shifting toward the shotgun he kept on a wooden rack nailed to the wall.
Chapter 7
Wynter had expected another sleepless night after Noah dropped her off at her apartment. She had enough to keep her awake. Starting with the photo left behind by Sheriff Jansen and then the fire at Tillie’s house just after they’d questioned her, and discovering her mom had been having an affair with Drake Shelton.
But exhaustion had crashed over her just minutes after crawling into her bed. The only time she’d awakened was at 11:11 P.M. The exact moment her mother had died. She always woke at that time, and often she spent the rest of the night plagued with nightmares. Last night, however, a blessed darkness had claimed her around midnight, not releasing her from its clutches until nearly seven this morning.
When she finished her shower and dressed in jeans and a casual sweater, it was after eight. She ate a quick breakfast before leaving the house and driving to Grant College on the west side of Larkin. Parking in the private lot, she climbed out of her truck. The sun was shining, and the wind had settled to a light breeze, making it feel almost warm.
She told herself that was why her steps slowed as she strolled toward the domed administration building in the center of the small campus. Beautiful days in Larkin had to be savored.
Deep inside, however, she knew it was her reluctance to confront her father that was causing her feet to drag. It was one thing to bravely decide she was going to demand answers from her dad. And another to waltz into his office and dredge up the memories they both had avoided for years.
Entering the redbrick building that hadn’t been changed since it was built in the 1800s, Wynter strolled down the wide hallway lined with glass cases displaying trophies and old pictures. There was a distant hum of voices from behind the closed doors, but there wasn’t the frenetic energy that filled the lecture halls or dormitories. This was the stiff hush of bureaucrats who liked to pretend they were too dignified to raise their voices.
Wynter grimaced. Although she had attended school at Grant College and her dad had taught there for thirty years, she rarely visited his office. Not only did he spend most of his time in the classroom or library, but he’d never encouraged her to interrupt him while he was at work.
In the past few years, however, he’d taken over as head of the English department, which meant he spent less time teaching and more time dealing with administrative duties. At this hour he should be behind his desk.
Taking the steps to the second floor, Wynter paused outside the door at the end of the hall. Pressing a hand to her stomach, she sucked in a deep breath. Noah had offered to come with her, but she’d refused. It wasn’t that she had any secrets to keep from him. Or that her pride in being independent kept her from leaning on another. Having Noah at her side was the only reason she’d been able to survive yesterday. He was precisely the friend she’d needed.
But Professor Edgar Moore was a fiercely private man. He rarely discussed his past relationship with his dead wife—not even with Wynter—and he never, ever revealed his emotions. If Noah was there, wild horses couldn’t pry the truth from his lips.
Pushing open the door, Wynter stepped into the reception room that was decorated in muted colors. There was a long desk stacked with precisely arranged files and a sophisticated computer. Behind the desk wa
s a middle-aged woman with blond hair pulled into a smooth knot at the nape and her pale face lightly coated with makeup. Her eyes were a cold, arctic blue and her clothes chosen from the power-suits section of the store. She oddly always reminded Wynter of a reptile.
Linda Baker had been her father’s secretary for as long as Wynter could remember. She’d started as a receptionist for the humanities department, and as Edgar had moved up the professional ladder, she tagged along. Now, Edgar was dean of the English department, and Linda was an administrative assistant.
“Wynter, this is a surprise.” The older woman blinked before she pasted a smile on her thin lips. She had a condescending manner that set Wynter’s teeth on edge. She didn’t know if it was just the woman’s personality to be a patronizing bitch, or if it was directed specifically at her, but Wynter did her best to avoid the woman. She didn’t need the bad vibes in her life.
“Is Dad in his office?”
“Yes, but I’m afraid he’s preparing for a budget meeting.”
“I need to have a quick word.”
The secretary’s smile remained as she reached toward the intercom on her desk. “I really should check with Dr. Moore. You know how he hates to be interrupted when he’s busy.”
Wynter frowned. Linda had a habit of trying to prevent Wynter from spending time with her dad. She might have thought the woman was jealous, if it wasn’t so ridiculous.
“I’m his daughter.” Wynter firmly headed toward the door. “He’s never too busy for me.”
“Wait.”
Ignoring the secretary who’d jumped to her feet and was hurrying to catch up to her, Wynter crossed the ivory carpet to push open the door to the inner office. She peeked her head in, locating her father seated behind his desk near the open window. “Am I interrupting?”
Edgar glanced up in surprise. “Wynter. Of course not. Come in.”
She stepped into the off ice, hiding her annoyance when Linda bustled in behind her.
“Can I get you anything?” the secretary demanded, staking her claim as hostess. “Coffee? Tea?”
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