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A Breath Away
Rita Herron
Their worst nightmare has returned…Ever since Violet Baker's childhood companion was brutally murdered, she's been plagued with visions of the girl's last hours. Now, on the twentieth anniversary of Darlene's death, Violet's father is found dead, a note beside him confessing to the murder. But something doesn't feel right, and Violet returns to Crow's Landing looking for answers.Facing the judgmental town as a murderer's daughter is difficult enough, but the scalding tension between her and Sheriff Grady Monroe, Darlene's half brother, is worse. As the two of them race to unravel the mystery, it quickly becomes clear that Violet is in grave danger…and Grady suddenly knows that he'll do anything to protect her, no matter what the cost….



A spine-tingling tale of love, betrayal and deadly small-town secrets….
VIOLET BAKER: beautiful, troubled…traumatized by her childhood friend’s murder
Haunted by ghosts from her past, Violet’s quest for answers, coupled with psychic visions of a serial killer and his victims, quickly puts her in danger.
Then the killer targets her as his next victim….
Although she is terrified of her growing desire for Grady Monroe, she is forced to turn to him for protection. But he is the one man who knows her terrible secret—that she is to blame for his sister’s death….
GRADY MONROE: sexy, vengeful, bitter…determined to solve his sister’s case
Plagued by guilt, this loner has never allowed a woman close. Then Violet Baker returns, stirring his passion with her sexy, vulnerable eyes, and heating his blood with lust. Her visions may lead him to the serial killer and his sister’s murderer, but he must guard his heart against falling in love….
THE BONE WHISTLER: twisted, ruthless…obsessive
This killer believes his ritualistic sacrifices are necessary for himself, the greater good…and for the glory of his Father.
Will his connection to Violet Baker lead her into his waiting hands, or will it lead to his own demise?
The answer is just A Breath Away….

Romantic Times raves about Rita Herron!
HER EYEWITNESS
“Rita Herron will grab your attention.”
SAVING HIS SON
“4 stars! Romance and suspense prove an awesome combination…Rita Herron produces a prime intrigue.”
SILENT SURRENDER
“The beauty of [this book] is the wonderful chemistry between [hero and heroine] and the emotional growth we see when they’re together.”
MEMORIES OF MEGAN
“[This] suspenseful tale will leave readers breathless with its unexpected twists and turns and characters caught up in a ruthless conspiracy.”
THE CRADLE MISSION
“An exciting and engaging read.”
MARRY ME, MADDIE
“An author to watch!”

A Breath Away
Rita Herron


To:
Karen Solem for believing in this story,
Tracy Farrell and Kim Nadelson for bringing it to print,
Carmen, Stephanie, Jennifer and Jenni
for your constant support,
and to my husband, Lee, for lending his expertise
in medical research to the sinister plot!

CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

PROLOGUE
Crow’s Landing, Tennessee
“HELP ME….” Darlene’s whispery plea echoed inside eight-year-old Violet Baker’s head. “Please…s-somebody…help me.”
Violet wrapped her arms around her teddy bear, Bobo, rocking back and forth on her bed. Even though the thunderstorm raged outside, she’d heard Darlene’s terrified cries in her head all night. Poor Darlene hated storms.
A tree branch scraped the window, and lightning zigzagged across the black sky. Violet rubbed her fingers over her half of the Best Friends necklace Darlene had given her. Violet had a strange connection with Darlene. They’d had it since they were little. Probably because they were both motherless. Nobody in Crow’s Landing knew about their connection, though. It had been their little secret.
Until Violet had told her daddy.
He’d spanked her. Said if she claimed she heard things in her head, the whole dang town would think she was as mad as old Miss Laudy. Old Miss Laudy had ended up in a crazy house.
“Nobody needs to know what goes on behind closed doors,” her father had yelled. “And stay away from that family—them Monroes ain’t nothin’ but snobs.”
But Darlene Monroe wasn’t a snob. When kids at school teased Violet about wearing Goodwill clothes and standing in the free-lunch line, Darlene yelled at them to shut up. Darlene told Violet secrets and invited her to her playhouse, where they had tea parties. And they dressed up in Darlene’s mama’s old ball dresses and pretended they were princesses.
“Violet, p…lease. I’m…sca…” The whisper faded, as if Darlene was growing weaker. She was shivering and wet. Cold. All the way to her bones. The smell of a dead animal turned Violet’s stomach. There was muddy creek water. And blood.
She had to help Darlene!
She jumped off the bed and peered through the crack in the door. Grammy Baker sat in the old wooden chair in the den. Sheriff Tate stood beside her. His khaki uniform was splattered with mud. Darlene’s father, a big man with a woolly beard, paced back and forth, tugging at his chin. Darlene’s thirteen-year-old brother, Grady, stared at Violet’s door, his dark eyes hard and cold. Accusing. Violet lurched back as if he’d burned her. Did he know about the connection she and Darlene shared?
If he did, he knew she’d told her daddy where to hunt for Darlene. Violet was trying to help. She loved Darlene. Darlene was her best friend in the whole wide world.
Or maybe Grady knew it was her fault Darlene was missing. If she hadn’t begged Darlene to hurry over to see her new birthday bear, her friend wouldn’t have set off by herself. She’d have waited for Grady….
“You didn’t find her?” Violet’s father asked.
The sheriff shook his head. “We checked the old schoolhouse like you suggested, but weren’t nothing there.”
Oh, no. She’d made a mistake. She’d thought Darlene was at the schoolhouse because that’s where Darlene had wanted to be. Someplace safe.
But she wasn’t safe.
Images flashed like photographs in Violet’s mind. Dirty water gurgling. Copperheads and water moccasins slithering through the wet leaves. The smell of rotting wood. The well house out by Shanty Annie’s. Violet and Darlene had played around it before the scary old woman had run them off. What if Grammy was right about that old haint Soap Sally, who lived in the well? What if Soap Sally had dragged Darlene down inside?
Violet twisted the knob again, her nails biting into the cold metal. But the door didn’t budge.
Her daddy had locked her inside!
She swayed and clawed at the door until blood stained the wood. She felt Darlene’s pain. Darlene’s panic. Her lungs begging for air.
She was so cold and scared. She’d tried to be a big girl and not cry. But she couldn’t help it. He didn’t like her crying. He yelled at her to be quiet. Then he slapped her. She pressed a hand to her stinging cheek. He had big hands. And mean eyes. She wanted her mommy, but her mommy was dead….
Footsteps clattered as everyone went outside. Violet dragged herself to the window and tried to yell, but her throat closed. Someone was choking Darlene!
She had to stop him. Get the sheriff. But Grady, his father and the sheriff climbed into the police car and roared down the graveled drive.
“Stop!” Violet screamed.
They couldn’t hear her. Mud and gravel spewed behind them. Violet collapsed on her knees on the wood floor, heaving for air. Her father wrenched open the door. She lunged forward, gasping. “Tell them, look at Shanty Annie’s. T-tell them, Daddy. Soap Sally got her!”
Violet’s father dragged her to her feet. “There ain’t no such thing as Soap Sally. That’s a stupid legend your grammy told you to keep you from the well. Now hush.” He shook her so hard her teeth rattled. Bobo skittered across the floor. “I told you not to go around talking crazy like this—it’s evil that’s got inside you. Pure evil.” He turned black eyes on her grammy. “Pack her things and get her out of here tonight. She can’t stay here no more.”
Grammy nodded. Her hands jerked as she yanked open the bureau drawer. Then she stuffed handfuls of Violet’s clothes in a duffel bag as if she feared the devil himself would swoop down and take Violet straight to hell.
Violet’s daddy hauled her to the rusty Ford station wagon. She begged him to stop, but he shoved her inside and slammed the door.
Violet beat on the glass. “Daddy, please tell them Shanty Annie’s. Save Darlene….”
But he walked away from her. Grammy climbed in, started the engine, then threw the car into gear and tore off. Violet pressed her face against the door, sobs racking her body. Rain pounded the hood and the wind howled, bowing trees and shrubs. The car bounced over a pothole, jarring her head against the window. The house disappeared from sight. Just as they rounded the corner near the sweet gum tree, the voices in Violet’s head suddenly quieted.
Another image flashed there.
Darlene. Lying still on the ground. Dead leaves, soggy red clay beneath her. Rain splattered her colorless face. Her eyes were wide open in terror.
Cold. She was so cold. As if ice had frozen her veins.
A screeching sound echoed behind her—the whine of a harmonica.
No, a horrible sound. The whistle of wind blowing through something else. Something Violet didn’t recognize. Maybe bone.
She doubled over and reached for Bobo. But she’d left him behind. She’d lost him, too. How could she go on?
Maybe her daddy was right. Maybe she was evil. Maybe that was the reason Darlene had been taken.
Tears gushed out and poured down Violet’s face. She would never forgive herself or her father.
It was too late for Darlene….

CHAPTER ONE
Twenty Years Later
HE HAD COME BACK to get her. She heard the sound, breath against bone….
Violet bolted upright from a dead sleep and searched the darkness. She’d known this day would come. That he’d find her and kill her just as he had Darlene.
Shadows from the room clawed at her. A reedy, whistling sound rippled in her ears. What was it? An animal crying? No, it was lower, softer but sharp.
Almost like…like the sound she’d heard the night Darlene died.
Had the sound been in her dreams or was someone really outside this time?
She flicked on the fringed lamp, searching the room, angry that she still hadn’t conquered her fear of the dark. Or storms. She had dreamed of Darlene’s death a thousand times over the years. And that noise—she’d heard it before, too.
But never like this.
Not like it was right outside, coming nearer.
And this dream was different. In her earlier nightmares, Darlene had remained the same sweet, red-haired child. This time the victim had been a woman. What did it mean? Was the evil back? Was it inside Violet?
Or was her subconscious aging Darlene so she could see what her friend might have looked like if she’d lived? Violet dropped her head into her hands. Or maybe her grief and guilt had finally robbed her senseless, and she’d lost her mind.
Outside, ocean waves crashed against the Savannah shore. The wind howled off the coast, rain splattering against the roof of the cottage she and her grandmother had rented a few months ago when they’d moved to Tybee Island.
The wind had seeped through the thin panes and weathered wood, causing the whistling sound. That was the logical explanation.
The only explanation.
Sweat-soaked and shaking, Violet tugged the quilt around her legs. The clock chimed midnight. The steady crashing of the waves faded into a hypnotic drone. But her heart pounded in her chest like ancient Indian war drums. The last time she’d had a psychic vision or heard voices in her head had been twenty years ago. The day her father had sent her away. The day her best friend had died.
It couldn’t be happening again.
Although a few times in a crowded room she’d experienced strange sensations—odd snippets of a stranger’s voice whispering in her head—she’d written them off as her overactive imagination. And on a date in Charleston, she’d sensed something dangerous about the man. It was almost as if she’d met him before. As if he’d known more about her than he was telling.
She tossed aside the covers and padded barefoot across the braided rug, then stared through the windowpane at the moonless night. Her fingers toyed with her half of the Best Friends necklace she had shared with Darlene. The rain and fog rolling off the shore obliterated the normally crystal images of the cove and the constellations. Ominous shadows tore at her self-control. It was almost as if someone was watching her.
As if the past had returned to haunt her.
No. Tomorrow marked the twentieth anniversary of Darlene’s death. Thoughts of Darlene always dominated Violet’s mind at this time of year. Like an obsession that grew stronger, the incessant guilt dogged her like a demon.
Yet as she looked into the inky sky, fear snaked through her and she sensed that it was only the beginning. That just as the tides changed in the ocean, they were about to change in her life.
Just like everything had changed that horrible day when she was eight years old, and she’d stood by and let her best friend die.

“ARE YOU ALL RIGHT this morning, dear?” With gnarled fingers Violet’s grandmother gripped the coffee cup painted with magnolia blossoms, and slid into a kitchen chair. “You look tired.”
Violet shrugged, pushing away her half-eaten piece of dried toast. “I didn’t sleep well.”
“Having nightmares again?”
She nodded, her gaze straying to the rain still drizzling in soft sheets onto the beach sand outside. “It’s that time of year, I suppose.”
Sympathy lined her grandmother’s face. “I know it’s hard, Violet. Try not to dwell on the past, though.”
Violet nodded, resigned. She wouldn’t upset her grandmother by confessing about the voices. She was twenty-eight now, independent and strong. She’d even invested in a gift shop in downtown Savannah, Strictly Southern, determined to plant roots and build a life here. She’d save some money, buy this cabin and fix it up for herself and her grandmother. In fact, she’d already mapped out the first decorating plans: she’d paint the fading, chipped walls yellow; sew some frilly curtains; add a window seat by the bay window so she could bask in the sunlight there to read and draw.
And maybe she would finally escape the ghosts. “I’m going to the shop for a while. Do you need anything?”
Her grandmother pointed to the list on the butcher block counter. “Thanks, dear. I hate that I can’t get about like I used to.”
“You’re doing fine, Grammy.” Violet patted her hand, then scraped the dry toast into the trash, a twinge of anxiety pulling at her. The doctor had cautioned Violet about her grandmother’s high blood pressure and irregular heartbeat. Occasionally she suffered memory lapses, and her arthritis was becoming more of a problem.
At one time, Violet had told her grandmother everything. Had shared her fears, all her nightmares, the bitter sense of loss that had eaten at her over the years when her father had never called or visited.
“Maybe you’ll find a nice young man here in Savannah,” Grammy said with a teasing smile. “Get married, make me some great-grandbabies.”
“Maybe.” Violet feigned a smile for her grandmother’s benefit, although she didn’t foresee marriage or a man in her near future. If her own father hadn’t loved her, how could someone else? Besides, her failures with men were too many to count. The psychologist she’d finally spoken with about her phobia of the dark had suggested she was punishing herself for Darlene’s death by denying her own happiness. So she had forced herself to accept a few dates.
But Donald Irving, the man in Charleston, had given her the creeps. When she’d refused to see him again, he started showing up at odd times, calling at all hours of the night. Then the hangup calls…
Her grandmother had become so distraught, Violet had finally agreed to move.
Violet had no plans for marriage or men. She had been a loner most of her life.
And she probably always would be.
“Oh, my goodness.” Her grandmother paled. “Did you see this, Violet?”
Violet leaned over her shoulder and stared at the newspaper, her stomach knotting at the headlines.
Twenty-five-year-old Woman from Savannah College of Art & Design Reported Missing. Police Suspect Foul Play.

GRADY MONROE STACKED the files on his desk, wishing he could rearrange his attitude and life as easily. He traced a finger over the edge of Darlene’s photo. She’d been so damn young and innocent, just a freckled-faced kid with a heart-shaped face, who’d liked everyone. And trusted them.
But she’d died a violent death.
He pressed the pencil down to scribble the date on the file, his gaze shooting to the desk calendar. The pencil point broke. The date stared back at him, daring him to forget it, the red circle around the fifteenth a staunch reminder of the reason he couldn’t.
The single reason he’d studied law himself. Only so far he had no clue as to who had committed the vile crime or how the killer had eluded the police for two decades. The police referred to it as a cold case—a dead file.
The file would never be shut until he found his half sister’s killer.
Jamming the pencil in the electric sharpener, he mentally sorted through the recent cases on his desk. Crow’s Landing had the usual small-town upheavals. Traffic citations. Domestic crimes. A complaint against a stray dog that might be rabid. Not like crime in the big cities. A man murdered in Nashville two days ago. A drive-by shooting in an apartment complex in Atlanta. And this morning, reports of a woman missing in Savannah.
As if to mock him, the phone trilled. “Sheriff Monroe here.”
“Sheriff, this is Beula Simms.”
Oh, Lord. What now?
“Get out to Jed Baker’s house right away. Your daddy and Jed’s at it again.”
She didn’t have to say at what; Jed and Grady’s father had hated each other for years. “I’ll be right there.” He hung up and snagged the keys to his patrol car. A headache pounded at his skull, the painkillers he’d managed to swallow barely touching the incessant throbbing. He should have left off the tequila the night before, but the approaching anniversary of his half sister’s death always brought out his dark side, the destructive one.
And now this call.
Five minutes later, he screeched up the graveled drive to Baker’s clapboard house. His father and Baker were yelling at each other on the sagging front porch. Grady opened the squad car door and climbed out, although both men seemed oblivious that he’d arrived.
“You should have left town a long time ago.” His father waved a fist at Jed.
“I did what I had to do and so did you,” Jed yelled.
Grady’s father raised a Scotch bottle and downed another swallow, staggering backward and nearly falling off the porch. “But if we’d done things differently, my little girl might be alive. And so would my Teresa.”
“I know the guilt’s eatin’ at you, Walt.” Jed ran his hand through his sweaty, thinning hair. “We’ll both be burning in hell for keeping quiet.”
“Hell, I’ve been living there for years.”
“But you don’t get it—someone’s been asking around.” Jed’s voice sounded raw with panic. “Claims he’s a reporter.”
His father coughed. “You didn’t tell him anything, did you?”
“Hell, no, but I don’t like him asking questions. What are we gonna do?”
“Keep your goddamn mouth shut, that’s what.”
“I ain’t the one who wanted to blab years ago. And what if he gets to Violet?”
“It’s always about her. What about what I lost?” Walt lunged at Jed, ripping his plaid shirt and dragging them both to the floor. Jed fought back, and they tumbled down the stairs, wood splintering beneath them, before they crashed to the dirt.
The late evening heat blistered his back as Grady strode over to them. “Get up, Dad.” He yanked his father off Jed, and the other man rolled away, spitting out dry dirt and brittle grass.
Walt swung a fist at his son. “Leave us alone!”
Grady grabbed him by both arms and tried to shake some sense into him. “For God’s sake, Dad, do you want me to haul your ass to jail for the night?”
Jed swiped a handkerchief across his bloody nose and climbed onto the lowest step. Grady’s father wobbled backward, a trickle of blood seeping from his dust-coated lower lip.
Grady jerked a finger toward his vehicle. “Get in the damn car before I handcuff you.”
His father muttered an obscenity as Grady shoved him into the back seat. He slammed the door and glared at Baker. “Are you all right?
Jed merely grunted.
“You want to press charges?”
“No.”
Grady narrowed his eyes, wondering why Baker would allow his dad to assault him and get away with it. But as usual when the two men fought, neither Jed nor his father offered an explanation. Although this time the conversation had triggered more questions than usual.
It was senseless to ask, though. Something had happened years ago that had caused a permanent rift between the men. Something they refused to talk about.
Judging from their conversation, it had to do with Darlene.
And sooner or later, Grady was going to find out exactly what it was. Then maybe he’d figure out who had killed his sister.

A FEW MINUTES LATER, he pulled up to his dad’s house. The Georgian style two-story had once been impressive, almost stately with its front columns, but had deteriorated in the past twenty years from lack of upkeep. Paint peeled from the weathered boards, shingles had blown off the roof in the recent storm, and the columns needing painting. A sad testament to his father’s life. “You’d better stay put tonight, Dad,” Grady ordered.
His father staggered toward the den, his face ruddy with rage. “You should have left us alone.”
“Sleep it off, Dad.” Grady slammed the door and jogged to his car. Dammit, just as he’d expected, his father had clammed up, refusing to talk about his fight with Baker or offer an explanation.
His nerves shot, Grady reached for a cigarette, then remembered he’d quit smoking for the dozenth time this year. Rummaging through the papers littering the console, he grabbed a piece of Juicy Fruit gum and shoved it in his mouth instead. The shortest span without his Marlboros had been six days. The longest, six months.
He automatically veered toward the graveyard beside Crow’s Landing Church, the daisies he’d bought for his little sister’s grave a reminder of the reason he’d started smoking in the first place.
Darlene’s death.
Everything in his life could somehow be related to that one crucial event. And the fact that her killer had never been caught.
Twenty years ago today she had been kidnapped. Twenty years ago tomorrow, they had found her dead. He knew his father was in pain. Hell, so was he. Grady had lost his entire family that day.
He’d never forgive himself for it, either.
If only he hadn’t stopped to hang out with the boys…If he’d come straight home to watch Darlene, she wouldn’t have set off across the hollow by herself to see that little friend of hers, Violet. And she wouldn’t be dead.
The small graveyard loomed ahead, shadows of tombstones darkening with age. Some graves were littered with debris, others better tended, a few decorated with artificial flowers. The dank air and smell of freshly turned dirt from a new grave enveloped Grady as he forced his rubbery legs to carry him through the aisles of cement landmarks. It was almost midnight, the day of mourning upon him.
Night sounds surrounded him, plus the crunch of his boots, the snapping of twigs and leaves. He knelt and traced his finger over the curved lines of Darlene’s name carved in slick marble, then laid the flowers across the headstone, his gaze straying to her mother’s grave beside her. At least the two of them were together; he tried to take solace in that fact. God only knew where his own mother was. She might be dead for all he knew. His father refused to talk about her.
Grady reached into his pocket and removed the bag of marbles he’d purchased earlier at the Dollar General, fingering each colorful ball as he arranged them in a heart shape on top of the grassy mound. A streetlight in the distance illuminated the colors. A green one with swirls of gold flecks looked almost iridescent, like mother-of-pearl, the cascade of bright reds, oranges, purples and yellows a kaleidoscope of colors against the earth.
“Come on, Grady, play Barbie dolls with me.” Darlene’s childlike voice echoed in his mind. He automatically pressed a hand over his shirt pocket, where he always carried a green marble. He’d refused to play Barbie with her, though—he’d been too cool. So he’d tried to convince her to play marbles instead. She’d never taken to the game, but she had been enchanted with all the colors, and had started collecting marbles, calling them her jewels.
Damn, if he had it to do over again, he would suck it up and play dolls with her.
He could still picture her angelic little face as she lined her jewels up on the shelf above her bed, those lopsided red pigtails bobbing, the freckles dancing on her pug nose. “Look, Grady, I’m making a rainbow. The green one looks like my eyes. And this chocolate-brown one looks like yours, and this pretty blue one is like Violet’s. And look at this sparkly clear one! I can see through it, just like I can see right through Violet’s eyes sometimes.
Although he didn’t understand their friendship, Darlene had loved the homely Baker girl. He’d been shocked when Violet hadn’t attended the funeral. But Baker had claimed his daughter had had a breakdown, that he’d had to send her away. And as far as Grady knew, she’d never returned to Crow’s Landing. Maybe she’d totally forgotten Darlene.
His life might be different if he moved away, too. He might escape the constant reminders of his past. His father. And his guilt. But he didn’t want to escape.
He wanted revenge.

HE PACED AROUND AND around in a wide circle. The moonlight was bright, bright, bright. The light hurt his eyes. Hurt his eyes. Hurt his eyes. But the circle had to be complete.
He raised his arm and tore at the hairs. One, two, three.
No, stop it! he silently cried. He gripped the rocks, inhaling pungent, salty air and the delicious scent of death as he frenziedly twisted his hands over the jagged surface. Then he ground his palms so hard the pointed rocks tore at his skin. The first trickles of blood seeped from the cuts and dripped down his arms. He raised a fist to study the crisscrossed patterns where the streams of blood met, the angle they flowed across, and the thickening at the base of his hand. Snippets of the Cherokee language rolled through his head.
Gi’ga—blood, the force of life. The scarlet color stirred his loins. Excitement sang through his veins. I am the gi’ga-tsuha’li. One cut, two cuts, three—
No! He no longer thought in threes. One was his number.
Three was the first pattern. One for his mommy, one for his daddy and one for him.
Then he’d learned about another.
But that one had to die.
He imagined her sweet, baby lamb’s face with those big trusting eyes. That day he’d heard another voice in his head, ordering him to stop. He’d known there were more. Too many more. He had to make them all die.
Let them know he was the chosen one.
But his mommy and daddy found out what he’d done. He hadn’t been careful. No, he’d been stupid, so stupid, and they’d gotten angry. Finally they’d admitted it wasn’t his fault, then they’d called him their little angel. But after that, they’d kept him locked up at night. He despised being shut up. Hated the bare white walls. Had clawed them until blood streaked down, giving them color. Pretty crimson color.
His mommy needed him now, though. Oh, yes, yes, yes. He couldn’t let her down.
Laughter bubbled up inside him, erupting like blood bursting from an open vein. Like the dark red substance he drew from the sacrificial lambs before they died. Yes, he was the blood taker, the gi’ga-tsuha’li.
He was the good son. The only one who could save the father. And he wouldn’t stop until he did.
His favorite childhood song chimed in his head: “There was one, there were two, there were three little angels….”
Smiling to himself, he reversed the words. “There were ten, there were nine, there were eight little angels, there were seven, there were six, there were five little angels, there were four, there were three, there were two little angels, one little angel in the band.”
Yes, when it was over, there would be only one little angel left.
And it would be him.

CHAPTER TWO
“THERE WERE TEN, there were nine, there were eight little angels….”
The childish version of the old rhyme played in Violet’s head as she hurried to her shop the next day. It had been playing all night. Except, oddly, the song was playing backward.
Goose bumps skated up her arms, but she didn’t understand why. Probably because of the story about the missing woman, Amber Collins.
The story plagued her. Not that the reporter had mentioned angels or the song, but the girl’s disappearance had triggered paranoias Violet had struggled to overcome her entire life. One of them, that she would meet Darlene’s killer in a crowd and not recognize him. The other, that he knew she and Darlene had shared a connection, and that he would come hunting for her.
She searched the crowd. Was he here somewhere? Watching her? Had someone in town kidnapped the woman? Was one of them a rapist? A murderer?
Amber’s picture flashed through her head again. Light blond hair, green eyes. She was only twenty-five. Although Violet didn’t remember all her customers, she’d noticed this girl in the shop the day before. Amber had been especially friendly. Once she’d sampled the pecan pralines, she’d bought five tins, claiming she had a bad habit of eating late at night when she was studying. Violet had laughed because she used to do the same thing, her affinity for café mochas and Snickers bars costing her five pounds every exam week.
Shaking off the unsettling feeling that she and Amber would have become friends, Violet crossed the street, frowning at the driver of a black sedan who nearly skimmed her knees with his bumper as he raced through the stop sign. The scents of crawfish étouffée, shrimp and beer oozing from Tubby’s Tank House, and the rich aroma of chocolate from Carlotta’s Candy Shop, wafted around her. Unfortunately, the stale smell of too much partying and sweaty bodies lingered from the night before, as well, reminding Violet of the seedy side of Savannah nightlife. The side she avoided.
The clatter of glasses and the murmur of voices drifted through the balmy summer air, the sidewalk choked with early morning browsers. A couple of homeless men lay sleeping off their liquor in the trash-filled alley. Pigeons pecked along the Savannah River shoreline, searching for crumbs, the occasional blast of a ship’s horn startling them into a skitter. In contrast, the horse-drawn tourist carriages clip-clopped along, adding to the genteel historic atmosphere.
Her grandmother’s parting words rang in her ears: “Please be careful, Violet. Make sure no one is following you.” She’d shrugged off the warning, knowing her grandmother had been spooked by the report on the missing woman. But she couldn’t dismiss the reality that a madman might be stalking innocent women in Savannah.

GRADY DROVE THROUGH the town square, making his usual noon rounds, still contemplating the argument he’d heard between his father and Baker. Why was someone asking questions about a twenty-year-old murder? And why did his dad and Baker want to keep quiet? His father had claimed he wanted Darlene’s killer caught….
In fact, her unsolved murder had been an obsession with both Monroe males. The absence of Darlene at the dinner table had not only ended the family Sunday night dinner tradition, it had torn them apart completely. His dad had begun substituting liquor-for-one for the family meal. Booze and anger, a deadly combination that had grown worse over the years.
Grady had borne the brunt of his temper.
Because he was responsible.
The fact that he and Darlene hadn’t shared the same mother hadn’t made a difference to Grady; the guilt had been the same. And his father had never let him forget that he should have been home watching her the day she’d been kidnapped.
Wiping sweat from his brow, Grady scanned the streets, passing the hardware store, the small bookstore Serena James had opened last year, and the barbershop the Chutney couple manned together. He parked in front of the Redbud Café, cut the engine and headed inside.
The homey scents of fried chicken, meat loaf, green beans and apple pie floated through the ancient establishment. Adobe-colored tablecloths and curtains in turquoise matched the clay-colored laminate tops of the booths and tables. The pale yellow walls held a wide assortment of framed Indian arrowheads, spears and pipes, showcasing the owner, Laney Longhorse’s, penchant for preserving the history of the area. She loved reciting tales of the ancient customs, especially the religious tribal dances and traditions. Some of them were pretty damn eerie. As were those bone artifacts displayed on the wall. Her son, Joseph, collected them. Grady wondered if he’d found them or killed the animals first, then hung them to show off his hunting skills.
Kerry Cantrell, an attractive blonde a few years younger than him, offered a flirty smile and sauntered toward him. She’d been throwing out vibes for months. Maybe one day he’d ask her out. Then again, that would piss off Joseph Longhorse, who worked at the diner. The Native American had been chasing Kerry ever since she’d moved to Crow’s Landing. He already hated Grady, had since he was a child, although Grady didn’t know why. He’d actually tried to stand up for the kid one time, but Joseph had snarled that he didn’t want or need Grady’s help.
“Hey, Grady. Want some sweet potato pie with that coffee?” Or a piece of me, her eyes suggested.
“Pie sounds good.” He contemplated her silent offer. It had been a long time since he’d been with a woman. They always wanted more than he could give.
She handed him the dessert, letting her fingers brush his knuckles. “Anything else you want, you just holler, sweetie.”
Joseph suddenly appeared through the back door, his shoulder-length black hair tied into a ponytail with a leather thong, his black eyes blazing fire at Grady. Shit, let the man have her. He sure as hell wasn’t getting into a fight over a woman. That close call with Luanne years ago had taught him better sense. No woman could understood his obsession with solving Darlene’s murder.
Besides, Kerry had that look about her that said she wanted the whole package.
“Kerry, can we get some service over here?” Bart Stancil, a crotchety old man who practically lived on the vinyl bar stool, flicked a wrinkled hand.
Kerry winked at Grady, then pranced toward Bart, coffeepot in hand.
Grady ate his pie in silence, studying the other regulars. Agnes Potts and Blanche Haney, two widow women who organized the Meals on Wheels program at the church, waved at him from their biscuits and hash browns, while a teenage couple cuddled in the corner, feeding each other ice cream sundaes.
Tate, the incompetent sheriff Grady had replaced a few months ago, folded his beefy body over a stool, glaring at him. Tate had bungled Darlene’s murder investigation years ago. Unfortunately, the man owned half the town and was now mayor, which meant Grady still had to work with him.
Mavis Dobbins and her son, Dwayne, claimed their usual corner booth. Dwayne was in his thirties now, but he’d had some sort of accident at age fourteen that had triggered a psychotic break. If Grady remembered correctly, the doctors diagnosed him as bipolar. He still lived with his mama. Dwayne laid out three sugar packets for his coffee, then ordered his usual—three eggs, three biscuits, three slices of bacon.
Grady pushed away the remaining pie, his stomach churning. Years ago, when Dwayne was sixteen, Grady’s dad had paid him to do yardwork. When Grady had noticed him watching Darlene, he’d threatened to beat him up if he touched her. He’d always wondered if Dwayne had something to do with Darlene’s disappearance.
The lunch crowd drifted in slowly, and Grady caught a sharp look from Ross Wheeler. The minister’s son, Wheeler was a former teacher who’d lost his job because of complaints of sexual misconduct from female students at the high school. Wheeler had denied the charges, and they’d finally been dropped, but his reputation as an educator had been ruined. Grady had been shocked when Wheeler stayed in Crow’s Landing. He still hadn’t decided whether the man had been guilty or victimized.
Grady tossed a few bills on the counter, nodding goodbye to Kerry as he walked to the door. Maybe he’d ride up and check out that rabid dog report. Not much else to do today.
Tonight he’d look over the files on Darlene’s case. One more time.
Outside, he noticed Laney Longhorse talking to his father. She turned in a huff, then gathered a group of Cherokee children into a circle. Her long gray braid swung around her shoulders as she spoke. “The power of the circle,” she said, crooked teeth shining. “Just as the sky is round, and the stars and the moon. The sun comes forth and goes down again in a circle. The seasons form a circle in their changing, always come back to where they were. The life of a man is a circle from childhood to childhood, and so it is in everything where power moves.”
Grady nodded, accustomed to her aphorisms, but Tate and a few of the other locals protested her storytelling, especially when she shared Native American folklore with the Caucasian kids. His father was watching her, too, a frown on his face. Odd how some of the town and the natives mixed, while others let prejudices fester like old sores. As did his dad and Baker.
Just as Grady reached his police car, the radio crackled. He pushed the respond button, but static rippled over the connection. He tapped the speaker, frustrated with the inadequate equipment. “Sheriff Monroe. Over.”
“Monroe…” More static. “Jim Logan here.” His deputy’s voice sounded raspy, as if he’d been running.
What’s up?”
“I’m out at Briar Ridge. You’d better get over here.”
“Trouble?”
“Definitely.” Logan paused. “We found a dead body over the cliff.”

AS VIOLET ENTERED Strictly Southern, she steered her mind toward business. Thankfully, tourists already crowded the gift shop. Children shrieked over the cheap souvenirs, women were gushing over the Savannah cookies and pecans, and teenagers were choosing colorful T-shirts of River Street and scenes from the movie Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.
“Am I glad to see you, dear,” Mrs. Guthrie chirped. “We’ve been busy as bees this morning. Just sold the last of those lovely notecards of yours.”
“Good.” Violet removed more notecards of Savannah sights from her bag and arranged them on the display. That steady work, plus her commissioned sketches of the town and historical buildings, had earned her a decent income in Charleston, where she’d lived before. When she’d moved to Savannah, she’d supplied the store with the same type of merchandise, and two weeks ago had bought the gift shop herself.
“These are wonderful,” Mrs. Guthrie exclaimed. “Would you paint a portrait of my granddaughter one day?”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t paint people,” Violet said softly. Especially children. To draw faces right she had to delve inside people’s heads. It was too personal. Too painful. Especially when Darlene’s face flashed into her mind.
“That’s too bad. I’m sure you’d do a beautiful job.” The woman fluttered a hand. “Damon sold the sketches you put in the art gallery. He said one customer wanted to talk to you about showing some of your pieces in Atlanta.”
Nerves sputtered in Violet’s stomach. “What did you tell him?”
“Don’t worry, hon. I know you like your privacy so I didn’t give him your address.” She removed a business card from her apron pocket. “He left this, though, and asked if you’d call him.”
“Sure.” Stuffing it in her pocket, she headed to her office, where she spent the afternoon ordering new stock. Around five, she picked up a pack of her grandmother’s favorite hickory coffee and shortbread cookies, then walked to the market.
A navy ship had docked on shore and dozens of tourists were lining up to take pictures of the seamen exiting. Violet breathed in the fresh, salty air, focusing on the children’s laughter from the park and the sounds of jazz music drifting from the riverbank.
Someone had tacked flyers on lampposts and bulletin boards with the missing girl’s picture and a full description. Violet studied one. Amber Collins was twenty-five, originally from Memphis, Tennessee. She had light blond hair, green eyes, was five feet nine inches tall and weighed approximately one hundred thirty pounds. She’d been last seen leaving her dorm room at the college, heading toward the library. She’d been wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt.
Violet hoped they found her alive. The coed was too young to die.
Taking a flyer for her store, she cut across the square, keeping her distance as she passed the graveyard near the parking lot where she’d parked her Civic. She hated cemeteries, had ever since her father had taken her to visit her mother’s grave when she was three. It had been a cold winter day in the mountains, and a bristly wind had rustled the bare branches of the trees, heavy with ice from a recent hailstorm. She’d dropped rose petals on the slab of marble, not knowing how to feel as she tried to picture the faceless woman who had died giving birth to her.
Although giant azaleas, neatly trimmed hedges and jonquils flanked the iron gates of this cemetery in Savannah, disguising the morbid interior, the hair on the back of Violet’s neck stood on end. Suddenly a whisper broke through the haze. “Help me.”
Violet hesitated, wheeled around to stare at the tombstones. She could almost see the ghosts of the dead in the sea of monuments. And she could have sworn someone had just called to her. A woman’s voice…
A storyteller from one of the walking ghost tours was spinning a tale for a group of tourists. Slowly, the faces and storyteller’s voice faded.
Dizzy, Violet stumbled toward a park bench and dropped onto it. She yanked at the neckline of her shirt as the voice whispered to her again. Images played in her head like an old movie trailer….

HE WAS WATCHING HER, playing out his sick twisted game, dancing around the fact that he was going to kill her with platitudes in that singsongy voice that had grated on her nerves for hours. He enjoyed seeing the terror in her eyes.
And she was helpless to stop from showing it.
She did not want to die.
His olive skin looked pale beneath the harsh fluorescent light. Bluish veins bulged in his arms as he stalked around her. She struggled against the bindings holding her down, but the drugs he’d given her were slowly paralyzing her limbs.
“Your blood is rich and thick, and in some ways perfect,” he murmured. “But you aren’t the one.”
His face loomed like some kind of distorted monster. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said in a soothing voice. “I wanted you to be it. I really did.”
She moaned and tried to scream, fighting to escape. But a gag captured the sound, and her movements were stilted and slow, only token gestures of the will to survive.
He brushed a tendril of her wiry, tear-soaked hair from her face. “You let me down.”
She shook her head violently, silently pleading for him to spare her. But anger darkened his already poisonous-looking eyes.
“It’s not my fault. Father needs you. But you can’t help us. Don’t you see that?” His voice grew edgier, his eyes like marbles cut from ice. “I’m doing it all for him. I shall pray for your soul, and the angels will carry you to heaven. We are all children under one blessed father.”
He ran a steady finger over the sharp end of a piece of bone he’d carved earlier. Then he slid the blade of a pocketknife along the jagged edge, scraping and shaving off more brittle bone. The rhythmic sound crawled over her skin. He scraped and whittled, painstaking in his task. Perspiration rolled down her breastbone as he held the bone up to the light and tested its smoothness. Then he raised it to his lips and began to blow.
“The tune of the bone whistle,” he said softly. “The song that tells the story of sacrifice. Pin peyeh obe, my sweetness. Then you must die.”

CHAPTER THREE
A MAN WAS DEAD. Was he a local or a tourist?
Grady flipped on the siren, tore from the Redbud Café and headed toward the ridge. Cutting across town, he took all the side streets because he didn’t want any of the nosy townsfolk following. They might interfere with an investigation. If one was required.
He doubted it. The victim was probably some unlucky vacationer who’d wandered too close to the edge and lost his balance.
The Great Smoky Mountains rose in front of him as he veered from town onto Route 5. He sped past run-down chicken houses and deserted farmland, through the valley, then steered onto Three Forks Road to wind up the mountain. Sweat beaded his forehead and he cranked down the window of the squad car, cursing the stifling summer heat and his broken air conditioner. Thick pines and hardwoods dotted the horizon; blinding sunlight reflected off the steaming asphalt. The smell of manure and wet grass filled the air. He shoved his hand through his hair, his throat tightening as it always did when he passed Flatbelly Hollow, where his little sister’s body had been found.
The Deer Crossing sign had been vandalized, he noticed, the stop sign from the side road leading to the fishing camp turned the wrong way. The latest graduating class’s graffiti defiled the rocky wall of the rising cliff. Moss flanked the embankment, icy water trickling down the rocks like a small waterfall. The air cooled as he navigated up the mountain, the curves so routine he could have driven them in his sleep. Shadows from the yellow pines cast a murky haze over the ground as he parked at Briar Ridge next to Logan’s squad car. Paramedics stood on the ledge, organizing the lift procedure.
Logan stalked toward Grady, his sunglasses shading his eyes. “I’ve already photographed the body and surrounding area.”
“Good.” Although Grady would take more photos as backup. He peered over the jagged ridge to assess the situation. The man’s body sprawled facedown on the ledge a few hundred feet below, his arms and legs twisted at awkward angles. Blood splattered the rocks around his head. He wore plain jeans and a ragged T-shirt, nothing outstanding to distinguish him from any other tourist or a local.
“How did you find him?”
“Hiker called in. He was taking pictures of the mountains and spotted him.”
“He still around?”
“Waiting in the car.” Logan cleared his throat. “Young kid. Poor guy’s pretty shook up.”
“Did you question him already?”
“Yeah, said he didn’t see any other cars around, hadn’t spotted a soul until he came to the ledge and found the body.”
Grady nodded and gestured toward the dead man. “You recognized him?”
“No.” Logan shoved an evidence bag holding a piece of paper toward Grady. “But I found this thumbtacked to that pine tree.”
Grady pulled on gloves, then removed the note and unfolded it. The handwriting was scrawled, almost illegible, but he slowly managed to decipher the words.
“Sorry. Killed her. Couldn’t live with the guilt anymore.”
Killed who? Grady read further, his heart thundering in his chest at the name.
Darlene.
Unbelievable. His hands shook as he lowered the note to his side. His hopes for ending the mystery surrounding Darlene’s death had finally come true. Full circle, as Laney Longhorse would say.
The dead man had confessed to killing his baby sister.

THE SPANISH MOSS of a giant live oak shrouded Violet in its haven, painting fingery shadows that resembled bones along the sidewalk. Disoriented, she clutched the wrought-iron rail surrounding the tombstones. Her imagination must be overactive. Savannah thrived on ghost stories about soldiers who’d died and hadn’t yet found peace. Ones who lingered between realms, tortured and lost, forever searching.
But she had never heard voices from the grave before.
Although this voice hadn’t called to her from the grave, she realized. The woman had still been alive. Had the voice belonged to Amber Collins, the missing coed? Had Violet heard her cry for help just before she was murdered?
Had the evil gotten inside her again? Or had she envisioned the images and voice because of the flyer? Because Darlene’s murder was on her mind?
Violet glanced at the crumpled paper in her hands and felt paralyzed. People had been reported missing, even murdered in Charleston where she and her grandmother had lived before, but she’d never experienced visions of them.
Pin peyeh obe—what did the expression mean? It sounded like a Native American phrase. But she didn’t know any native words, so why would one come to her in her thoughts? And what kind of bone had the man held to his lips?
Her mind spinning, she staggered to her car. Darkness descended as more storm clouds rolled in from the east. According to the weatherman, Hurricane Helena might hit tomorrow. Violet felt as if it had hit today.
Hands trembling, she started the engine and turned onto the island road, wincing as she bounced over the old bridge. A pair of headlights appeared in her rearview mirror, steady but not too close. The car coasted nearer as she crossed the narrow bay bridge and veered onto the side street that led to her cottage.
She clenched the steering wheel tighter, certain he was following her.

GRADY KNOTTED HIS HANDS. Everything had come full circle. Back to the beginning, back to the people in town, the ones they’d trusted. Memories of that grueling search crashed back. The long, endless night before they’d found Darlene. This man consoling Grady’s father when they’d finally discovered her small limp body.
Grady turned to the paramedics. “Make sure the autopsy is thorough—tox screens, hair and fiber samples, the works.” He gathered the crime scene kit from the car, then snapped more pictures of the area and body, and videotaped the scene. The rescue team lowered a paramedic to the ledge to secure the corpse on a stretcher, prior to transporting him to the coroner’s office.
“Why all the fuss over a suicide?” Logan’s voice was gravelly as he ran a hand over his sweat-streaked brow.
Grady frowned as he knelt to study the landing. “The first rule of being a good cop—everything is suspicious.”
“Right. Sounds like the bastard deserved it. He killed a defenseless child.”
Grady cut his eyes toward his deputy, but he couldn’t read the man’s expression, not with those damn sunglasses he always wore. “What do you know about my sister’s death?”
“Not much,” Logan said. “Just heard about it in town. I’d think you’d be glad he’s dead.”
Grady glared at him. They had never talked about personal things before. In fact, once he’d asked Logan about his family, but the man had clammed up and stormed outside. And Grady had certainly never shared anything about his own life.
But Logan was right. He should be happy. Ecstatic. Ready to celebrate.
Yet a nagging feeling plucked at the back of his mind, warning him things weren’t quite right. Was it something about the case file? The suicide note? The confession?
Darlene’s innocent young face flashed in Grady’s head. Her knobby knees, missing front teeth, the strawberry curls he used to tease her about. He pictured her and that homely friend of hers tagging along behind him. Playing dress-up and skipping rope out by that old sweet gum tree. Darlene had always protected her friend. But who had protected her? No one.
Had he really found her killer? It almost seemed too easy….
Deep down he wanted it to be over. Closure meant he could move on with his life. Maybe his father could find his way out of the bottle, too.
Grady fisted and unfisted his hands, blood pounding in his veins. He’d wanted to find Darlene’s killer alive so he could exact his own revenge. He hadn’t realized how much he’d craved that confrontation, how the urge to make her murderer suffer the way his little sister had suffered had driven him through the years. How much the idea of that revenge had thrilled him.
Fighting for control, Grady scrutinized the ground for foot patterns.
The deputy squatted, then leaned his elbows on his knees. “Find anything?”
“Hard to tell,” Grady muttered. “Looks like someone might have moved the straw to cover a footprint or scuffle. Then again, the wind and rain last night could have readjusted the soil.” He shifted on the balls of his feet. “I want every inch combed. We’ll send the note and any other evidence to the crime lab in Nashville to be analyzed. Did you find his car?”
“Yeah, run into the ditch over there.” Logan pointed to a thicket of trees. “Reeks of whiskey.”
Grady nodded, then gestured toward the surrounding bushes. “Look for loose or torn bits of clothing. Footprints. Anything to indicate the man might not have been alone. And I want the car impounded and processed.” He stood. “I don’t want this confession leaked in town, either, not until I have a chance to investigate the case thoroughly.” Grady sighed. “For now, this is a suicide, but I’m leaving the case open.”
Logan nodded, then began combing the bushes while Grady headed toward the paramedics carrying the body to the ambulance. The man’s face was bloody, his clothes smeared with dirt, his broken femur jutting through his ragged pants; it had been severed in two places. His jeans were still damp, indicating he’d probably been there since the night before, but the EMT would give them a better idea of the exact time of death. The fetid odor of lost body fluids hung in the air as Grady checked the corpse for indications of a struggle. A small contusion lacerated the back of his head. If the man had fallen face-first, how had he hit the back of his head? Unless he’d been struck before falling.
Grady frowned, disturbed by his own train of thought. Maybe he’d fallen, then rolled over.
The paramedics loaded the stretcher and the ambulance roared off. Grady had to call his father, tell him they’d found Darlene’s killer.
No, he couldn’t yet. Not until he was sure. Not until he’d checked out the man’s death. Not until he’d notified the next of kin.
He stalked to the woods to search the area. As soon as he finished, he’d visit the coroner’s office for a full report, then make that call. Even worse, he had to tell the surviving family that their loved one had taken his own life.
And that he had confessed to a murder.

VIOLET CHECKED HER rearview mirror. Yes, someone was following her. Was on her tail. She wound through the side streets, reminding herself that she shouldn’t lead a stranger to her house, then turned right on another side street. Nervous now, she wove through a nearby neighborhood, turned and headed back in the opposite direction. The sedan slowed, then swung into a drive. She sighed in relief. If whoever it was had been following her, he’d realized she was onto him.
Relaxing slightly, she headed back toward her cottage, then veered onto Palm Walkway. The inside of the cottage seemed dark as she parked and exited her car. Crickets chirped in the background. A bird cawed above.
Weary now, she climbed the small steps to the stoop, grateful to be home. When she stepped inside, the house was too quiet. “Grammy?”
Her grandmother was sitting in the wooden chair, pale and listless, the phone clutched in one hand.
“Grammy, what is it?”
Her grandmother’s blank gaze showed no sign of response.
“Mrs. Baker…” A man’s voice called over the line. “Mrs. Baker…are you still there?”
Violet pried the receiver from her grandmother’s fingers and laid it on the counter. “Grammy.” Violet gently shook her. “What’s wrong? Please talk to me.”
“No,” her grandmother rasped, in a voice so low Violet could barely discern it. “No, it’s not true.”
“Mrs. Baker,” the man shouted from the phone, “are you all right?”
Her grandmother’s face went ashen, and she was trembling. No, she wasn’t all right.
Violet grabbed the handset. “This is Mrs. Baker’s granddaughter, Violet. Who is this and what did you say to upset her?”
“Violet?” Shock tinged the man’s deep voice.
“Yes, who is this?”
“Sheriff Monroe.” He hesitated, his voice husky. “Grady.”
“Grady?” Darlene’s brother?
“I’m sorry…I had to give your grandmother some bad news.” His breath whistled out. “Violet, your father is dead.”

CHAPTER FOUR
GRADY GRITTED HIS TEETH. He’d never cared for Jed Baker. And when Violet had first left town, years ago, he’d halfway blamed her for Darlene’s death. Hell, he’d been a stupid adolescent at the time, battling his own guilt. Using her as the scapegoat had been easy. She was the reason his sister had rushed across the hollow alone. She hadn’t been able to tell them where to find Darlene.
But she had been only eight years old.
He stifled the sympathy he felt for her now. If her father had killed Darlene, then he deserved to die, although suicide wasn’t nearly severe enough punishment. And if Violet and her grandmother had known her father was guilty and hadn’t told…
But what if the coroner did find evidence of foul play? What if his own dad had learned that Baker killed Darlene, and had gone back to finish their fight?
No, that train of thought was too dangerous.
She was so quiet he wondered if she’d fainted. And how old was the grandmother now—eighty? Ninety? “Violet?”
“Y-yes,” she said in a choked voice. “How…how did you track us down here?”
“Lloyd Driver, the lawyer who handled your father’s papers.”
“How…how did my father die?”
Her whispered words echoed all the usual queries he’d expected. The hows and whys, the unanswered questions. “He left a suicide note.”
“What? He killed himself?”
“I’m just telling you what I found. I’m having the note analyzed to make certain it’s his handwriting.”
“What does the note say? Did he give a reason?”
The part he dreaded the most. Violet might love her father, but she’d also cared for Grady’s sister. He’d never forgotten the day he, his dad and the sheriff had driven to her house to inquire about Darlene. He’d heard Violet’s childish cries through the closed door. And the next day she’d been gone. Later, rumors spread that she was a spooky kid, that she claimed to hear voices in her head, that she might be schizophrenic.
“Tell me,” she said, her voice growing stronger. “I want to know. I have to know.”
He hesitated. “This can wait until you come back for the funeral. I assume you’ll want to bury him here. Or…maybe not.”
“I…I don’t know.” Uncertainty laced her voice. “Just tell me what the note said.”
He cleared his throat. “Violet—”
“Please, Grady.”
Her soft plea twisted his insides. She sounded so young and vulnerable. He pictured those big sky-blue eyes, the innocent little girl who used to tag along behind him with his sister. The scrawny kid Darlene had felt sorry for, because the other kids called her white trash.
What did she look like now? Was she still homely? Did she still think about Darlene? Did she realize today was the anniversary of Darlene’s death?
He didn’t care. He’d wanted revenge so long he wouldn’t let himself.
“From the looks of things, he got drunk and threw himself off the ledge at Briar Ridge, but I’m waiting on an official autopsy report for cause of death. The note said he couldn’t live with the guilt any longer.” Grady inhaled a calming breath, aware that he was dropping another bombshell, then forced himself to spit it out. “Violet, your father confessed to killing Darlene.”

A HEARTBEAT OF SILENCE stretched between them. “What?” Violet clutched the table edge. “Did you tell my grandmother this?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, she insisted.”
Violet sank into the chair. Her father was not a killer. He wouldn’t have hurt Darlene. Not her best friend. Not the girl who’d defended her.
Bits and pieces of that horrible last day rushed back. Her father’s fury when he realized she’d told the town about her connection to Darlene. The nervous way he’d stalked around the house, muttering under his breath that people would think she was a nutcase. That the devil had gotten her.
A shudder gripped her. What did she really know about her father? That he’d dragged her to the car that dark cold night without even kissing her goodbye. That he’d sent her away without a backward glance because he thought she was possessed. That he hadn’t contacted her since. That he’d made her feel like some kind of freak.
That he hadn’t told the Monroes where to find Darlene in time.
She swallowed to make her voice work, but before she could speak, her grandmother clutched her chest.
“Violet…”
Panic slammed into her. “Grammy, what’s wrong?”
Her grandmother doubled over in the kitchen chair, gasping for air.
“Is she all right?” Grady yelled.
She was turning white. No, blue. “I have to call an ambulance!” Violet disconnected the phone and punched in 9-1-1, her heart racing.
“Jed didn’t…do it,” her grandmother rasped. “Not a…k-killer.”
Her frail body jerked, then she slumped against Violet.

WHAT THE HELL WAS happening? Grady hit Redial, his pulse clamoring, but the phone rang over and over. Was Mrs. Baker okay? Had the news killed her?
He scrubbed a sweaty hand over his face and cursed. The scents of death and formaldehyde from the coroner’s office came back to him, his sister’s childlike face resurfacing. He’d never forget standing beside his father to identify her body. The image of Darlene’s glassy eyes. The cuts and scrapes. Dirt and mud and weeds had clung to her pale skin, the signs of rigor mortis already setting in. Signs he hadn’t understood at the time. Signs he’d recognized in other bodies since.
He and his father had waited all these years to learn the truth about Darlene’s killer. But now to discover he’d been living in their own town, that Violet’s father had murdered her. It was almost unbelievable….
But why had Baker killed himself now, twenty years later? It wasn’t as if the case had been recently reopened. Unless the anniversary had finally driven Baker mad, as it threatened to do to Grady every year…
Uncertainty nagged at him again. At age thirteen, he hadn’t known anything about the police investigation.
But he had read the files since. Hell, he’d memorized them. Tonight he would review them again and see how the police had missed that Baker was the killer. Just as soon as he told his father. A stream of sweat dribbled down his chin.
He hoped his dad didn’t already know….

VIOLET CLUNG TO HER grandmother’s hand on the ambulance ride to the hospital, as the minutes stretched out. For several seconds back at the cottage, she’d thought her Grammy had died. Then she’d jerked slightly, breathing again as if she refused to give up the fight. As if she knew she couldn’t leave this world, not yet. Her granddaughter needed her.
In fact, Violet should have been there to take the phone call. She could have broken the news more gently. She should have protected her, just as she should have protected Darlene.
Violet had tried so hard to atone for that day. She hadn’t celebrated a birthday since. And now she might lose the only person who’d been a constant in her life.
The ambulance screeched up to the emergency room entrance. Paramedics jumped into action. A team of doctors and nurses met them at the door, shouting questions and her grandmother’s vital signs as they wheeled her through the ER.
“Pulse sixty-five, weak and thready. Respiration thirty, shallow. BP eighty over fifty.”
“Dr. Rothchild, cardiology. How long was she out?”
“A couple of minutes.” The paramedic glanced at Violet for confirmation.
Violet nodded, running behind, her heart in her throat. The EMTs opened a set of double doors and wheeled her grandmother toward an exam room. One of the nurses threw out a hand and stopped Violet from entering, then pointed to a waiting area with a few stiff chairs and an ancient coffee machine in the corner. “You’ll have to wait there, miss.”
Violet grabbed her arm. “Please let me know as soon as you find out something.”
The nurse offered a tight smile, her expression sympathetic. “I will. Why don’t you get a cup of coffee or something. It might be a while.”
Violet’s stomach was too knotted for her to drink or eat anything. Instead she paced the waiting room, her shoes clicking on the tiles, the conversation with Grady Monroe reverberating in her head.
Your father is dead. He left a suicide note. He confessed to murdering Darlene.
She didn’t believe it. Why would he have killed Darlene?
Frustration gnawed at her—it was too late to ask him.
The finality of his death hit her, and a sob welled in her throat. Her father would never make that phone call she’d desperately wanted. Would never walk in the door and take her in his arms or beg her forgiveness for sending her away.
He’d never tell her he loved her.
At least when he was alive, she’d been able to hope that one day he’d reappear and admit the past twenty years had been a mistake. That he was sorry for shutting her out of his life.
Her knees buckled, and she collapsed on the tattered vinyl sofa, the scents of antiseptic, and death washing over her. Her chest hurt from the pressure of holding back tears. Finally, she could fight them no longer. Sobs racked her as the hands of the wall clock ticked out the seconds, the minutes. Finally her sobs lessened, and anger replaced the pain. Violet stared at the gray walls, the stained coffee table overflowing with magazines. She was massaging her temples when she spotted the newspaper article on the missing Savannah woman.
When Darlene had been in danger, Violet had felt so connected to her. And today she’d thought a stranger’s voice had whispered to her on her deathbed. If she had some crazy psychic ability, why hadn’t she ever felt a connection to her own father? Why hadn’t she known he was in danger or that he was contemplating suicide?
Had he sent her away because he was afraid she might figure out the truth—that he’d killed Darlene?
Violet dropped her head into her hands. The blood vessels in her temples seemed about to explode. She didn’t really believe he’d killed her friend, did she?
“Miss Baker?”
She jerked her head up and swiped at her eyes. “Yes?”
“Your grandmother is resting now,” Dr. Rothchild said. “She had a mild stroke.”
“But she’s alive?”
“Yes.”
Violet stood on wobbly legs. “Can I see her?”
“For just a moment. She’s being moved to ICU.”
And her prognosis? She couldn’t bring herself to ask.
The doctor jammed his hands in the pockets of his lab coat. “We can release her in a few days, but she’ll need lots of rest and physical therapy. You can follow me.”
Violet moved on autopilot as they walked to the ICU unit. Seconds later, she hesitated in the doorway, gathering the courage she feared might fail her.
Tubes and needles pierced various parts of her grandmother’s thin body. The bleep of a heart monitor sounded over the murmur of nurses’ voices and the clink of metal. Violet slowly inched her way to the hospital bed and lifted her grandmother’s hand in her own. Her skin felt cold and clammy. She was so frail.
“Hang in there, Grammy,” Violet whispered. “You can’t leave me, too.” Another tear slid down her cheek.
Her grandmother’s eyes fluttered open. She tried to speak, but she’d lost her speech and mobility. Panicked looking, she waved a finger. Realizing she wanted something to write with, Violet dug a pen and paper from her purse.
Her grandmother struggled, but finally managed to write, “Take me home.”
“I will, Gram,” she said softly, “just as soon as the doctor releases you.”
“No.” She urged Violet closer, then scribbled, “Back to Crow’s Landing, to see Neesie. Have to see my family one more time before I meet the master.”
Neesie was her grandmother’s sister. They hadn’t seen her since Grammy had stolen away with Violet that dark, cold night. “You’re not dying, Grammy,” Violet said in a choked voice, “you’re going to be okay.”
“Please,” she wrote, “prove your daddy didn’t kill that little girl.”
Anguish tightened Violet’s throat at the thought of returning to Crow’s Landing. At the mere idea of seeing her father’s face again. Of burying him. She couldn’t deny her grandmother’s plea, though.
But how could she face the town now that everyone believed she was a murderer’s daughter?

CHAPTER FIVE
BY THE TIME VIOLET stumbled into the cabin on Tybee Island, she was drained and dizzy with fatigue. Still shell-shocked, she flipped on the overhead light and stared at the vinyl chair where her grandmother had nearly died. The horrible trembling began all over again, stirring pain deep in her soul. She had to gain control.
Or she would never be able to face the people back in Crow’s Landing.
The echo of Grady Monroe’s voice over the phone line seared through her like a hot poker. Had she heard condemnation in his tone? Did he think she’d known what her father had done? Rather, what her father had confessed to doing in that note?
No. Her grandmother didn’t believe her father was a killer, and she had never lied to Violet or led her wrong. Besides, even though her father had shut her out of his life, she sensed he wasn’t evil.
Would she be able to prove her father’s innocence if she returned to her hometown?
“Please, Violet, you have to go…. The hospital will transport me to the facility near there. Go on to Crow’s Landing.”
Knowing she needed sleep before she began the long drive to Tennessee, she heated a cup of Earl Grey tea and sipped it. She couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten, but the thought of food still repulsed her. After some sleep, she’d get her affairs in order and inform her employees at Strictly Southern that she’d be away for a few days.
Shadows claimed the earth-toned walls of the cabin as she crossed the den to her bedroom. The scent of her grandmother’s gardenia lotion sweetened the air, reminding Violet of her absence. The handmade quilt Grammy had stitched, using different fabric scraps from Violet’s childhood dresses, lay draped across her antique bed. Hugging the quilt to her as if she was hugging her grandmother, Violet crawled beneath the covers, praying the tea and quilt would finally warm her.
But as she closed her eyes, the image of Darlene’s frightened eyes flashed before her, the terrifying plea for help screeching through her head. Another twenty-year-old picture resurfaced with vivid clarity—of her father dragging her to their old station wagon, shoving her inside, then wheeling away from her as she pleaded with him to find Darlene.
Violet curled into a ball, hugging her arms around her middle. She had let Darlene down years ago; could she let her grandmother down now? But what if she discovered the confession was real?
Her father’s words echoed in her head: Nobody needs to know what goes on behind closed doors. Had he warned her to keep silent so Darlene wouldn’t be found in time to point the finger at him?
Had he shut Violet out of his life because of his guilt? Because he’d been afraid she might figure out he was a killer?

GRADY STOPPED BY his office to grab the files on his sister’s case, determined to review every inch of them. He had to figure out how the sheriff had missed the fact that Baker had killed Darlene.
First, though, he called Information and requested a listing of all the hospitals in the Savannah area. He tried the two major ones first. A nurse at St. Joseph’s informed him that Violet’s grandmother had been admitted and was listed in stable condition. Thank God.
Now he had to face his father.
Or was he jumping the gun? Giving his father the illusion the police had found Darlene’s murderer when, in fact, they might not have?
Confusion riddled Grady. He’d just been given the answer to the question that had tormented him his entire life—so why didn’t he take it at face value? Why was he having trouble believing the suicide note? Because it was too easy, too pat? Because he’d heard his father’s argument with Baker?
Or because finding Darlene’s killer has consumed you. You’ve lived for revenge. Without that, what will you do with the rest of your life?
You’ll still have the guilt….
Clenching his fingers around the steering wheel, he drove to the Monroe estate, his mind on overdrive. He’d never known his own mother, only his father’s second wife, Teresa. He’d wanted to please her and his father so badly.
But he’d failed.
The unkempt yard spoke volumes about his father’s downward spiral into depression. Maybe he should have confronted his dad years ago, forced him to discuss the details of Darlene’s death. But he’d been a son before he became a cop. The irresponsible teenager who hadn’t come home to watch Darlene that day. The boy who’d disappointed his father in the worst way and started the domino effect that had ruined their lives. Discussing details about Darlene’s disappearance had been impossible.
Actually, conversation in general had been practically nonexistent between the two men for ages. Any mention of Darlene had driven a deeper wedge between them.
Grady shut off the engine and waded through the overgrown grass to the front porch, wincing as the boards creaked and groaned. After his token knock, he opened the screen door. The faint scent of cigar smoke permeated the humid air, making him crave a cigarette. Inside, the dismal atmosphere magnified the emptiness of the house. Once this place had breathed with life, with Darlene’s incessant chatter, the scent of cinnamon bread Teresa had baked. The joy of a family.
“Dad?” He walked across the hardwood floor, listening for sounds of his father. A curtain fluttered in the evening breeze, the sound of crickets chirping outside reminding him of his lost childhood. Of nights when he and Darlene had raced barefoot across the backyard, catching fireflies in mayonnaise jars. Had streaked in front of the sprinkler on hot July afternoons.
He checked the den, then his father’s office, surprised he wasn’t slumped in front of the TV watching All in the Family reruns on cable. Something about Archie Bunker had appealed to Walt’s twisted sense of humor, when he’d had one.
Hot air surrounded Grady as he walked through the house. A scraping sound coming from somewhere near the kitchen broke the silence. He headed through the double wooden doors, then crossed the room and halted in the doorway to the garage. His father was sitting there—so still that for a brief moment Grady thought he might be dead. The low sound of a knife scraping against wood invaded the stale night air. Grady exhaled. His father was whittling again.
He spent hours carving, scraping away the edges of a raw piece of wood until he achieved the perfect smoothness he wanted. Back and forth, scraping and sawing, watching the splinters and dust fall. Once Grady had even watched him carve a chicken bone into an odd shape, then tell Darlene a story about his creation.
Grady had hated the sound of that carving.
He cleared his throat to alert his father of his presence, then descended the two stairs to the garage. His father’s face was craggy, his eyes fixed in concentration, his bourbon beside him.
Oddly, his dad was carving a baby lamb. Did it have some significance?
“Dad?”
As if his father had just realized he had company, his knife froze in midair. The gaze he swung to Grady was not inviting.
“We have to talk,” Grady said, ignoring the jab of pain his father’s reaction caused.
“Not tonight, Grady. Go away.”
Anger flared in his chest. “It’s important. It’s about Darlene’s murder.”
A vein throbbed high in his father’s forehead. “You realize what day it is?”
He nodded. “Of course. The anniversary of her death.”
Pain robbed Walt of all color.
“But it may also be the day we’ve discovered her killer.”
The knife fell to the cement floor with a clatter.
Grady scrubbed a sweaty hand over his chin. “Tonight I found Jed Baker’s body on the cliff out at Briar Ridge.” He studied his father for a reaction, but detected only the slightest twitch of his eyebrow. “Dad, he left a suicide note confessing to Darlene’s murder.”

IN THE EARLY DAWN, Violet awoke with a sense of dread, but also with purpose. She ran her fingers over the Best Friends necklace. She had to face the old demons to move on.
Quickly showering and dressing, she grabbed some coffee and phoned the hospital to check on her grandmother.
“She’s resting comfortably,” the nurse said. “We’ll be moving her to the assisted care facility in Tennessee later in the day.”
“Please tell her that I’ll visit as soon as possible.” The nurse assured her she would, so Violet hung up, then left a message with her store manager, telling her she’d be gone for a few days. She left her cell phone number in case they needed to reach her.
After tossing a few things in a suitcase, she headed to the car. It would take several hours to get to Crow’s Landing. She didn’t want to arrive at midnight. There were too many old memories she’d left behind, too many ghosts.
As she climbed in her car, the anguished cries of the young woman she believed to be Amber Collins seemed to float through the haze. The sound of the bone whistle followed, reminding her of the gruesome murder in her vision.
And now her father was dead, too.
Why was all this happening now? And why did she feel connected to each of these horrid things, but helpless to stop the chain of events from unfolding?

OVER COFFEE the next morning, Grady was still stewing over his father’s reaction to Baker’s confession. Or his lack of a reaction.
He’d simply turned back to his whittling with a vengeance, as if he wasn’t surprised at all to learn Baker had killed Darlene. Or maybe he was, and he couldn’t deal with it.
Or maybe he’d known Baker had killed Darlene, and he’d finally exacted his own vengeance.
Grady didn’t want to contemplate that possibility, but the argument he’d overheard between Baker and his dad gnawed at him. Determined to get to the truth, he sent the suicide note to the lab to see if it was legitimate. He’d have to get something Baker had written to compare the handwriting.
Rubbing at his aching neck, he poured himself a third cup of coffee and sat down to study the files. First, he pulled up the report of the crime scene and read the details of Darlene’s murder. The photograph of her lying in the bottom of that well still tore him to shreds. Her face was deathly pale. Her wild, curly hair frizzed around her face in a tangled mop. Her clothes were covered in dried dirt and sticks and…bugs. Her shorts were tattered, the white cotton shirt ripped, her sneakers caked in mud. Forcing the anguish at bay with deep-breathing exercises, he zeroed in on the ligature marks on her neck. Would they match the size of Baker’s hands and fingers? He’d make sure the coroner checked it out. Criminology techniques had changed a lot in twenty years.
Next, he read through the reports chronicling the search party’s efforts to find Darlene. Locals had combed the woods behind his family’s house, the hollow between the Monroes’ and the shack Violet Baker had lived in, all the way to Briar Ridge, where Baker had just been found dead on the overhang. When his father was questioned, a meeting with a town council member had served as his alibi. Baker had an alibi, as well—he’d been supposedly working as a mechanic at a garage that had since closed. The owner, Whitey Simms, had confirmed his presence. But Whitey had passed away ten years ago, meaning Grady couldn’t question him now. Not much help there.
He scratched his chin in thought. Had Whitey lied for Baker? If so, why?
A statement from a local citizen, Eula Petro, drew his eye. “Little Violet Baker claimed she heard Darlene’s voice calling to her, crying for help. Told her daddy where to look for Darlene.”
Grady chewed the inside of his cheek. If Violet claimed to have heard voices telling her where his sister was, had they followed up on what she’d told them? Had she been wrong? Or had the statement been pure gossip?
Ruby Floyd, the woman’s older sister, had stated, “The child’s not quite right. Might be touched in the head.”
Had Violet suffered from a mental condition? Had she ever been treated?
He’d have to do more research to find out.
He read further.
“Search parties explored the northern area of Crow’s Landing, covering a fifty-mile radius surrounding the Monroe house, 231 Sycamore Drive. No results. Call from Jed Baker, 2:45 p.m., June 15th. Suggested search parties check Crow’s Landing Elementary. Baker claimed his daughter, Violet, and Darlene Monroe were playmates. Search party B immediately dispatched to the area, but turned up nothing. At approximately 10:45 p.m., June 15th, received another call from Baker. Suggested search parties check Shanty Annie’s, 913 Flatbelly Hollow. Specifically mentioned the well house. Search party dispatched.
“One hour later, located body of Darlene Monroe in bottom of well. Coroner and sheriff lowered into well to establish death, photograph the body, examine evidence. Body lifted from well at approximately midnight. Transported to coroner’s office for autopsy.
“Official cause of death: manual strangulation.
“Noon, June 16th: official press conference revealing the girl’s murder.”
His gut clenched. Had Violet told them to look in the well? Or had her father known where to find Darlene’s body because he’d murdered her and put her there? He might have suggested alternative places to search in an effort to divert the authorities from finding Darlene before he had a chance to strangle her….
Grady grabbed his keys and headed to Baker’s house. Killers often kept a token of their victims. Maybe he’d find something inside Baker’s place that would give him some answers. At least he could get a sample of Jed’s handwriting for the lab.

AS VIOLET DROVE INTO Crow’s Landing, a small shudder ran through her at the sight of the big, black metal crow atop the town sign. There was some legend about the bird, but she couldn’t recall the story.
Pines, dogwoods and maples lined the country roads, the trees thinning out as she entered the small town. Dust-coated signs that needed painting bore the same names as before, with the exception that the dime store had become the Dollar General, and the Cut & Curl was now Sally’s Salon. Did Sally Orion, the chubby blonde she’d known in third grade, own the shop? It didn’t matter. Violet hadn’t come back to renew old acquaintances, good or bad.
She’d come home to find out the truth.
Uneasiness curled inside her as she passed the sheriff’s office and jail. She had always avoided walking past the intimidating adobe-colored, concrete structure. Now it looked old and outdated, but still foreboding. Had Grady called from there when he’d delivered the news about her father? Had he already told the town? Would she see the news plastered all over the Crow’s Landing newspaper tomorrow?
The small square still looked the same, although oddly smaller, and some of the storefronts desperately needed a face-lift. Woody Butt’s gun shop was on the corner by the hardware store. A small bookstore had opened up, along with a place called the Fabric Hut, but the Redbud Café still stood in all its glory. Laney Longhorse’s stories had always fascinated Violet. Was Laney still running the diner?
In the center of the square, a small playground and park benches had been added, although a three-foot-tall statue of a black crow in the center spoiled the peaceful feeling. At least to Violet. What was it about the crows?
Across from the park, the old-fashioned soda shop on the corner remained a perfect diversion for a hot summer afternoon. She could almost smell the cinnamon sticks old Mr. Toots kept inside to hand out to children, and see the thick, old-fashioned root beer floats he decorated with whipping cream and cherries. RC Colas and Moon Pies, along with Nehi’s, homemade fudge and boiled peanuts, had been other local favorites. Unfortunately, Violet had never been able to afford the floats or fudge, not until Darlene had used her allowance money to buy both of them treats.
Suddenly Violet spotted the old street sign leading to her father’s house. Pine Needle Drive.
She’d thought she might have forgotten the way.
But the turn seemed natural, and she found herself leaving the safety of the town square and heading down the country road. She passed the run-down trailer park in the less cared for section of Crow’s Landing where rotting clapboard houses dotted the land, and overgrown weeds, battered bicycles and cars littered the front yards.
The road was bumpy and still unpaved. Although it was too late for kids to be outside playing, she could still picture the poor children who lived here—barefoot, with hand-me-down clothes two sizes too big hanging off their underfed bodies. She had been one of them. But not anymore, she reminded herself. She was strong, independent. She owned her own shop. She had a life ahead of her.
Her headlights flashed across the fronts of houses, and she grimaced, realizing things hadn’t changed at all on Pine Needle Drive. One out of three homes had a washing machine or threadbare sofa on the sagging front porch. The old water wells remained, a testament to the fact that some of the houses lacked indoor plumbing.
And then there was her father’s place, in much worse shape than she remembered. Overgrown bushes isolated it from the others. Two windowpanes in the front had been broken, the porch steps were missing boards, and some stray animal—most likely a mangy dog—had pawed the front door, scraping the dingy white paint. A cheap orange welcome mat graced the entrance, a mocking touch, while a caned-back chair that needed fixing was turned upside down in the corner. Three old cars that looked desperate for repairs sat to the side of the porch, weeds brushing at a rusty carburetor. Her father’s unfinished projects, obviously. As if death had claimed them just as it had him.
The woods beyond echoed with loneliness. But she could almost hear her and Darlene’s childhood laughter as they’d raced among the trees, building a playhouse in the pine straw.
Violet cut the engine and balled her hands into fists in her lap. Another, much newer car was parked sideways in the front drive—the sheriff’s car.
What was Grady Monroe doing at her father’s house?

CHAPTER SIX
VIOLET TWISTED the Best Friends necklace between her fingers as she stared at the door. Should she go inside or drive to the nearest hotel and spend the night, then return tomorrow when she wouldn’t have to face Grady? But she had been running from her past all her life.
It was time to stop.
Besides, the sooner she found some answers, the sooner she could return to Savannah and move on with her life. She needed to know that her father hadn’t killed her friend.
Gathering her courage, she opened the car door and climbed out, willing her legs to steady themselves as she ascended the steps. Honeysuckle sweetened the air, floating on the breeze. But the musty odor of the tattered welcome mat seeped upward as she stepped on it and raised her fist to knock. Then she caught herself. She didn’t need to knock. This house belonged to her. Or at least it had once been her home. In another lifetime.
Footsteps rumbled inside. Grady?
She turned the knob, bracing for his reaction.

GRADY HAD BARELY TOURED the house when footsteps sounded on the front porch. He’d thought he’d heard a car a minute or two before, and had headed toward the front. Who had driven all the way out here to Baker’s place?
Someone who knew about his death? Grady’s own father, maybe…
He waited for the knock, but it never came. Instead, the doorknob turned. He slid his hand to the gun holstered by his side, then drew his weapon just in case some troubled teen or vagrant had heard about Baker’s death and decided to rob him.
The door creaked open. Faint moonlight spilled in from the front porch, silhouetting a human form. Grady inched farther into the den. The low-wattage lightbulb in the foyer showed him it was a woman. She was slight, her pale face in shadows. A tangled web of dark hair floated around slender shoulders. The rattle of her breath broke the tense silence.
“Freeze! Police!”
She threw up her hands. “Please don’t shoot.”
He stepped forward just as she looked up, and he realized the face looked vaguely familiar. Her accent was familiar, too.
Dear God. It couldn’t be.
“Grady?”
“Violet?” Tension crackled between them. She looked so…so different. Not like the homely, sad-faced, big-eyed girl who’d traipsed after him years ago.
More like a…woman. A very attractive woman.
Shit, he didn’t need this.
“Yes, it’s me.” Her lower lip trembled at the sight of his Glock pointed at her.
He lowered the gun to his side, his gaze skimming over her, cataloging her features. Yes, she had definitely changed, had grown into a beauty. Not that any one feature was perfect, but she was stunning in an indefinable kind of way. Fragile. Earthy. Natural.
She stood around five-three and was still too slender. But her once scraggly brown hair shimmered with shades of gold, accentuating a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones and a small dainty nose. Her cheeks were pale, yet a natural rose color stained full lips devoid of lipstick. She didn’t need it. She had kissable lips.
Damn, if she hadn’t developed some luscious curves, too. Grady tried not to linger on the swell of her breasts, tried to stifle the elemental response of his body. Her denim skirt hung loosely on the gentle slope of her hips, and sandals showcased bare toes. Her toenails were painted pale pink.
The whisper of her feminine scent floated to him. That smell and those damn pink toenails made his body stir, waking nerve endings that had lain dormant forever.
For God’s sake, this was Violet Baker.
He could not be attracted to her. She had been Darlene’s best friend. Her father had confessed to killing Darlene. And Violet might have known.
Besides, he’d heard the rumors about her being strange, maybe crazy.
She cleared her throat, and he realized he’d let the silence stretch way too long.
“What are you doing here, Grady?”
“I…” He halted, not wanting to admit he was searching for evidence to corroborate her father’s confession.
She seemed to read his mind, anyway. “Did you find anything?”
“No.” He secured his gun back in his holster. “But I haven’t conducted a thorough search.”
Pain flickered in those expressive eyes—the one thing about her that hadn’t changed. They were still huge and an unusual shade of blue, almost purple, the obvious reason her parents had named her Violet. And they still had the power to tug at emotions inside him just as they had when he was a scrawny kid.
He dragged his gaze away. He refused to get sucked in by emotions. He’d waited too damn long to crack this case. Besides, Violet was not a scrawny kid anymore; she was an adult who could take care of herself.
“How did you get in?” she asked.
He gestured toward the door. “It was unlocked.”
She frowned as if that surprised her.
He shrugged. “Most people around here don’t lock their doors.”
The throat muscles worked in her slender neck as she swallowed. “My father always used to. At least he’d latch the screen.”
Maybe because he knew he wasn’t coming back, Grady thought, but he refrained from pointing that out. “How’s your grandmother?”
More pain in her eyes. “Stable. She wanted to be near her sister to recover, so she’s being transferred to the Black Mountain Rehabilitation Center today.”
He nodded. “Good. I’m glad she’s okay.”
“She’s not okay, Grady.”
He let the statement stand in the dank air between them for a minute. “What’s wrong?”
“She needs therapy.” Her voice took on a hard edge.
“But it’s not just the stroke. Your phone call upset her.”
Another awkward silence fell between them. He had no idea how to reply. Telling her not to blame the messenger seemed pointless. “I didn’t expect you to come to Crow’s Landing so soon.”
She folded her arms beneath her breasts, then tipped her chin up, offering a glimpse of the feisty little girl she’d once been. “I have a lot of things to take care of here.”
“Right.” The funeral arrangements. “I’ll let you know as soon as the coroner releases your father’s body.” Then she could get out of town. He didn’t want her here.
Her hands tightened into fists. “Tell me about this supposed suicide note and the confession. I’d like to see it, too.”
Grady shook his head. “I’ve told you everything I know. And I sent the note to the crime lab to verify that your father wrote it.”
“Then I suggest you leave now.”
He frowned. “I’m not through here.”
“Yes, you are. I won’t let you hunt for more evidence to incriminate my father.”
Anger flared. “I didn’t realize you and your dad were close. You haven’t been back here in years.”
Violet bit her lip. “My grandmother doesn’t believe my father killed—” Her voice broke, her first visible sign of emotion. “She doesn’t believe the confession is real,” she finished, sounding stronger. “And neither do I.”
Could she not even say his sister’s name? “Is that the reason you came back?”
She stepped sideways, indicating the door. “Yes.”
His gaze locked with hers, and he saw her inner turmoil. She might claim she didn’t believe her father was guilty, but she had doubts.
She was afraid her father had killed Darlene.
“Like I said, I’m not finished here,” he said baldly.
Her eyelashes fluttered. “Yes, you are. Come back when you have a search warrant.”
Her hand trembled as she toyed with a long chain dangling between her breasts. The Best Friends necklace Darlene had bought them. She still wore it.
So she remembered his sister. She had cared for her.
Or maybe she wore it out of guilt.
He caught her wrist with one hand, then flicked a thumb along the jagged edges of the necklace, tracing the word Friends with his finger. Her breath hissed in. “I’m going to find out the truth, Violet. All my life, I’ve wanted Darlene’s murderer to pay. I’ll see that he does.”
Both fear and courage emanated from her eyes as she glared at him. “I want that, too.”
“Really? What if the killer was your father, Violet?”
Ignoring the hurt and uncertainty that darkened her eyes, he released her arm, then stalked outside. But he would be back with that search warrant.
And no matter how much he had to hurt Violet, her grandmother or his own father, he’d uncover the truth and see that Darlene’s killer got what he deserved.
And if one of them had covered for the killer…he’d make him or her pay, too.

AS THE DOOR SLAMMED SHUT, Grady’s declaration echoed off the dingy walls. Violet shuddered, the empty house closing around her. The mustiness, the echo of abandonment, the stale smells of dirty clothes, booze and old sweat assaulted her. And the familiar smell of Old Spice…
Memories bombarded her, along with the unsettling feeling that she had never quite left this place. Unable to assimilate it all at once, she stood still, willing her body to absorb the shock of homecoming, along with seeing Grady.
Over the years, she’d imagined what he might look like as a man. All the girls had doted on the teenage version, but he hadn’t seemed to notice. Any trace of cuteness had disappeared, though, and in its place, a rugged prowess radiated from his every pore. Over six-three, he was big, powerful and muscular, almost frighteningly so. Prominent cheekbones and a nose crooked from being broken dominated his features. And those deep-set eyes were almost hypnotizing. When his callused hands had caught her wrist, heat had rippled between them, charged with frustration and something sexual.
No, she had mistaken that feeling.
The emotion had been anger.
He carried that in spades. An obvious hatred toward his sister’s killer flashed in his tortured eyes.
A hatred she understood. But did the killer’s face belong to her father?
And would Grady turn that anger toward her now that he realized they were on opposite sides? At least concerning her dad…
She sighed and forced herself farther into the house. Stifling heat and cloying odors of mildew and decay nearly suffocated her.
In the shoe box den, the same plaid sofa lined the back wall, the rust-colored recliner her father had lived in angled toward the ancient TV set, a stack of Popular Mechanics magazines stacked beside it. A dog-eared metal antenna jutted upward from the TV in a warped V, proving he hadn’t updated the set or his service in twenty years. The beige carpet was stained, the lack of photos a brutal reminder that her father had shut his family out of his life.
She stopped beside the wicker rocking chair and stroked the arm. She imagined her grandmother sitting in the chair, crocheting in the afternoon sunlight, sunshine that turned the tiny room into an inferno in summer. Violet had curled up at her knees and played with her rag dolls while her grandmother watched her soap operas. Now dust coated most of the ancient furniture, and cobwebs hung in the corners. She slowly walked through the kitchen, not surprised to find everything the same, only older and smaller. Newspapers and magazines littered a beige countertop spattered with stains. Dishes encrusted with half-eaten food cluttered the sink. Trash overflowed onto the graying linoleum floor, the stench almost unbearable.
A delivery box containing an uneaten pizza sat on the counter next to a full six-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon, as if her father had just returned from getting dinner. Odd, but both had been untouched. And the want ad page lay on the table, a red circle around two ads. Why would her father buy an entire pizza and six-pack and be job hunting if he planned to kill himself?
Depressed people aren’t exactly rational, she reminded herself.
Her father’s room was to the right, but she couldn’t bring herself to go inside. On the left, her grandmother’s room adjoined Violet’s. The crocheted green afghan her grandmother had used to warm her feet at night still lay at the foot of the Jenny Lind bed, the scent of her grandmother’s favorite lavender potpourri mellow, yet lingering. Violet grabbed the afghan and hugged it to her, then glanced at her own room. Had her father changed it? Turned it into a study or storeroom for the old car parts he collected? The parts that had meant more to him than she had.
She pushed open the door and was shocked to see the sawed-off iron bed still rooted in the corner, the antique dresser laden with her childhood costume jewelry. Even more surprising, Bobo, her big brown birthday bear, hugged the pillows where she had once slept. Right next to Bobo were her Raggedy Ann doll and the stuffed pony her father had won for her at the county fair. The same pale pink chenille bedspread covered her bed, too, although it had yellowed with age.
Tears pooled in Violet’s eyes. Taking a deep breath, she noticed the faint scents of mothballs and wood polish, as if her father had tried to preserve her room. Peculiar, when the rest of the house seemed in such disrepair.
She flipped on the radio her father had given her for Christmas one year. Static bellowed back at her, and she fiddled with the knobs, hoping to find some soft music to calm her. An oldies station came through, so she let it play while she retrieved her suitcase. The floor creaked as she entered the house again. Could she really spend the night in this old place?
Would the ghosts haunt her when she tried to sleep?
Exhausted and drained from the trip, she dragged on a thin cotton nightshirt. But just as she lay down, a newscaster’s voice came over the radio. “This late-breaking story in just now, folks. The search for Amber Collins, the missing woman from Savannah, Georgia, has ended tonight.”
Violet gripped the sheets. She didn’t need to hear the report—she knew what he was going to say.
Amber Collins was dead.
Still, she listened, her pulse racing. “The young woman’s body was discovered late this evening on the front steps of a church outside the Georgia state line, in what looks like it might be a ritualist killing. Sources say the coed was strangled. Although no signs of sexual abuse have been reported, one source tells us that the victim was left holding a note in her hand that read, ‘For Our Father.’ No suspects have been named thus far. Police have refused comment. We’ll bring you more information as it becomes available.”
Violet pulled the teddy bear into her arms, stroking its ears the way she had as a child. The police hadn’t mentioned finding a bone whistle beside Amber’s body. Had the killer taken it with him instead of leaving it behind? Or had she simply imagined the whistle?
Maybe her visions weren’t real.
But if they were, she needed to alert the police. Would they believe her? Or think she was crazy, the way her father had claimed?
After all, she hadn’t seen enough details to recognize the killer or even pinpoint where he’d held the woman, so how could she help?
Her head began to pound, and she lay back and closed her eyes. Why had she experienced this vision about the coed when she hadn’t had one since Darlene was murdered? And why were all these other disturbing things happening now—her father’s death, the suicide note? It wasn’t as if they were related.
Yet, she sensed somehow they were. And that she had something to do with all of them.
What about Grady? How would he play into the situation—by proving her father was a killer? By finding the real one?
As she massaged her temples, the reedy sound of the bone whistle grated through the darkness. If her premonition was right, the questions had only begun.
And so had the killings….

ROSS WHEELER’S HEART raced with excitement as he opened the magazine and examined the pictures. The young lovers would take away the pain. Their supple bodies were ripe for picking. Their size didn’t matter. They were firm and tender, begging for attention. Begging for him to taste them.
But Father told him no. It was wrong to lust. To satisfy his cravings.
How could sex be wrong when it was in the Bible? Sex was natural, a man’s God-given primal need for mating.
But the reverend had different rules for himself. He preached abstinence, while he dipped from the honey pot himself.
Maybe, as God’s spokesman, he thought he’d risen above human sins. Shame crept through Ross at the memory of the reverend’s condemnation over those sexual misconduct charges. How could the town accuse Ross of such a thing, especially in front of a divine man like his father? Ross was the preacher’s son, had been a good teacher, a soccer coach, a deacon himself until they’d ruined his reputation with their accusations.
Worse, his father had believed them….
And to think he’d always done everything to please the man.
Would he ever receive forgiveness?
Bible verses he’d been forced to learn as a child floated through his head, jumbled and distorted versions that made no sense. He’d hated the rigorous memorizing. The daily prayers. The sermons on hellfire and damnation.
His gaze flicked to the pictures again.
His hand slid down his waist, unfastened his belt buckle, pushed it aside. He slipped his fingers beneath the fabric. He was so hard, throbbing like an animal, aching for release, for the sweet fulfillment the young ones promised. He could have it, too. Pleasure lay at his fingertips. All he had to do was look at them, imagine stripping off their clothes and spreading them on the ground for his taking.
His fingers began to stroke his member, closing around the rigid length until it surged to life and droplets of erotic nectar spilled over.
Suddenly heavy footsteps clattered above. Click, clack. Click, clack.
Shit, the reverend.
“Ross!”
He jerked his hand away, grabbed a handkerchief and cleaned himself, frustration and embarrassment burning through him.
Now he would have to repent again, confess his sin to his father and kneel at the altar for hours on end. Damn the reverend for destroying his momentary pleasure.
He gathered his control and went to face the master. Tonight the reverend would be busy sucking up to the televangelist who was coming in to preach at the revival.
Ross would do whatever necessary the next few hours to please them both, but tomorrow night he’d do exactly as he wanted….

CHAPTER SEVEN
GRADY TRIED TO BANISH images of Violet Baker’s face from his mind as he and his deputy drove toward her dad’s house the next morning. But those startling blue eyes filled with anguish and vulnerability refused to leave him alone. He could still see her standing beside Darlene, looking up at his father with that hungry expression, as if she wanted to fit in, but knew she didn’t. That she wasn’t wanted.
Damn. Grady wanted a cigarette. But he couldn’t give in to the need. Just as he couldn’t give in to needs aroused by Violet.
He had never allowed a woman to distract him from his job before, and he certainly didn’t intend to do so this time. Not when he was so close to finally closing the chapter on this never-ending nightmare of his life.
He would search the Baker house with a fine-tooth comb and make sure that Baker’s confession stuck, so Grady could lay his sister’s murder case to rest once and for all.
And this time, with a warrant in his hand, Violet couldn’t stop him.
He checked the clock. It was early, but he’d planned it that way. He wanted to search the house before Violet had a chance to clean or move things around. Last night she’d thrown him off guard with her arrival. Today, he wanted the element of surprise on his side.
“I don’t know why you’re even checking this out,” Logan said in his typical dark tone. “Suicide seems cut-and-dried to me.”
Grady tried to read his partner’s expression, but Logan always wore those dark sunglasses, as if he was hiding behind them. “Yeah, well, I have to cover the bases just in case someone asks questions later. Some folks might not believe Baker is guilty or that he took his own life.”
“Hell, who would that be?”
“His daughter.” Grady shot Logan a warning look not to probe any further. Had Violet slept well in her childhood bed, knowing her father had killed her friend? Had she suffered any remorse for Darlene?
He scrubbed a hand over his face. He sure as hell hadn’t slept. Dammit, had Violet known about her father and kept silent?
Was that the real reason she hadn’t returned before now?

VIOLET STUMBLED FROM BED, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, and groped for the afghan, pulling it around her shoulders. She could have sworn she’d heard someone knocking on the door.
A quick glance at the clock made her grimace. Six-thirty. She hadn’t fallen asleep until five. Even then, that woman’s cries had reverberated inside her head, tormenting her.
The pounding grew louder. Who would come out here this early? Who even knew she was here? Grady…
“Violet, I know you’re in there.” His gruff voice resonated with impatience. “You might as well open up.”
“Just a minute.” Pushing her hair from her eyes, she rushed to the door and opened it. “What are you doing here so early?”
He dangled a piece of paper in front of her. “Search warrant.”
She frowned but reluctantly stepped aside. Grady strode in, his big presence filling the small den. Still half-asleep, she found her body tingling traitorously, imagining he’d come for another reason.
Another officer followed on his heels, his gaze skimming over Violet. His attitude said he’d seen the ugly side of life and survived it. Maybe even liked it.
“Deputy Logan.” The man tipped a headful of wavy brown hair in greeting, although his taut mouth was unsmiling. And she couldn’t see his eyes; they were hidden behind Ray-Bans. They were probably as black as his mood, she guessed, clutching the afghan tighter around her shoulders.
“Go get dressed,” Grady growled. “We’ll start in the den and kitchen.”
Violet simply stared at him. She didn’t take orders from anyone. “Excuse me?”
“I said put some clothes on.” His icy gaze locked with hers. Any trace of the compassionate boy she’d once known had disappeared.
Heat suddenly blazed her cheeks. Anger at the fact that he had come on a crusade against her father followed. “I…I don’t know what you’re looking for, Grady, but you won’t find it.”
He arched an eyebrow. “You haven’t tampered with evidence, have you?”
Violet’s fingers dug into her arms. “Of course not.”
Suspicion flared in his eyes. “Did you know your father killed Darlene?”
Her lungs tightened at the accusation.
“Is that the reason he sent you away?” A strained heartbeat passed. “Did your grandmother know and keep quiet about it all these years?”
His cold tone cut through her like a knife. She staggered backward, then turned and ran to the bedroom to change.

GRADY BRACED HIMSELF for the onslaught of guilt that attacked him at Violet’s shocked reaction.
“Playing bad cop?”
He glared at his deputy. “I was just doing my job.” And trying to find out the truth.
Or were you trying to hurt her because you hate yourself for being attracted to her? For reminding you of Darlene every time you look at her?
“You going to charge her with accessory?”
Grady pivoted on his booted feet. “She was only eight when Darlene died.”
“But she could have come forward since.”
He nodded. He had entertained the idea. And he would charge Violet if he discovered she’d lied.
“Let’s verify Baker’s confession. Look for a handwritten note or bill so we can compare writing samples. Then we’ll discuss strategies.”
“Right.” Logan grunted. “Although she’s almost pretty enough to make a man forget the law.”
Grady’s jaw tightened. He might not want Violet, but he sure as heck didn’t like the lascivious way Logan had looked at her. “Stay away from her,” he warned. “A good cop never gets involved with a potential suspect. And he never forgets the law.”
Logan’s mouth twitched as if he was about to argue. Then he seemed to think better of it, turned and went to work.
Grady dismissed the odd reaction. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could get away from Violet. Then he could forget that he’d almost agreed with Logan.
But not at the cost of letting Darlene’s killer get away.

VIOLET TREMBLED INSIDE. She would never forget the look of accusation in Grady’s eyes.
It had been the same piercing look he’d given her twenty years ago when he’d stood outside her bedroom, waiting for her to tell them where to find Darlene.
Pressing her hands to her temples, she battled another onslaught of tears. She would not cry now. No, she wouldn’t give Grady the satisfaction of watching her crumble. Besides, she’d cried a river of tears the past two days, and it hadn’t helped. She had to be strong.
After all, she’d expected Grady to blame her for Darlene’s death because she’d begged her friend to come over that day. But she’d never imagined he’d believe she would protect the killer.
So why was she defending her father?
Because if he had evil inside him, then maybe she did, too…. Maybe he had been right about her. Maybe that evil was the reason she’d heard the woman’s cry.
Confused, Violet yanked on shorts, a T-shirt and sandals, then dragged a brush through her hair and scrubbed her teeth. The itch to run from this house and her father’s mess gnawed at her, but she couldn’t run away. Not without knowing the truth.
But what if Grady found something in the house? And why hadn’t she thought to look around last night after he’d left?
You were too shaken by coming home again. And by everything that’s happened.
Steeling herself against Grady’s anger, she went to the kitchen to brew coffee. The deputy was searching the den, while Grady was examining the pizza box, his eyebrows furrowed.
“The answer to your question is no, Grady. That confession note was a complete surprise.”
He glanced up, a flicker of regret simmering in his dark eyes before his mask slid back into place. “Did you and your father keep in touch?”
“We haven’t spoken in years.”
He nodded curtly, then scribbled some notes in a small notepad.
“Can I clean up this mess now and make some coffee?”
“Let me dust for fingerprints first.”
She stared at him, wondering where the kind boy she’d once known had gone. Had he died the same day Darlene had?
Well, she refused to stand here and watch him tear apart her house. She stalked out onto the front porch, more questions assailing her. If her father had killed Darlene twenty years ago and had brought her to the house, which Violet knew hadn’t happened, any evidence would be long gone. So why fingerprint the kitchen if he thought her father had committed suicide?
What exactly was Grady looking for?

GRADY WINCED AT THE SOUND of the screen door slamming, then frowned when Violet’s car tore down the graveled drive. As much as she might not want to face the fact that her father was a murderer, he had to know the truth.
She’d claimed she wanted that, too. But would she be able to handle it?
Would he, if he discovered his own father had something to do with Baker’s death?
Logan whistled as he scavenged through the desk in the den, bringing Grady out of his reverie with the location of a bill for signature comparison. Other than that, Baker’s house offered little in the way of clues, except the fact that Jed had been as depressed and lackadaisical about life as his own father. The two of them seemed so much alike that they should have been friends instead of enemies. But something had torn them apart.
Secrets. What were they?
Grady checked the refrigerator, logging the contents, then scanned the sink and counter. The uneaten pizza in its box, full six-pack of beer and the want ads on the counter disturbed him. Why would a man buy food and beer and job-hunt right before he killed himself?
It didn’t make sense.
He copied down the number of the pizza place. He’d check and see what time and day Baker had bought it. That, along with the M.E.’s report on the time of death, might help him piece together the chain of events that had led to Baker’s trip to Briar Ridge.
Other details bothered Grady. Why would Baker go to the mountains to kill himself instead of doing it at home? If guilt had triggered the suicide, why wouldn’t he have returned to the scene of the crime to take his life?
“Not much in here but some old magazines.” Logan gestured toward the desk. “Oh, and there’s a couple of photo albums of his daughter. Thought she told you they weren’t close.”
“She did. Said they hadn’t spoken in years.”
“That’s strange.” Logan pointed to three scrapbooks. “There’s all kinds of pictures of Violet growing up.”
Grady frowned. Had Violet lied to him about not staying in touch with her father?

NEEDING A REFUGE from Grady Monroe and her past, Violet drove into town and parked in front of the Rosebud Café. Without sleep, she desperately had to have caffeine and food.
Hoping no one in town would recognize her yet, she ducked her head and entered the café. It was like entering a time warp. Nothing had changed. The same earthy adobe and turquoise colors, the warm smell of coffee and biscuits, the same Native American artifacts filled the place.
Three elderly women sat at a table sipping tea, a hefty man was hunched over a bar stool, scooping up sausage patties from his plate, and two other men she didn’t recognize faced the bar, away from her. She spotted Laney Longhorse behind the counter, her long braid now graying, her skin leathery from the sun. Violet had always been fascinated with the woman. Maybe because she ignored the difference in social status between people instead of dividing them into classes the way the more prominent citizens did. In fact, Violet had felt more at home with the kids from the reservation than she did the white children in town. Except for Darlene.
She slid into a corner booth and studied the menu, surprised to see the same items Laney had always carried. Thankfully, some things never changed. A fair-haired man in his thirties smiled at her from the booth across from her. She forced a tight smile, then averted her gaze.
The older woman ambled over to her, her long skirt swishing against her thin legs. “Hi!” Laney said in her Cherokee accent. “Your order, miss?”
Good. Laney didn’t recognize her. “Coffee. And I’ll have your country breakfast.”
“Comin’ right up.” Laney studied Violet for a moment, shook her head as if she was trying to place her but couldn’t. Then she sauntered off to get the coffee.
Violet dialed the nursing home on her cell phone. The nurse assured her that her grandmother had arrived safely, but was in physical therapy. Her sister, Neesie, was there, waiting to visit.
Determined to avoid eye contact with any of the locals, especially the man who kept watching her, she informed the nurse she’d call again later, then studied the back of the menu. A small inscription described the history of the town’s name. Crow’s Landing had been named after an old Cherokee myth.
Although eagles were the revered, treasured bird of the Cherokee legends, their feathers used in religious ceremonies, one myth described an Indian boy’s battle with a wicked gambler who could change forms. When put to the test, the boy, Thunder, beat the gambler, who had turned himself to brass. The boy planted the brass in the river and hung crows on each side of a pole to ward off the beavers, so they wouldn’t chip away the brass and free the gambler.
Violet was pondering the legend when the woman returned. Interesting folklore. The crows were actually protecting the town, not haunting it or looking on, ready to prey.
Laney placed the coffee and food in front of Violet, her squinty eyes assessing. Violet offered nothing. Not yet—she wasn’t ready. But she wondered if the woman would know the Native American expression from Violet’s vision.
She thanked Laney and sipped her coffee, then took a few bites of her eggs. A tall man with a shoulder-length, black ponytail bustled in from the back. Joseph Longhorse? All grown up?
He had always been quiet, moody, angry. But she’d felt a kinship with him. Not a psychic one like she’d shared with Darlene, but they had connected. She’d been called white trash, while Joseph had suffered the cruel prejudices harbored by a few small-minded people in the town. The Barley boys had been especially ruthless, turning Joseph’s Native American name, Strong Legs, into a joke because Joseph had been the shortest kid in the class. Not anymore. Now he was six feet tall, strong and tough. She bet they didn’t mess with him now.
Laney returned to her table with fresh butter. “You are not an asgi’na, a ghost, are you? No, you are the little Baker girl come back, heh?”
Violet nodded, aware that a few of the other patrons pivoted to check her out. And some still tensed when Laney used Cherokee words.
“Yes, ma’am. I came back to bury my father.”
“Oh, my.” Laney flattened a weathered hand on her cheek. “I’m so sorry. I hadn’t heard of your edata’s passing.”
The man with the fair hair smiled. Violet leaned toward Laney. “Who is that man, Laney?”
She cast a look over her shoulder, then grinned. “The new doctor. Dr. Gardener. Handsome, huh?”
Violet shrugged, wondering why he was staring at her.
“The young women in town, they are all over him. But he seems to have eyes for you.”
“I’m not going to be here long enough to get to know anyone,” Violet said, hoping it was true.
A robust man at the bar swiveled on his stool, then dragged his bulk off and stalked toward her. Violet crouched back in her seat at the sight of his face. She would recognize his beady, unforgiving eyes anywhere.
Darlene’s father.
“How dare you show yourself in this town again!” His sharp voice rose, echoing off the tile floors, then he slammed his fist on the table in front of her, rattling the dishes. “Did you know your daddy killed my baby girl?”

GRADY HAD BEEN SURPRISED at the number of photos Baker had of his daughter. He’d also been startled at his own reaction of seeing the homely little girl emerge into a shy teenager. Judging from the smile on her face, she hadn’t recognized her own beauty.
There had been no pictures of boyfriends, though, prompting his curiosity about Violet’s personal past. An area he shouldn’t be concerned with at all.
Unfortunately, he and Logan hadn’t turned up anything that would implicate Baker in Darlene’s murder.
What had he expected? That Baker would have kept a souvenir all these years? Or a hidden file somewhere describing the secrets he shared with Grady’s father?
Grady glanced in the small bathroom one last time and frowned. The edge of the faded bath mat had shifted, probably caught on one of their boots. Underneath, the flooring was discolored, an unnatural shade lighter than the rest of the linoleum. He squatted down, peeled back the rug and examined it. It looked as if it had been scrubbed with bleach. Nothing else in the house appeared to have been cleaned in ages. Why here?
He remembered the knot on Baker’s head. He could have gotten it from a fall anywhere. Maybe even here. Grady leaned closer, studying the area for bloodstains.
The nagging doubts wouldn’t let go, so he retrieved some Luminol from the car and sprayed the flooring. His hunch was right. Traces of blood shone through. He took a couple of samples, hoping he was wrong about the source. Hoping there would be no traces of his father’s DNA in the mix.
But the argument between his dad and Baker echoed in his head. “Some reporter’s been asking about Violet,” Baker had said. Who was that reporter and why would he want to speak with Violet? And why had Baker been afraid of him?
Logan finished, then left for the station. Knowing he wouldn’t rest without answers, Grady decided to confront his father one more time. With Baker’s body in the morgue and Violet in town claiming her father’s innocence, it was time Walt Monroe started talking.

A JOLT OF FEAR BOLTED through Violet at the malevolence in Mr. Monroe’s eyes.
“Did you know your daddy killed my baby girl?” the man bellowed.
Violet shook her head.
“Then get the hell out of town.”
Violet chanced a look at the other patrons, who all sat gawking at the scene, either too stunned by the confrontation to move or too intimidated by Monroe.
All except Joseph Longhorse.
The Cherokee’s black eyes flared with contempt, reminding her of his temper. He started toward her—rather, toward Grady’s father.
But the last thing Violet wanted was to make a scene. She especially didn’t want Laney’s son to suffer at her expense. This was her problem. She’d deal with it.
“I understand how you feel, Mr. Monroe.”
“You don’t have any idea how I feel, Miss Baker.” A blood vessel throbbed in his forehead. “So don’t play your little game of innocence with me. It won’t work.”
“I’m not playing games,” Violet said, hating the quiver in her voice as she stood. “I just came here to bury my father. Then I’m leaving town.”
“If you know what’s good for you, get him in the ground and get out of here today.”
Joseph inched toward her, but she threw up a warning hand. Holding her head high, she dug inside her purse, dropped some cash on the table, mouthed a thank-you to Laney, then turned and strode to the door.
She didn’t breathe easy until she reached the car.
What had she expected? For Grady’s father to welcome her or act concerned about her feelings? And what about the other people in town? Did they believe her dad was a murderer?
Part of her wanted to drive straight out of town, but she had to talk to people, find out if anyone had known her father the last few years. Learn everything she could about him and the life he’d led.
Her resolve intact, she started the car and headed to the cemetery. She had been sent away before Darlene’s funeral. And she’d never returned to visit her friend’s grave.
It was time she did, and said goodbye.

HE WAS WATCHING HER.
Enjoying the view of her tantalizing skin, so pale beneath the blinding noonday sun.

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