Misdirection (Pros and Cons Mysteries #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

EIGHT YEARS AGO

O live Sterling meandered down the dark sidewalk, in no hurry to get back to her house.

Her fight with her parents earlier in the evening replayed in her mind. She’d never been so angry with them before.

“You’re such hypocrites!” Olive shouted.

“Don’t talk to your mother and me that way,” her father shot back.

“But you are.” Olive couldn’t stop herself from snapping. “You act so morally righteous, and everyone here loves you. But they don’t know you like I do. They don’t know who you’ve been.”

“Olive Louise Sterling . . . that’s enough!” Her mother sliced her hand through the air. “Go to your room, and don’t come out until you’ve thought about how you’re acting right now.”

“I can’t wait until I turn eighteen and can move out,” Olive called over her shoulder as she hurried up the stairs to her bedroom.

When Olive had been sure they were asleep, she’d climbed out her window to go to a party one of her classmates was hosting. She didn’t even want to go. She didn’t like parties that much.

She’d gone mostly out of rebellion.

Right now, the soft pad of her footfalls was the only sound in the air. The rest of the neighborhood slept snugly in their warm beds, waiting for another ho-hum day to start in the morning. That meant school for her, and work for everyone else.

This small Indiana town of Galax had to be the most boring place she’d ever lived. It was 98 percent white, 68 percent of the people worked in the local paper factory, and the average income was well below the national average, meaning everyone—except upper management at the paper factory, one of the town’s sole employers—lived in small, identical square houses built and owned by the paper factory itself. Much like the old coal mining towns she’d heard stories about.

This town represented everything Olive didn’t want in her future. She wasn’t a cookie-cutter type of person. She didn’t like the same routine day in and day out.

Small-town expectations stifled her.

What was it about taking risks that excited her so much? That couldn’t be healthy, right?

Or if she did like taking risks, why couldn’t it be by doing things like rock climbing or learning to fly a plane?

But, no, her idea of taking a risk was sneaking out of the house and returning before her parents realized she was gone—tiny acts of rebellion by the preacher’s daughter.

It wasn’t as if Olive had ever asked to be given that title, as if she’d ever asked to live in a fishbowl.

Act like a good girl. That was what her father said. Not be a good girl. Act like one.

The nuance hadn’t been lost on her.

She shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her leather coat, the chilly nighttime air closing in on her. The temperatures were dropping as a cold front breezed into town.

This was her first winter in Indiana, and it had been so cold—much colder than she liked.

She missed her days in Florida. Then Georgia. Then Alabama. Then Texas.

Her family had moved around a lot, but this was the farthest north she’d lived.

Her steps slowed as she spotted the white steepled building in the distance.

The community church her father pastored. In a town of only nine thousand people, there were six churches. Eighty-nine percent of the people in town attended at least one church, though 50 percent of those only attended on Easter and Christmas.

Olive had a thing for numbers. Whether she wanted to or not, she remembered them.

She liked memorizing phone numbers. Codes. Data.

She was also quite proficient in memorizing Bible verses, a fact that made her dad proud.

Which was weird to her.

Her entire life, she and her family had been strictly Easter and Christmas churchgoers. Then suddenly her dad had felt called to ministry, and they’d moved here so her dad could preach—as a profession .

Now their entire lives revolved around church. Sunday mornings. Sunday nights. Wednesday evenings. Special events. Homecomings. Service projects.

It was almost more than Olive could take. It all felt so . . . phony.

She paused on the dark sidewalk and stared at the church with its tall, white steeple topped with a cross. The building even had stained glass windows and an ornate wooden ceiling. Beautiful, really.

Yet she always felt so out of place there.

Some church members were petty. Some were hypocritical. But most of the congregation was friendly—imperfect but friendly. Spending time within its walls hadn’t been as bad as she’d feared.

However, being the pastor’s daughter had come with a lot of expectations—and that bothered her. Olive always needed to be polite and to act in certain ways. She was expected to be at the church for every service. To set a good example.

Being a pastor’s daughter was one of the reasons she couldn’t wait to go to college next year. Then she could start her own life—make her own choices.

She’d thought about studying business or accounting. Something practical but that she would be good at. But both of those seemed so monotonous and dull.

Yet she wasn’t the type to study fashion design or art.

Truthfully, she didn’t know what she wanted to do yet, only that she wanted to get away.

She hurried past the church toward the pale-yellow parsonage beside it.

Twelve hundred thirty square feet. Two stories. Three bedrooms.

As the oldest daughter, Olive had gotten her own room. At least there was that.

She headed across the dry grass to the back door, listening to it crunch beneath her feet. The night was cloudy, absent of the moon and stars.

A single light on a wooden post in her backyard usually offered illumination. But tonight the light was dark. Had the bulb burned out?

It was on earlier, wasn’t it?

Certainly, if the light had been out Olive would have noticed it then. But she wasn’t sure.

She paused in the backyard and stared at the house. Tension prickled her skin.

Something seemed off. But what?

Had her dad discovered she’d left?

If that was the case, he would have turned on some lights—just to make a point.

He would have called her. Tracked her down. Probably gone to pick her up at the party at Elise’s place and made a scene just to prove he was righteous and Olive was not.

Olive quickly pulled her cell phone from her pocket and checked for any missed calls. There were none.

So how did she explain this eerie feeling?

She frowned and studied the house again.

The trashcans, she realized. They’d been moved about a foot to the right.

She hadn’t moved them when she left.

Just to be sure, she mentally replayed when she’d snuck out earlier this evening. She’d climbed out her bedroom window and onto the roof of the mudroom. Then she’d lowered herself onto the trashcans, then to the cement pad beneath them.

Olive definitely hadn’t moved them.

So who had?

Had her dad come out to throw something away after she left and rearranged them?

That theory made the most sense.

Olive imagined him and Mom eating a late-night snack and then getting rid of the evidence. Maybe they’d even ordered pizza from the one Italian restaurant in town.

She knew they did that sometimes. They had their own little date nights after their girls went to bed.

It was sweet, really. Her mom and dad still looked at each other like they were in love even after twenty years of marriage.

If Olive ever got married, that was what she wanted. She wanted the real thing, and she would never settle for less.

No, she wanted to live life to the fullest. If she wasn’t crazy about the man she was dating, then she wouldn’t pretend they had a future together.

Jason’s picture flooded her mind, and her heart ached.

She knew young love rarely lasted. But she’d really thought the two of them had something special. There was no one else in the whole world—not even her family—who she felt she could be herself around.

Even stranger, she still didn’t know who she wanted to become. There had been too much change in her life. But when she was with Jason, she suddenly felt authentic—whatever that meant.

Then her family had moved again. It had been abrupt—literally happening in twenty-four hours.

Olive hadn’t even been able to say goodbye.

Emotion burned her throat, and she pushed it down.

Enough reminiscing.

There was no need to put this off any longer.

She hurried toward her house.

It was almost 3:30 in the morning. Her family should be asleep—unless her dad was waiting up for her.

The party she’d sneaked out to attend wasn’t even worth the trouble. It had been lame. There had been alcohol, but Olive didn’t drink.

But she loved dancing. Not the sleezy sort. But put on a good beat, and she could get lost in the music.

Was she good at dancing? She had no idea. And she didn’t care.

At least when she was away from the house, she didn’t feel so suffocated by her dad’s rules.

He had so many rules. Rules about how she should act. What she could tell people about her past. What she could or couldn’t do.

No more boyfriends. That was her dad’s latest decree.

Something about Jason had apparently freaked Dad out because when they’d moved to Indiana, Olive had been banned from dating anyone.

It was just as well. Her heart still belonged to Jason. She’d even thought about finding him online. Trying to get his new number so they could text each other. His old number had been mysteriously disconnected.

Her father must have predicted what she might do. He’d given her a long talk about how being in contact with Jason could put her family in danger. Her dad had admitted that he’d made some enemies in their small Texas town, and that they needed to leave and ensure no one could track them down.

It was a matter of life or death.

His words had caused a hollow ball of ice to form in her gut.

Olive might be selfish at times, but she’d never do something to put her sisters in danger.

So she hadn’t tried to contact Jason. Not yet. Maybe in a couple of years, she figured. Once the danger had passed, and she was in college living away from her family.

She crept toward her back door, a chill washing over her. It must be the wind. It had picked up and made the temperature feel ten degrees cooler.

There was no need to sneak in through her window again. Instead, she’d use her key to slip in the back door. Then she’d hurry upstairs to her room, and no one would be the wiser.

It had worked all those times in the past.

Olive slid her key into the lock and paused.

The mechanism didn’t click.

Her back muscles tightened.

That meant the back door was unlocked.

She hadn’t left it that way, and her dad wouldn’t have left it unlocked either. He was usually so careful—sometimes to the point of seeming paranoid. He had rules in place for a reason. That was what he always said.

But even careful people made mistakes.

That was probably what happened. Usually the simplest explanations were the correct ones. Her dad also said that.

Olive stepped inside and quietly closed the door behind her. Then she tiptoed through the mudroom, into the kitchen, and paused.

An unusual scent lingered in the air.

Her house usually smelled like Home Sweet Home, her mom’s favorite Yankee Candle. Other times, it smelled like chocolate brownies, her mom’s Jasmine-scented perfume, or lemon Pledge.

Right now, the faint aroma of something almost smoky teased her senses.

Not smoke like that from a bonfire or a lit cigarette.

She couldn’t describe this kind of smoke, but it was different.

What was that?

She wasn’t sure, but she didn’t like it.

Tension spread across her back muscles as she took another step.

She fumbled through a prayer, still unsure if she really believed anyone was listening to her request. She prayed anyway. Please, let me be wrong. Let everything be okay.

She paused at the entry to the living room.

The room in front of her was dark and quiet. The wooden stairway stretched on one side and a short hallway leading to her parents’ bedroom on the other.

She should hurry upstairs before her mom or dad came out and asked what she was doing. Asked why she had her coat on. Asked where her pajamas were.

But she couldn’t bring herself to rush up the steps.

Something internal—and unseen—drew her toward the hallway.

She pulled out her phone and shone the light from it on the floor—mostly so she could avoid the squeaky board that might wake her parents.

But as she reached their door, her light hit the white molding around the door frame.

Three streaks stretched across the wood near the floor.

She stepped closer for a better look.

The streaks were red.

Three lines of smeared red.

All in a row.

Like fingers.

Red fingers.

Olive’s mind raced.

That was blood, she realized.

There was blood on the doorway leading to her parents’ bedroom—almost as if someone had crawled toward the hallway and reached through the crack in the door, desperate for help.

A scream lodged in her throat. What had happened while she was gone?