Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Main Street Laurel Valley glowed beneath twinkling festival lights that stretched from lamppost to lamppost, creating a magical canopy above the bustling crowd. The 75th Annual Summer Festival had transformed the charming mountain resort town into a kaleidoscope of color and sound—local musicians playing on the community stage, artisan vendors showcasing their works, and the mouthwatering scent of funnel cakes and smoked brisket permeating the air.
All along Main Street, shop owners had thrown their doors wide open, extending their displays onto the sidewalk to create an open-air marketplace. Raven adjusted the collection of flowing silk scarves on the front display rack, her fingers lingering on the soft fabrics. The bright patterns and vibrant colors matched the festive atmosphere, but stood in stark contrast to the hollow feeling in her chest. A week had passed since her conversation with Sophie at The Reading Nook, a week of strained silences and empty spaces where conversation should have been.
A week of Wyatt still coming home late, if at all.
“These are gorgeous,” a tourist gushed, running her hand along one of the scarves on the sidewalk display. “They’d be perfect with that sundress I bought earlier.”
Raven shifted seamlessly into shopkeeper mode, the smile she’d practiced in the mirror that morning sliding into place. “That particular one is hand-dyed by an artist in Portland. No two patterns are exactly alike.”
The customer held the fabric against her skin, tilting her head to catch her reflection in the small mirror Raven had positioned cleverly at the edge of the outdoor display. “It’s like it was made for me.”
“I thought the same thing when I saw it,” Raven agreed, expertly wrapping the purchase in tissue paper after the woman handed over her credit card. “It brings out the blue in your eyes.”
As she handed the bag to the customer, the hairs on the back of Raven’s neck stood up—that peculiar sixth sense that had always alerted her to Wyatt’s presence. She turned toward the crowd, and there he was, moving through the festivalgoers with that familiar purposeful stride.
He wore his tactical gear—the dark navy shirt with the sheriff’s office logo emblazoned across the back stretched across his broad shoulders, cargo pants with that crisp crease down the front, his badge catching the festival lights, and his department-issued hat tucked under his arm. There was something jarring about seeing him this way, as if she’d conjured a version of her husband from the past, before secrets had created chasms between them.
Their eyes met across the busy festival street, and for a moment, the crowd seemed to fade away. Even with everything hanging between them, the sight of him still made her heart stutter in her chest. It wasn’t fair, she thought, that her body could still betray her this way—that the longing could remain so visceral even when trust had been fractured.
She watched as he changed course, heading directly for her booth with that confident stride she’d always found so attractive. Despite herself, her pulse quickened.
“Evening, Mrs. O’Hara,” he said when he reached her, his voice pitched low and intimate. Before she could respond, he leaned across the sidewalk display and brushed his lips against hers in a brief but deliberate kiss.
The casual contact sent electricity racing down her spine, and Raven fought to maintain her composure. This was new—this public display of affection when they’d barely spoken in private for weeks.
“Wyatt,” she managed, painfully aware of the curious glances from locals who’d known them both since childhood. In Laurel Valley, people noticed things—especially when those things involved an O’Hara.
Wyatt’s green eyes held hers, and she saw something there she couldn’t quite interpret—a message he was trying to convey without words.
“Thought I’d stop by on my patrol route,” he said, running a hand along the silk of one of her displayed dresses on the sidewalk rack, his touch reverent in a way that made her remember other nights, other touches. “I bribed the band to play our song at nine. Thought I might steal a dance with the most beautiful woman in Laurel Valley.”
The normalcy of the request, as if nothing had changed between them, made her throat tighten with emotion.
“I close at eight thirty,” she said, hating the breathless quality that had crept into her voice. “I’ll be waiting for you to pick me up.”
The corner of his mouth lifted in that half smile that had always been her undoing. “I’ll be here.”
A dispatcher’s voice crackled over his radio, and he responded with practiced efficiency before turning his attention back to her. His fingers brushed against hers as he pretended to examine one of the bracelets on display, the contact brief but deliberate.
“Been a long week without you,” he murmured, his voice pitched low enough that only she could hear.
The simple statement struck her like a physical blow. She wanted to ask what he meant—if he was talking about the emotional distance or merely stating a fact about his absences. But before she could form the words, he was pulling away, touching two fingers to the brim of his hat in a gesture that was pure Wyatt.
“Later, then,” he said, louder this time, for the benefit of the teenage girls who had wandered into the booth and were eyeing the handsome agent with unabashed interest.
Raven watched him go, the familiar set of his shoulders, the way he acknowledged people by name as he passed through the crowd. How many times had she observed him this way, pride swelling in her chest at the respect he commanded, at the man she’d chosen? Now, that pride was tangled with confusion, hurt, and a longing that seemed to grow sharper rather than duller with time.
“Your husband is hot,” one of the teenage girls sighed, breaking into Raven’s thoughts.
“Yeah,” Raven agreed, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “He certainly is.”
By nine o’clock, the festival was in full swing. Lanterns cast a golden glow over the revelry as children darted between open shop doors with cotton candy-stained fingers, and couples strolled hand in hand along the closed-off Main Street.
Raven had flipped the “Closed” sign at precisely eight thirty, but she still moved about the boutique, straightening displays that didn’t need straightening, adjusting inventory that was already perfect. She’d reapplied her lipstick twice, smoothed her hair countless times, and had positioned herself by the window so she wouldn’t miss Wyatt’s approach.
At nine, the opening notes of Elvis’s “Can’t Help Falling in Love” drifted through the open door from the central stage. Their song. Wyatt had requested it for their first dance at their wedding, whispering the words in her ear as they swayed together, promising to love her just as those lyrics described—deeply, inevitably, eternally.
Raven couldn’t help swaying slightly to the music, her eyes drifting closed as memories washed over her. This was the song that had been playing the night he’d proposed, the song he’d learned to play for her on guitar one Christmas, the song that had become their own private language of love.
But Wyatt wasn’t here to share it.
“Busy night?” a familiar voice asked, startling her from her reverie.
Raven spun around to see Sophie approaching, a bag of kettle corn in one hand and two plastic cups of what looked like lemonade in the other.
“Slammed,” Raven confirmed, hoping her voice didn’t betray the disappointment crushing her chest. She accepted the offered drink gratefully. “I thought the tourist season was busy, but festival weekend is another level entirely. I’ve barely had time to step away from the register.”
“The Reading Nook was the same,” Sophie agreed, leaning against the shop’s doorframe. “Hank finally persuaded me to leave, said I’d been on my feet all day and deserved a break.”
“Wyatt stopped by earlier,” Raven said, the words slipping out before she could consider them. She needed to talk to someone, and Sophie was the only one who knew about their situation.
Sophie’s expression shifted to one of careful interest. “Oh?”
“It was strange,” Raven continued, packing the remaining scarves into a storage bin. “He was so…normal. Like nothing was wrong between us. He kissed me, right here in front of everyone, and promised to come dance with me to our song.”
“But he didn’t,” Sophie guessed, her gaze sympathetic.
“No,” Raven confirmed, a heaviness settling in her chest. “He didn’t.”
She knew she should be patient. There was still a week left of their two-week deadline. But moments like this—his appearance and disappearance—only sharpened the uncertainty.
“Let’s walk,” Sophie suggested, nodding toward the festival. “You’re done here, and I could use some fresh air. The band’s playing a great set tonight.”
Raven hesitated, glancing around as if Wyatt might materialize from the crowd. Finally, she nodded. “Let me just lock up the shop and take the cash to the safe.”
Ten minutes later, they were strolling through the festival, the cheerful chaos swirling around them as they navigated past street performers and food vendors. Children laughed and darted between booths while a local string band played traditional mountain tunes that echoed off the buildings. The town square, which in winter transformed into an ice-skating rink, had become the festival’s heart with a wooden dance floor set up in the center, surrounded by twinkling lights strung overhead in a canopy of stars.
“I keep thinking about what you said,” Raven admitted as they paused to watch a group of local teenagers performing an impressive dance routine on the smaller of the two stages. “About having faith.”
Sophie was quiet for a moment, watching the dancers. “It’s not easy,” she finally said. “Trust rarely is.”
“It used to be,” Raven countered, emotion thickening her voice. “With Wyatt, trust was as natural as breathing. Until it wasn’t.”
They continued walking, past the pie-judging contest where Rose was holding court, her flour-dusted apron a badge of honor, and toward the edge of the festival where the crowd thinned.
“I saw him earlier,” Sophie said suddenly, nodding toward the far end of Main Street. “Talking to Blaze outside the station. They looked serious.”
Raven followed her gaze but saw only festivalgoers and the dark shape of the station in the distance. Whatever conversation had occurred had ended.
“Probably festival security,” she said, but even to her own ears, the explanation sounded hollow.
They wandered toward the food stalls, the scent of fried dough and cinnamon drawing them in. Hank appeared from the crowd, a paper plate piled high with funnel cake in one hand and a bottle of water in the other.
“There you are,” he said, leaning in to kiss Sophie. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” He held out the plate. “Thought you might need a sugar boost after being on your feet all day.”
Sophie laughed, the sound light and genuine. “This smells amazing.”
Raven watched their easy interaction with a pang of envy. This was what she and Wyatt had once had—that effortless connection, the ability to pick up conversations in the middle as if they’d never been interrupted.
“Raven?” Hank’s voice broke through her thoughts. “You want some? There’s plenty.”
“No, I should be getting home,” she said, forcing a smile. “It’s been a long day.”
“You sure?” Sophie asked, concern evident in her expression.
“Positive,” Raven assured her. “I just want a hot shower and my bed.”
What she didn’t say was that she hated the empty house that no longer felt like a home. That sometimes she stayed at the boutique late into the night just to avoid returning to the silence.
After saying her goodbyes, Raven made her way through the festival toward where she’d parked her car behind her boutique. The sounds of celebration grew more distant with each step, until all she could hear was the crunch of gravel beneath her feet and the distant thrum of the band.
The quiet of her parked car was a relief, but as she pulled away from the festival, she couldn’t help glancing in her rearview mirror, wondering if Wyatt was somewhere in the crowd, looking for her as promised.
Or if he’d already disappeared into the night on whatever secret errand kept pulling him away from her.
The house was dark when Raven arrived home, no porch light left burning to welcome her. She’d forgotten to turn it on herself that morning, she realized—a small but telling sign of how disrupted their routines had become. Wyatt had always been the one to make sure the light was on if she was coming home after him.
She flipped switches as she moved through the house, chasing away shadows. Without Wyatt’s presence, the rooms felt cavernous, each familiar space transformed into something alien and unwelcoming. How quickly a house could cease to be a home, she thought, dropping her keys on the entry table with a clatter that seemed too loud in the silence.
The message light on their landline was blinking—probably her mother calling to see how the festival booth had done. Raven ignored it, heading straight for the shower instead.
The hot water eased some of the physical tension in her shoulders, but did nothing for the knot of anxiety that had taken up permanent residence beneath her breastbone. She let her mind drift to Wyatt’s unexpected appearance at her booth, the casual kiss that had felt anything but casual, the promise to return that he hadn’t kept.
What game was he playing?
Wrapped in her robe, hair still damp, Raven padded into their bedroom. She’d left clothes strewn across the bed that morning, rushing to get to the boutique early. Now, she gathered them up, tossing them into the hamper before pulling on a soft cotton nightgown.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from Wyatt.
Sorry about missing our dance. Got called to help with crowd control at north end. Festival’s running late. Don’t wait up. Rain check? – W
Raven stared at the message, noting the careful explanation and the complete lack of emotion. Another lie to add to the growing collection. She’d been at the festival’s north end with Sophie not thirty minutes ago, and there had been no issues requiring DEA or police presence.
As she placed her watch on the nightstand, she noticed that Wyatt’s side of the bed was disturbed—the comforter pulled back, the sheet wrinkled. He’d been home at some point during the day. The realization made her pause. Maybe he’d stopped by to change before his shift? But his tactical gear had looked freshly pressed at the festival.
Something made her open his nightstand drawer—intuition or perhaps just the desperate need for answers. Inside was the usual assortment of items: a paperback thriller with a bookmark halfway through, reading glasses he refused to admit he needed, a tube of ChapStick.
And a phone she’d never seen before.
It was a simple flip phone, the kind people bought with prepaid minutes at convenience stores. The kind people bought when they didn’t want their calls traced.
A burner phone.
Her hands trembled as she picked it up, her stomach clenching with dread. This was it—the evidence she’d simultaneously dreaded and sought. The explanation for the late nights, the absences, the secretive behavior.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she flipped the phone open. The screen illuminated, revealing a single text message received just twenty minutes earlier:
Patterson Café. Riverton. 0100. Come alone.
No name. No context. Just a location, a time—1:00 a.m—and a directive.
Raven sat heavily on the edge of the bed, the phone clutched in her hand. In all her imaginings, in all her fears, she’d never quite allowed herself to believe that Wyatt might actually be having an affair. But what other explanation could there be for a secret phone, for clandestine late-night meetings?
He’d asked for her trust, and she’d tried to give it. But this tangible evidence of deception was too much to ignore.
She carefully returned the phone to exactly where she had found it and closed the drawer. The text from Wyatt still glowed on her own phone screen, his empty excuses about crowd control mocking her now that she knew the truth.
No problem. Be safe , she texted back, the lie burning her throat as she typed. Nothing was safe anymore. Nothing was certain.
She moved through their bedroom methodically, hanging up her festival clothes, applying moisturizer, going through the motions of her nightly routine while her mind raced. When had their marriage become this web of secrets and lies? When had the man she trusted most in the world become a stranger?
The clock on her nightstand read 12:15 a.m. Wyatt wouldn’t be meeting his mystery woman for another forty-five minutes.
Before she could second-guess herself, Raven grabbed her phone and dialed Sophie’s number. It rang four times before a groggy voice answered.
“Raven? It’s after midnight. Is everything okay?”
“No,” Raven said, her voice trembling slightly. “I need your help.”