Chapter 26
Olivia
One moment, I was standing in the wine aisle at the grocery store, staring at a bottle of pinot noir, debating whether it would pair nicely with the casserole I planned to make for Wren that night. The next, my phone was ringing, and Colin’s voice was exploding down the line.
“You better get your ass back to the station, Piroso!” he roared. “How the hell is the Daily Mail running articles about B.W. Paisley hiding out in Everston, and we didn’t know? Worse, you’ve been fucking dating her for the last three months, and you didn’t think to tell me about it!?”
I dropped the wine bottle. It smashed all over the crisp white floors.
Red wine spread quickly, creeping toward my sneakers.
A store employee poked his head out of the break room, his eyes narrowing at the mess.
He grabbed a mop, muttering something under his breath.
The TV in the break room was showing the news.
Through the gap in the door I saw “B.W. Paisley” splashed across the screen and I launched myself forward, through the opening.
“Where’s the remote!?” I said frantically. “Turn the volume up!”
The young man recoiled slightly, looking at me as though I was unhinged. I didn’t blame him.
“The remote!” I repeated.
“Who are you?” he spluttered.
I saw the remote on one of the tables and lunged for it, turning the volume on full blast. The headlines screamed at me.
“Where is B.W. Paisley? Mystery Solved as Author Emerges in Colorado After Months of Silence”
“From Bestseller to Recluse: B.W. Paisley Found Living in Seclusion After Fatal Crash Sparks Scandal”
“B.W. Paisley Retreats to Colorado Mountains Following Public Scrutiny Over Fatal Accident”
They rolled over the top of each other, one by one, a hideous pastiche of the media frenzy that had erupted. The screen showed images of Wren, the car accident, of Everston…
“Ma’am, you can’t be in here,” a voice appeared beside me. “This is for staff only.”
I turned to find the manager standing beside me, hands on her hips, looking at me as though she wasn’t sure whether I was having a nervous breakdown.
There was a strong possibility I was. My phone buzzed incessantly in my pocket, messages from Colin, Josh, even Cassie.
I stumbled out of the store, my vision swimming.
In the car, I turned the radio on, blasting the sound to drown out the ringing in my ears.
My hands trembled as I started the engine and roared out of the parking lot, way too fast. But I had to get back to Everston. I had to get to Wren.
The last time a big story like this broke in Everston, I was nineteen.
My mother spearheaded coverage of the entire thing, which involved a tourist who had gone missing while hiking in the nearby mountains.
It was the kind of drama that gripped the town for months.
The young woman had come to Everston the way most do, for a quiet retreat, but her sudden disappearance turned everything upside down.
My mother took charge of the investigation; our sheriff didn’t stand a chance.
She spent countless hours interviewing the missing woman’s friends and family, anyone who had seen her in the days before she vanished.
She pored over maps of the hiking trails, consulted with search and rescue teams, and even hiked some of the trails herself, trying to piece together what might have happened.
The breakthrough came when a witness mentioned seeing the woman arguing with a man in the diner the day before she disappeared.
My mother’s reporting led to a composite sketch of the man, which circulated widely.
The media pressure and her relentless pursuit of the truth forced the man to turn himself in.
He confessed—said it was an accident, that the woman had fallen during a heated argument.
My mother was suddenly a legend. The woman who had singlehandedly solved the mystery.
What no one knew was that I had sat with her late into the evenings, poring over maps.
That it was me who hiked with her along the trails, searching for clues.
And it was me, not her, who had first connected the witness to the story.
When I reached the house, Gill’s front lawn was covered in paparazzi.
Some were even from our own station. They’d ruined the flower beds that Wren had spent months putting back together, carefully watching over every plant as it regrew.
They’d kicked over paint cans, spilling emerald green pigment across the driveway.
I hadn’t been able to reach Wren on her phone, and my anxiety grew with every missed call.
Emerson was in Denver for a college tour, and even Henry hadn’t picked up when I tried him.
My heart pounded as I fought my way through the throng of reporters, screaming at them to move, until I managed to squeeze through the back door.
Inside, the house was eerily quiet despite the commotion outside.
The sink was filled with cold dishwater, suds clinging to the edges.
Our wineglasses were still on the table from last night, when everything had felt so simple, so perfect.
Just as I reached the foot of the stairs, my phone buzzed with a text from Henry.
She’s here with me, at the library
I’d never driven so fast down Main Street in my entire life.
My tires squealed as I pulled into the alley behind the library.
I slammed the car door shut, ignoring the shouts of reporters crowding the building.
Elbowing through the back entrance, I found Henry standing by the door.
His usually neat hair was a mess, his face pale with tension.
“Break room,” was all he said, his voice clipped and distant.
“Wren,” I breathed, as I charged through the break room door, moving to wrap her in my arms. Instead, I found her standing rigid, trembling with barely contained fury. Her eyes, usually so soft and expressive, now blazed with a fire that could burn down the entire library.
“You revealed me,” she hissed, her words full of venom. “How could you do this to me?”
The accusation slammed into me like a high-speed train. “I would never,” I said, my voice sharp with disbelief. “I didn’t tell a soul, Wren.”
“Brooklyn, actually,” Henry interjected from the corner, his tone colder than I’d ever heard it. “But I suppose you already knew that.”
My stomach twisted as Wren’s eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she said, her voice breaking as she pleaded with Henry. “I wanted to tell you.”
“But you didn’t,” he said, his gaze hardening. “You didn’t trust me. All this time I believed you were someone else.”
Wren turned back to me, her fury rekindled. “You’re right. I decided to trust the wrong person.”
I reeled backward.
“You don’t mean that,” I replied.
“You just wanted that job,” Wren said. “That big promotion to anchor. You must have been over the moon when you found out who I really was. I knew you were too good to be true. You were just using me.”
Her words shattered something inside me. “You’re scared and angry,” I said, forcing myself to stay steady. “I know you don’t believe I would do this. You know me better than that.”
“Do I?” she yelled, her voice vibrating off the walls. “You pushed and pushed for me to share the story. Over and over again!”
“To help you!” I cried, desperation creeping into my voice. “To clear Lucy’s name. She was innocent!”
“Don’t talk about Lucy,” Wren snapped, and it felt like she had slapped me. “You didn’t want to help me. You just wanted to further your career. I can’t believe I ever trusted you.”
My heart splintered into a thousand jagged pieces. “Wren, listen to me,” I pleaded, stepping closer. “I love you. I didn’t break that story. I didn’t tell anyone who you really were.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said, tears streaming down her face. Her voice was raw, broken. “You’ve ruined everything. I have nowhere to hide.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be hiding anymore!” I replied. “You don’t have to hide. We don’t have to hide.”
Her eyes burned into mine, filled with grief. “That wasn’t for you to decide!”
“Wren, I—”
“Like mother, like daughter,” she said coldly. “I’m sure she would be proud.”
She turned on her heel and stormed out of the room, her words hanging in the air like thorns, cutting deeper and deeper.
I stood there, stunned, barely able to breathe. “Henry,” I said, but he turned away as well.
“The library is closed.”