Chapter Two #2
He perked up at the name. “Decker? You mean Dutch?” He used the nickname his friend went by.
She nodded. “He’s with the security team now.”
Gabe wagged his head at the surprising news of his fellow veteran in the program, who must have healed enough to move on.
He narrowed his eyes at Rhae. “Tell me he’s with Willow.”
She beamed like he’d flipped on the sun. “He finally admitted he loves her, and they couldn’t be happier.”
The world had moved forward while he was gone. Gabe was so pleased for them all, but he couldn’t help but feel a pang that, for him, time had stood still.
He shuffled his feet, his boots grating on the wood floor. “I’d best grab some breakfast. It’s good to see you, Miss Rhae.”
“Mrs. Rhae Malone now.”
Another thing he’d missed—Rhae and Denver had made it official, creating a family with the daughter they shared.
“I’m glad to hear it. See you later, Navy,” he called out to the child, who was tottering from stall to stall, babbling to the horses.
As he left the barn, he sucked in another breath of cold air. Behind him, the little girl’s laugh echoed from the barn.
Things had changed, the world continued to spin. He might not know how to keep up with it, but it didn’t matter. Because he was here, and he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.
* * * * *
Felicity left her house a little earlier than most mornings, hoping it would loosen the knot in her chest. Two things in her life brought her peace—books and the quaint town she lived in.
Willowbrook spread out before her in the soft, washed-out colors of late spring. The pale blue sky promised a warmer afternoon, and the watery sunlight turned the frost along the rooftops into icing on gingerbread houses.
Spring in the mountain town always came late, with cold mornings that turned into afternoons where people shed their coats and strolled the streets to take advantage of the weather.
Nowadays, those streets were pretty empty, with only the occasional straggler walking their dog or headed to the post office.
The stoplight on Main Street blinked yellow at this time of day, patient as a metronome. The windows of her small SUV were fogged at the corners, blurring the edges of the world as she rolled through the traffic light.
The bakery’s OPEN sign wasn’t lit yet, but she could already imagine the yeasty warmth waiting inside. A chalkboard sign on the sidewalk still advertised yesterday’s fresh cinnamon rolls and apple crullers.
Next door, the hardware store’s display window was a jumble of snow shovels that people in the mountain town knew better than to store away until summer hit full blast. Alongside the shovels was a stack of metal buckets illuminated by the single string of fairy lights swagged across the window.
She paused to allow two teenage boys in letterman jackets to cross the road on their way to school. Their hands were jammed in their pockets, and they puffed steam as they shared a laugh.
She passed the Rusty Spur, the bar where she and her employees went to dance and unwind. Occasionally, her sister Honor and Willow Malone joined them. She looked away before her mind could run through what went down the last time they were there.
Finally, she passed the feed store and the sign for Willowbrook that listed to one side like a ship in a stiff wind. Then she turned down the alley behind her bookshop.
The asphalt back here was patched and re-patched in a quilt of repairs. The familiar light blue wood siding of her shop rose in front of her as she eased into her usual parking spot.
She killed the engine and sat there for a beat, eyes already stinging at the mere sight of her beloved store and knowing she would be running it all alone from now on.
She grabbed her bag, her keys jangling in her hand, and stepped out. The alley smelled faintly of wet cardboard. A few blocks over, a dog barked once.
Her boot hit the step up to the rear stoop at the same moment her eyes registered it—the back door was ajar.
Not wide—just enough for a blade of darkness to show between the jamb and the wood door.
Not the way she left it.
She stopped cold, heart cracking in her chest and then shooting off in a sprint. Her mind swirled through reasons that door would be open.
The lock didn’t catch when I closed up. She had been a little distracted by her own depressed thoughts surrounding the boxes of unopened books.
But she always checked it twice, a habit as bone-deep as breathing.
Her mouth turned to a desert, and her fingertips tingled as if she wasn’t getting enough oxygen. She stood frozen. Should she run or cry out for someone?
Neither would help.
She swallowed hard and squared her shoulders. Raising her voice, she made it carry through the open door the same way she’d learned to project while breaking up a group of rambunctious teens in the YA book club meetings.
“I’m coming in!” Good. Her voice came out steady. “And I’m not alone.”
Silence seemed to swell, and she swore she heard the walls of the shop creak.
“I have a guy with me!” Her claim was ridiculous and brave at the same time. “My boyfriend. He has a gun.” She pushed the door with two fingers and let it swing inward. “He’s military.”
The words tasted metallic, or maybe that was fear.
She stepped over the threshold, skating her fingertips along the wall until she found the switch. Warm lights flickered on. The back room wavered in her vision, and her stomach dropped out.
The place was trashed. Boxes of backstock books were scattered, the cardboard ripped open, books spilling out like fish jumping from a net.
Her desk had been ransacked, all the drawers torn open or tossed carelessly on the floor.
Her cheap filing cabinet was pried open and folders belched out.
Bills and receipts littered the floor, and a pottery cup of pens her sister made her as a gift lay shattered.
“Hello?” she called louder, then listened hard for any sound at all. The only thing that answered was the murmur of the heater and a car whizzing by on the street.
She forced her lungs to expand and stepped into the main shop. A cry caught in her throat.
It looked like a storm passed through. Like those tornadoes that leveled towns in the Midwest or hurricanes off some tropical coast that devastated…well, everything.
The heavy bookshelves were still standing, but every book had been pulled free, tossed in heaps on the floor with some pages crumpled. An avalanche of titles cascaded into one another—romance into westerns into cookbooks.
The chalkboard boasting the books and crafts event lay on its side, the easel’s hinge bent backward, the hand-lettered sign smudged. A small, framed print she’d hung behind the counter had been knocked off, the glass smashed.
She brought a shaky fist to her mouth, pressing hard enough to feel her lips sting, then she let it drop.
No one was here.
She pulled her phone from her bag and dialed 9-1-1. The dispatcher told her to go outside in case someone was hiding in the shop, but she knew from the way the place breathed that wasn’t the case.
Still, she did as instructed and wandered outside on wobbly legs. She had no memory of picking her way through the disaster zone and found herself in the parking lot, breathing cold air that didn’t calm her the way it normally did.
For a moment, she considered calling Rina and Mina, then stopped herself.
By the time the two small-town police officers arrived, the adrenaline inside her had drained away, leaving her feeling weak.
She answered their questions in a fog. Yes, the back door. No, she didn’t keep anything of real value onsite. Yes, there was petty cash. Not much.
The older of the two cops whistled quietly as he inspected the broken lock, while the other entered the building.
When he disappeared inside, hysteria gripped Felicity and she imagined the officer finding the intruder lounging in one of the thrifted armchairs, reading a book on how not to get caught committing crimes. If only.
She stood near the back door with the older cop, fingers twisting as she waited for any answer that made sense.
“All clear!” came the call.
The cop watching over her urged her into the shop. God, seeing it the second time was so much worse. Acid coated the back of her tongue.
“Someone really took their time making a mess of your shop.”
She turned to look at the younger of the officers, her eyes flicking to his name badge. Smallwood. Her sister would make some joke about a name like that, but Felicity couldn’t find any emotion besides despair.
She stepped over the bent wire stand that had once held bookmarks and gripped the edge of the counter. Not because she thought she’d fall but because the wood felt like the only solid thing left.
The police moved through the store, photographing everything.
“We’ve had a couple of break-ins like this.” The older one snapped another photo of the petty cash box, open but still filled with money, as if the criminal didn’t care about small bills.
“Oh?” she heard herself say in a hollow voice.
“Rancher toward the west end of the county had trouble last week. Teens, most likely. Grab-and-go stuff they could carry and sell. Tools, small equipment, a little cash.”
“They didn’t take my cash box.”
He glanced toward the rack of gift cards behind her. “Maybe they were looking for those.”
“They don’t activate until they’re sold.” Her voice sounded like it belonged to someone who wasn’t shaken. That couldn’t be her. Not right this minute.
“So they weren’t very bright,” Smallwood said as he picked his way over a pile of books. She cringed as the heel of his boot slipped on a cover, damaging it further.
“Could still be related to the rancher’s break-in,” the older cop went on. “Pattern’s similar. Do you have cameras in the store?”
She pointed to the single orb on the counter that surveilled most of the shop. The lens was spiderwebbed, smashed like everything else.