Chapter two
The words, stark and certain, sent a shard of panic lancing through her body.
Amber’s gaze skated over the parking lot again as her mind churned.
Who didn’t die? She couldn’t recall hearing of anyone’s death recently, let alone a death that might not have happened.
But was it even a statement? Was it meant to inform her, or was it a warning? Or a threat?
The urge to flee hit hard, sending a wave of shakes through her body.
Goose bumps raced across her skin, and her breathing grew shallow.
Thankful for the keyless entry on her car, she fumbled with the door, tossed the tote and her purse on the passenger seat, and climbed in, slamming and locking the door behind her.
The cab gave her enough illusion of safety that as the heat seeped into her body, she managed to get her breathing under control. Breathe in for three, breathe out for five. Again and again, she focused on the exercise until she felt back in control.
When the fog of fear cleared and she could form a coherent, somewhat logical thought, she tested out a few.
Not surprisingly, the first to pop into her mind was Anthony Ely, her ex.
Her controlling, abusive ex who’d almost killed her fifteen months ago.
In the weeks that followed his last attack, there’d been more than a few days when she wished he’d succeeded.
Her pain, emotional and physical, had been so heavy she’d wanted it to crush her because then she’d feel nothing at all.
But life—and the Falcons—had other plans.
Thankfully. The terror of those years with Anthony, particularly the last few months, would never go away completely, but now she didn’t want it to.
The dull ache she felt when thinking about that time in her life, of those events, served as a reminder.
A reminder of what she’d survived, a reminder of what she’d overcome, a reminder of what she’d become.
But Anthony couldn’t be behind the note. The folks in the Falcons’ network kept an eye on him, as they did for every abuser whose victims they helped. She would have heard if her ex was up to something. The Falcons wouldn’t hide that from her.
And besides, in the context of Anthony, the note made no sense.
She already knew she hadn’t died that night.
Despite his best efforts. And to the best of her knowledge, he’d never killed, or tried to kill, another woman.
Certainly not anyone that someone would write her a note about. Or leave a note on her car about.
Could it be as simple as a mistaken identity? Someone thinking her car belonged to someone else?
She wanted to believe that. Wanted to believe it with a desperation so strong it felt contrived. Naively hopeful rather than realistic.
But if it was meant for her, what did those three words mean?
Her phone dinged with a text, the sound jarring her body like an electric shock. Fumbling awkwardly with her purse, she chided herself for her nerves as she pulled the device out. Reading the message from Miguel, she breathed deeply and willed her heart to return to a normal pace.
Because she had normal things to do today. Coolers to fill with ice, urns to fill with lemonade, mint garnish to prep, people to sell drinks to, memories to make.
Important things. Things that wouldn’t wait.
Starting her car, she backed out of her spot and headed toward the parking lot exit. As she waited for a gap in traffic, she glanced at her phone. Should she call Juan or one of the others? If there was even the slimmest chance it had to do with Anthony, she should tell them.
But what good would that do now? Everyone, including her, had a packed day ahead. No one had the time to look into it. Besides, the notes weren’t threatening, and even if they were, she’d be surrounded by people all day.
And so many people she knew worked hard to pull this event together. Disrupting the schedule by distracting one or more of the Falcons volunteers, or leaving Miguel to staff the stand on his own while she explained the dumb notes, wasn’t something she wanted to do.
She also couldn’t dismiss the possibility that she was overreacting. Two notes in three days was weird, but as she could find no reason for them to be connected to her, was it really that urgent?
No, she decided, it was not. A little time to calm down, a little time to gain some perspective, was what she needed. After that, she’d decide what, if anything, to do or say about them.
Decision made, she smiled and waved to Miguel as she pulled into her reserved spot behind the raised stand and beside a small refrigerated truck that contained all their supplies. Climbing out of her car, she held up her tote.
“Success!” she said with a smile that didn’t feel quite genuine, but not far from it.
Miguel paused, two bags of ice slung over his shoulders. “Excellent. There’s a water supply around the corner. You can wash and prep it while I finish stocking the stand.”
And so the day began.
Filled with bad dad jokes and crazy-uncle vibes, Miguel kept Amber entertained while they set up, making it impossible for her to stay freaked out about the note.
Once they opened, the steady stream of customers took over and forty-five minutes later, she conceded defeat and texted Juan to send reinforcements.
Amber: Help!
Juan: On my way. Will bring Dulcie
The relief she felt at his ready acceptance made it worth the “I told you so” look he’d no doubt shoot her when they arrived.
Not ten minutes passed before Juan and Dulcie showed up and started lugging ice, refilling urns, and helping to keep the supply of cups and garnish well-stocked.
She reminded herself it was a good sign she and Miguel needed help this time around—more sales meant more money for the Hedy Experience.
Although she didn’t fool herself that the lemonade was the only attraction.
Juan and Dulcie, in their own ways, drew attention. And attention meant more customers.
She’d caught more than a few women eyeing Juan.
With his dark hair, startlingly green eyes, and build that even Amber, in her celibate state, noticed (and in the recesses of her own mind admired), the lingering looks in his direction didn’t surprise her.
The Falcons were a good-looking group, but Juan had that extra something that made a woman—and she supposed some men—think about dark nights, twisted sheets, and tangled limbs. Even in his black tee and cargo shorts.
Dulcie on the other hand, though also attractive, drew people in with his smile and his gentle, open presence.
Both tall and broad, he looked as if he should be kind of scary, but his easy temperament and warm eyes created a dichotomy that made people curious enough to approach him.
More than once, Amber had spotted him downtown chatting with random people who’d just struck up a conversation with him.
She thought it might be kind of tiresome to have people feeling as if they could just talk to you whenever they liked, but true to nature, Dulcie never seemed to mind.
“Frick’n adorable,” Juan muttered as he walked by her, carrying two bags of ice.
Startled by the hushed comment loud enough only for her ears, her gaze shot to his.
Who was he talking about? He couldn’t be referring to her.
But if not her, who? His green eyes locked with hers.
Something flashed in them that she couldn’t decipher, then he blinked, gave a tiny shake of his head, and nodded toward her serving window.
An odd, weighted moment passed between them, leaving her feeling slightly unstable, as if a ripple of vertigo moved through her body. Then with a shake of her head, she turned away.
Leaning over the counter, she peered down at a girl of maybe four holding the hand of an older man wearing a “world’s best Grampa” T-shirt. Amber didn’t have to work hard to smile; the pair were adorable. “And what would you like?” she asked the little girl.
“Lemonade. This big,” she said, holding her hands as far apart as her little arms could go. “Please,” she added perfunctorily.
“Or just a regular,” her grandfather said, his expression sparkling with amusement.
His granddaughter’s eyes narrowed under her curly black fringe.
“It will taste this big, though,” Amber said, spreading her hands apart through the serving window.
Tiny suspicious eyes darted between her and the man, and Amber fought not to laugh when she gave a single, sharp nod. Like a general dismissing her soldiers after issuing an order.
“Behind you,” Juan said, setting a hand on her lower back as he passed by, having added the ice to their coolers. Her T-shirt had ridden up as she leaned over the counter, and his fingers landed on bare skin, their icy coolness sending a wave of chills up her chest.
She stilled. Had his hand lingered a few seconds longer than necessary?
The question came out of nowhere, turning the wave of chills into a bloom of heat.
She hadn’t avoided physical contact since arriving in Mystery Lake—a handshake, a hug, a kiss on the cheek, that sort of thing, had grown more common over the months.
But Juan’s touch, brief and fleeting as it was, reminded her of just how many months, years, had passed since she’d been touched as a woman.
That thought sent another swirl of vertigo through her, and she quickly shut it down.
Juan hadn’t meant it that way, nor was that something she was looking for.
His hand hadn’t lingered, and her weird reaction had to be embarrassment.
She shouldn’t be thinking those sorts of things about her friends.
“Make that three, please,” the man at the window said, bringing her back from the troubling thought that dipped into her mind.
“Coming right up,” she said with a forced smile.