Chapter 6
Murder always clears my mind.
Not in a literal sense or anything, of course.
I mean stories about murder. Investigations.
There’s comfort in knowing that there are detectives, family members, and friends who refuse to give up the search and, because of them, answers are found.
Killers are caught. And then, lucky for me, podcasts are made, ones that keep me company in the middle of the night when I get tired of tossing and turning, waiting for sleep to finally pull me under and help me forget the mess my life is for a few measly hours.
Hard to think about anything else while listening to those types of stories, making them the perfect distraction.
I listen to two full episodes while the sky outside my window turns from dark to hazy grey with the dawn before I give up on sleep entirely.
Four hours is plenty. Grabbing my laptop from the bag beside my bed, I open it and stare for a few minutes at my emails, not responding to anything.
I’ve gotten many new requests from clients to help with upcoming campaigns, and even two new clients wanting to set up calls, but nothing appeals to me like it used to.
I’m good at my job and know how to help people establish and maintain their brands online.
I’m proud of what I’ve been able to do, but the truth is, I’m sick of focusing on brands that aren’t my own.
I didn’t realize how important it was to build something for myself until I lost the chance.
The thought of returning to what I was doing before … seems exhausting.
So naturally, I do what any sleep-deprived, directionless thirty-year-old would do. I get dressed and head for the barn for some good old-fashioned manual labor.
Unusually, Tabitha isn’t already up, but I’m grateful that I don’t have to come up with an excuse for why I’m not sleeping.
The landing groans under my socked feet, my sneakers dangling from my fingertips as I tiptoe downstairs.
My steps falter as I take in the black-and-white photographs lining the entire staircase, an entire family tree memorialized.
It’s one of my favorite parts of the whole house.
I touch a hand to the photo of my late grandparents, surrounded by their kids.
My dad and my uncle are teens and Tabitha is a young girl with wild, unruly pigtails.
Two days ago, I thought I belonged on this wall and was connected to them.
Something twists in my chest, and I force myself to keep moving.
I slip out the front door, closing it gently behind me.
It’s a short, albeit chilly, walk to the barn across the foggy lawn.
When I tug open the large door, my low mood evaporates at the sound of ten horses calling out with friendly whinnies, eager for their breakfast. I’m hit by the scent of fresh hay and sweet manure as one by one the horses pop their heads over the chest-high stall doors, ears pricked with interest. Most people I know—Lyla included—would pinch their noses and recoil, doing their best not to touch anything.
Not me. I inhale as deeply as I can, like it can make up for all the months of being away from this place.
For the first time in a week, the clawing weight on my chest begins to lift enough that I can finally breathe.
Coming here was the right decision.
Nearest to the door, a bay with a white blaze nickers at me. I step forward, stroking down his long face. He leans into my touch—I’d bet money on it being a gelding, since the mares are usually less friendly—and I reach up to scratch under his forelock.
“Hi, handsome,” I murmur. I peek at the name on his stall. “Nice to meet you, Fargo. I’m Sloan. Sorry, it’s not time for breakfast yet. I’m housekeeping this morning, not room service.”
He nudges my armpit and I chuckle, letting myself stroke his velvety muzzle one more time before I head for the feed room for a wheelbarrow and pitchfork, then pull open Fargo’s door.
He seemed friendly enough that he wouldn’t mind the company.
I toss him a flake of hay and block the door with the wheelbarrow, then get to work cleaning his stall, as promised.
In no time, the familiar task, along with a fresh podcast episode in my ears, lulls me into a meditative flow as I dump one pitchfork after another.
I leave the lights off; each stall's open door and windows are enough to see what I’m doing as dawn settles in an hour reasonable enough to call morning.
By the time I move on to my third stall, I’m breathing heavier from the workout, and warm enough to ditch my hoodie.
I pause for a second to catch my breath.
Damn, I’m out of shape. I used to be able to do the entire barn without breaking a sweat.
My calm is shattered when a hand clamps down on my shoulder.
“Aaargh!”
The pitchfork slips from my grasp and clatters against the wooden wall. I yank my earbuds out, cowering against the wall.
Zeke, a gray gelding, jerks his head up and snorts in alarm. Thankfully, the oldest horse in the barn is about as bombproof as they come, and while his neighbors spin and stomp in the wake of my scream, he shakes his head and dips his nose back into the hay I’d tossed in the corner for him earlier.
Standing in the doorway, arm drawn back with an expression I can only describe as consternation, is Parker.
“What is the matter with you?” I exclaim, clutching my pounding heart. “I thought you were a serial killer!”
His eyebrows somehow creep higher, nearly disappearing under the fringe of his short, dark hair. “Why?”
I plant my hands on my hips, faintly registering him tracking the movement before he wrenches his eyes to my face. “One, it’s dark in here. Two, I’m a woman alone in a barn in the middle of nowhere. And three, because of what I’m listening to!”
Dark eyebrows furrow over his deep brown eyes, not looking tired despite the early hour.
He’s dressed the same as yesterday; the only sign that he slept at all is the slight muss on one side of his hair, making his angry face look adorable until he opens his mouth.
“Okay, one: you could have turned the lights on. Two, you’re not in the middle of nowhere.
There’s a Walmart twenty minutes from here.
And three—what are you listening to, death metal? ”
“Hardly,” I say with as much dignity as I can muster as I retrieve my pitchfork from the dirty shavings. “It’s a murder podcast. Which I’ve lost my spot in now, thanks to you.”
“What the hell is a murder podcast?”
“It’s—never mind. You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”
“I called your name three times.”
Oh. My volume wasn’t turned up that high. I must have been more zoned out than I thought. Then something else registers. “You remember my name?”
He stares at me for a second, then the edge of his lip quirks up into something sinful. “Yeah, I do. It started with a J, right?”
My face heats. I swear I am going to burn that freaking tracksuit. At my seething glare, he tilts his chin to the ceiling and lets out his own exhale of attitude, his rare flash of humor evaporating as quickly as it came.
“It’s not hard, Sloan,” he growls. “You really do think I’m an idiot, don’t you?”
I blink, my face softening in surprise. Where did he get that idea? Annoying, yes. Antagonizing, absolutely. But I never thought he was stupid. Besides, he’s not exactly innocent of making snap decisions about people.
“No more than you think I’m an entitled princess,” I argue, stabbing at the ground with my pitchfork and tossing a fresh heap of soaking wet shavings that he sidesteps at the last second. “And I never thought you were stupid. Grouchy, definitely.”
He’s quiet long enough that I glance over my shoulder at him. He’s watching me curiously, and my stomach flips under his scrutiny.
“You’re here early,” I remark. It’s barely seven, and according to the feeding schedule on the chalkboard by the office, the horses don’t get their morning grain until eight.
“It’s not a long commute.”
There’s a small, single-room cabin towards the back of the property that Tabitha has used off and on to offer room and board to her staff.
We’ve also had some epic sleepovers when it hasn't been occupied. I’d seen Parker’s truck leave the driveway last night while Tabitha and I were watching TV and catching up.
I assumed he lived in town, but I guess not.
“You seem to know your way around a stall,” he says, interrupting the realization that he will be here a lot more than I anticipated. We’re practically living together.
“I’ve always helped when I’m here visiting.”
“You don’t need to anymore. I’m here every morning by eight to feed, turn out, and muck the barn. That’s the routine. I’ve got it covered.”
“Sounds great.”
His eyes narrow. “You’re still planning on interfering, aren’t you?”
“Listen, Peter—”
“It’s Parker.”
“When I stay here, I help out. It’s my way of saying thank you to Tabitha for having me, but it’s also because I enjoy it.
You couldn’t pay me to stay out of the barn.
It’s a big part of the reason I’m here. Like it or not, you’re going to have company.
The old me would have let you scare me off, but I dare you to try and come between me and my happy place and see what happens.
” I’ve been stabbing the ground aggressively with the pitchfork and finally pause long enough to catch my breath and look up. “What?”
He's leaning against the stall door, frowning. “I figured you were more the breakfast-in-bed type. I didn’t expect to see you getting your hands dirty.” I pause, waiting for the actual apology to follow. “Although … FYI, it is easier to take the horse out of the stall first, then clean it.”
I roll my eyes and jab at the ground again.
“And yesterday you lectured me on the importance of saying thank you. Aren’t I doing your job?”