Chapter 35
By the time we pull into town, I already regret coming. Within a few hours of waking this morning, Sutton was dragging me out the door with John, rambling on about the Summer Festival and all the town traditions that honestly sounds like something right out of a weird Hallmark Movie.
Crimson Ridge isn’t big enough to disappear in.
It’s one of those postcard towns that tries too hard but somehow still looks plastic perfect with bunting strung between lampposts, large pots of flowers lining every corner, and staged photos areas that will end up plastered on social media with the captions about “small-town charm”.
It should feel cozy and safe.
It doesn’t.
The second I step out of the truck; I feel the shift. Eyes everywhere.
It starts subtle. Glances from people manning booths, whispers carried loud enough for me to hear. Then the smiles, the fake kind that don’t reach their eyes, start appearing like warning signs.
Sutton loops her arm through mine, oblivious or pretending to be. “Come on,” she says brightly, tugging me toward the vendor tents. “Wait until you try Mrs. Holler’s apple butter. It’s the best thing this side of the county line.”
John follows a few steps behind, already wearing a look that makes people part like the Red Sea. His presence is armor I didn’t ask for but kind of need right now. The way these people are looking at me, like I’m some ghost that wandered out of story they’d rather forget, makes my stomach twist.
Over the next hour the three of us meander through the festival.
I try my hardest to ignore the pointed looks and the whispers, but the deeper we travel, the harder it is.
John is quiet for the most part of it, intently listening when Sutton talks and occasionally stopping to talk with a person or two here and there.
He always keeps it succinct and doesn’t bother introducing me or Sutton.
She isn’t bothered by it and honestly, neither am I.
He doesn’t seem to be doing it to exclude us.
It is more like business chat. Not friendly neighbor banter.
I’ve also come to realize that everyone already knows who Sutton is.
And strangely—me. Then again, in this small of a town, it would be hard not to at least have heard the rumors surrounding my arrival.
We stop at a table selling homemade candles, the wax shaped like horseshoes and daisies. The woman behind the counter forces a smile.
“You must be Peyton,” she says. “Sadie’s girl.”
I tense before I can help it. “Yeah,” I answer flatly. “That’s me.”
Her smile flickers. “You look like her, but you’ve got John’s eyes.”
It sounds more like a curse than a compliment.
I mumble something noncommittal, picking up a candle to avoid her gaze. The label reads Spring Shower, but all I smell is smoke and suspicion.
We move on but the stares don’t stop.
I catch snippets as we pass—
That’s her?
Didn’t think John would actually take her in.
Looks just like her mama—poor thing.
By the time we reach the line for the coffee Sutton has been craving, my pulse is thrumming in my ears. Sutton’s chatting about the band lineup, but the words barely register. All I can think about is how fast I can get back to the truck without making it obvious I am running.
That’s when I hear it.
A man’s voice, low and rough. “Didn’t think I’d ever see the day they let you walk the streets again, Sadie. Not after what you did to good ole’ John.”
I freeze.
He’s older, weathered by sun and time, his hat pulled low over his eyes. He’s the type of man you see leaning against fences in old Westerns. Only this one is looking right at me.
“Excuse me?” I manage.
His eyes narrow, taking me in like I’m a puzzle piece that doesn’t fit. “Don’t you pull that shit with me, Sadie. You don’t belong here.” He spits on the ground like I am some kind of curse he is warding off. “Better watch out if they see you. End up like that friend of yours.”
My throat tightens. “I’m not Sadie,” I tell him hoarsely.
He steps closer, voice dropping to a rasp that curls like smoke. “Always were a bullshit liar.”
“Listen—” I don’t get the rest out. A hand clamps around my arm, pulling me backward.
John.
His expression is carved from stone, his jaw locked so tight I can hear the grind of his teeth.
“Merrick,” he greets the old man. “See they let you out of the nursing home again.”
The man tips his hand, unbothered. “Just giving ole’ Sadie here the warning that you best not find her out an about. Too late now, I guess.”
“This isn’t Sadie, Merrick,” John informs him flatly. “This is Peyton. Our daughter.”
Merrick snorts derisively, one side of his mouth pulling up in a nasty sneer. “Should get rid of her like you got rid of her mama.”
John steps forward once. Just once. “That’s enough, old man.” His one step is enough to make the man take pull back. The air between them is charged, electric, like before lightning strikes. With one last sneer, Merrick spits on the ground at John’s feet before turning and stomping away.
Sutton finally catches up; concern etched across her face. “John? What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” he tells her sharply. Then to me: “We’re leaving.”
I plant my feet. “No. What is he talking about? What did my mother do?”
“Drop it.” His tone leaves no room for argument.
There is no anger in his eyes, but something else too. Shame.
That scares me more than the stranger’s words.
He doesn’t give me the chance to pursue it further before he starts walking back toward the truck in tense silence.
I follow behind him with Sutton at my side, the festival noise dimming behind us.
My hands shake as I shove them into my pockets.
Every whisper, every stare, every half-truth about my mother crashes into like a wave.
Sutton attempts to fill the silence with soft reassurances, but I’m barely listening.
For the first time in a long time, I am sure of something.
Whatever happened back then, whatever my mother did, it wasn’t only a scandal. It was something no one in this town dares to talk about.
And somehow, I’m standing in the middle of it.
Thanks, mom.