3. Jessica
August, Present Day
Maple Ridge
I dialViolet’s phone number. Again. It’s been three days since her husband was arrested, and I haven’t been able to talk to her. She hasn’t answered my calls or responded to my texts.
I’m clicked through to her voicemail. I don’t bother to leave a message. She hasn’t replied to the half dozen others I’ve left her, checking to make sure she and Sophie are all right.
Bailey and Butterscotch are snoozing on the large dog bed near Troy’s patio door. Early afternoon sunlight streams through the living room windows and bathes the two golden dogs in a warm glow.
I stand from the couch and walk to the window that overlooks the neighborhood street. Two doors down, three girls around six years old are playing hopscotch on the sidewalk. Four boys bike past the house, reminding me that my bike and Bailey’s trailer are in my garage. At home.
Troy is at work, mostly overseeing various projects and catching up on paperwork. His shoulder is all but back to normal, and as of this morning, my voice is too. But he wants me to take a few extra days to recover before returning to the office. Great. Except I’m already bored.
Part of me longs to be outside. To enjoy the beautiful sunny day. The other part wants to hide, afraid someone will recognize me from Cora’s article.
“No, I’m not going to do that. I’m not going to hide,” I say, giving myself a half-hearted pep talk. The dogs need walking. I need to get out.
I put on my usual makeup: a light brush of eyeshadow, mascara, foundation, and lip gloss. But the foundation isn’t heavy enough to camouflage the scars. I don’t think there’s a foundation thick enough to create miracles and turn scars, like the one by my mouth, invisible.
I tie my hair in a low ponytail and grab the Minnesota Wild baseball cap from the hall closet. I doubt Troy will mind if I borrow it. I pop it onto my head and slip on my sunglasses.
The hat and glasses do nothing to hide the scars on my face, especially the thick one stretching diagonally from the corner of my mouth to my jaw. The scar was noticeable in the photo the newspaper ran.
“Who wants to go for a walk?” I ask the two sleeping dogs.
They scramble to their feet. I don’t bother with Bailey’s Service Dog in Training vest. It’s her playtime.
They practically drag me down the street to the park where Violet admitted to me her husband was abusive. My thigh muscles ache from where Wilson kicked me. The pain isn’t enough to deter me from the walk, but it is enough to leave me with a slight limp.
The park is busy with families enjoying the warm summer day, kicking a soccer ball around, playing Frisbee, chasing each other. Laughing. Shrieking.
Violet and Sophie aren’t sitting on the bench like they were the last time I saw them here. I take a wide detour to the off-leash area, ducking my head so the red scar by my mouth isn’t a beacon for the curious.
I let the dogs loose and toss their tennis balls for them to chase. My side is sore from where Wilson funneled his anger at me because he suspected I was hiding his wife and daughter. He didn’t fracture my ribs—thank God—but they were still healing from my car accident a month ago, which is why they still hurt.
Between being wrongfully incarcerated, the car crash, and Wilson and Dunbar, I think by now I’m due for some better luck. Surely my guardian angel can finally put in a good word for me.
The tennis balls only travel two yards, thanks to my weak underarm throw, but the dogs don’t seem to care. They chase after them and drop them by my feet for me to throw again. While I play with the dogs, I keep my eyes open for Violet and Sophie.
“I’m gonna drop you off at your daddy’s house,” I tell Butterscotch once we’ve finished playing. “Bailey and I will be back in a few hours, but I need to check Violet’s house to see if she’s home.” The distance to her house is too far for Butterscotch’s short legs.
Bailey and I drop him off and walk to Violet’s house. I keep my head down. Between that and the hat and the sunglasses, the ugly scar near my mouth shouldn’t be too noticeable.
The afternoon sun heats my bare skin, the temperature cooler here than in San Diego. I breathe deeply in the fresh air, the kind I’ve grown to love since moving to Maple Ridge. This, the mountainous small town, is my life now.
If only my daughter were with me.
I look up as I reach Violet’s street. The outside of her two-story house hasn’t changed since the last time I saw it, the curtains still drawn.
I walk up the path leading to the front door. With each step, the muscles in my body knot tighter and tighter. The sequence of events from that night unfolds in my memory. Violet screaming. Me rushing in to help her. Dunbar’s arm crushing my throat. The FBI barging through the front door and shooting the cop gone bad.
The memory of that night sends my heart stumbling. It recovers, but only to pound frantically faster. I ring the doorbell and listen for any signs that someone’s home. Nothing. I try again. Where are you, Violet?
“You lookin’ for Chief Wilson or Mrs. Wilson?” a female voice asks behind me.
I whirl around. A woman in her late sixties or early seventies is standing a few feet from me. Her eyes are narrowed to a squint as if she can’t quite make out my face. Pink tints the ends of her shoulder-length white hair.
The knots in my muscles ease a fraction. If I’m lucky, she can’t see the scars on my face clearly. “Mrs. Wilson. Violet. She’s a friend of mine, but I haven’t heard from her in a few days. I want to make sure she’s okay. Has she been here since the FBI arrested her husband?”
“Nope. Not that I’ve seen.” The woman shakes her head. “Can’t say I blame her. All those damn reporters camping out here—I’d have stayed away too.”
“Reporters?” I glance about as if expecting them to ooze from cracks in the sidewalk. Of course there would be reporters. It’s not every day the chief of police in a small idyllic town is arrested for trafficking assault weapons.
Maybe that was the real reason Troy had wanted to keep me at home—at his home. He knew about the reporters. He’d been trying to protect me. I’d been so focused on how I haven’t seen or heard from Violet since Tuesday, news of the events of that night hitting the media hadn’t occurred to me. Ironically.
“They were camped out until yesterday,” the woman says, “askin’ all their nosy questions. With Mrs. Wilson gone and the questions all asked, I guess there was no point in stickin’ around.”
Thank God for that. “So, there are no more reporters in town?” None who stayed because they caught wind I’m living here?
“That’s right. The lot of them have left.”
“And you have no idea where she went?”
“Her and that adorable little girl of hers haven’t been back. Maybe she went to visit family.” The woman continues to squint at me, but I can’t tell if she’s attempting to put a name to my blurry face. “Once she returns, do you want me to tell her you were lookin’ for her?”
“No, that’s okay. I’m sure I’ll talk to her before then.” If she ever answers the phone or replies to my texts.
The woman ambles away and crosses the street.
Since there’s nothing more I can do here, Bailey and I head home to get my bike and trailer. Maybe Noah knows something about where she went. I need to know she’s all right. Need to let her know if she needs anything, I’m here for her.
Bailey and I walk up the driveway to the rear of the house, enter the garden through the wooden gate, and unlock the back door. I disengage the security alarm.
The newly renovated kitchen looks like it did when Troy and I were here on Wednesday, picking up my things for my stay at his house. The kitchen is tidy and clean—nothing forgotten on the counter. The fresh lemony smell from when I cleaned the sink faintly lingers in the air.
I trace over the light-gray marbling that runs through the white-granite island countertop and grin at the beautiful open space. The white walls, tiles, and cabinets make the place appear bigger, but my favorite part is the creamy-blue feature cabinet doors—so different than the original, outdated ones.
I remove a glass from the cupboard, fill it with water from the tap, and greedily gulp the contents. The cold water is a soothing kiss to my still tender throat.
I fill Bailey’s dish with fresh water as she pads across the wooden flooring to where she left her favorite toys in the living room. She grabs her fire hydrant in her mouth and shakes it. Squeeeeaaaak.
“We can bring it with us if you want,” I tell her, even though she already brought several of her toys to Troy’s house.
Squeeeeaaaak.
“I take it that’s a yes.” I go over and pet her. “I’m going upstairs to grab a few more things. Come.” My gaze darts to the front door where Chief Wilson barged his way in just days ago, and my heart shudders. I draw a shaky breath.
Desperate to avoid a flashback, I knead the muscles in my upper arm. I don’t think I’ll have a flashback, but I can’t be certain. My mind is still a land mine because of the complex PTSD.
Once I’m satisfied I’ll be fine for now, I head upstairs to my bedroom. Bailey trots alongside me.
The room hasn’t changed since I moved into the house four months ago. The floral wallpaper still clings to the walls. It’s peeling and faded, but it’s obvious the white paper, with delicate yellow flowers, was once pretty.
I open the bottom dresser drawer and remove one of Angelique’s journals. I just have two more left to read and transcribe and then I can give them, along with the medal and heart pendant, to Anne Carstairs. Troy will be away this weekend for a Wilderness Warriors excursion. I might as well come here while he’s gone, do some gardening, and read the journal.
I return it to the drawer and grab clothes for the next few days. I put them in my backpack, and Bailey and I go downstairs.
I check the time on my phone. “We gotta get going. It’s Game Night, and it’s Troy’s turn to host it.”
Which means two things.
I’ll be joining Troy and our friends for Game Night for only the second time. The first was when I discovered Avery’s boyfriend, Noah, is a cop. I was so nervous around him, I was on the verge of having a panic attack the entire time. After that, I always found an excuse as to why I couldn’t join them just so I could avoid him.
But after all the therapy I’ve done and the things Avery has shared about Noah, I know he’s nothing like my late husband. He’s not a cop I need to fear.
The other thing it means is that I need to make snacks. I told Troy I’d cater tonight, so I’d better get started on that.
Bailey and I go outside, and I retrieve the bike and trailer from the garage. I’m helping Bailey—who’s carrying her toy hydrant in her mouth—into the trailer when I’m hit with a weird feeling someone is watching me.
I glance over my shoulder toward the street. A man in his late forties with a German shepherd by his side is standing at the end of my driveway. He’s one of my neighbors from a few doors down. Usually, he waves at everyone when they walk past his house while he’s mowing his lawn. He doesn’t wave at me this time. He slowly nods as if silently answering his own question, a frown wrinkling his brow, and walks on.
I close my eyes against the growing fear churning inside me.
Please tell me he didn’t recognize me from Cora’s article.
Please tell me he has no idea about my past.