Chapter Three
Cameras flashed.
Parents called out to their kids, waving.
It was the last week of school before summer break, and Clifton Ridge Central had dragged out every folding chair in existence to cram into the dingy gymnasium.
The old bleachers groaned under the weight of parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and younger siblings.
Box fans rattled in the corners, doing little against the heat.
And right in the middle of it all, wedged between the brass section and a kid wrestling to keep his cello from sliding, stood thirteen-year-old Cassie Berry. Her violin tucked under her arm, she scanned the bleachers for Connor.
He'd promised he'd come.
But he hadn't shown up yet.
Ms. Delaney tapped the mic on the school’s aging PA, making it squeal. “And for our final solo of the evening,” she said, “Cassandra Berry will be performin’ Wayfaring Stranger.” Her mouth pressed into a thin line, still regretting Cassie’s choice.
“It’s a funeral hymn,” she’d scolded. “Too dark for a school recital.”
But Cassie didn’t care. She’d chosen it because every other kid picked something happy and bright and utterly forgettable, and the last thing she wanted was to be like everyone else.
Even Connor had called her emo for choosing it, which only made her dig her heels deeper.
If she was gonna play, she was gonna play something worth a damn.
The room fell quiet as she stepped forward, her dress shoes squeaking on the floor. She raised her violin and drew her bow, the first note coming out too sharp, then wobbling before breaking altogether.
A few kids giggled, but Cassie only shot them a glare and reset her stance. Bow lifted, she went to try again—
The gym doors slammed open.
Connor strode in, a half dozen Kings trailing after him. Some in coveralls, a few shirtless under leather vests, all of them tracking dirt across the floor.
“Well?” Connor called, stopping at the front, arms wide. “You gonna play, or we all just come here to sweat together?”
Half the gym cracked up. Ms. Delaney looked like she might stroke out.
Cassie grinned, raised her bow again—
And this time, the song unfurled. Low and aching at first, then building, stretching, bending beneath her hand until it was no longer Wayfaring Stranger but Hurt by Nine Inch Nails.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ms. Delaney step forward, finger raised, but Cassie ignored her.
Her bow grew bolder, sawing across the strings, rough and ragged, slow and sharp, before winding the notes back into the mountain tune.
Back and forth she played—shifting between the old hymn and Hurt—until they were woven together into something new. Rawer. Slower. Notes stretched impossibly long, vibrato rolling, until the final jagged resolution.
When the last note sang out, Cassie finished with a flourish. A breath of silence…then the gym erupted in applause, Connor and the Kings loudest of all.
“Take a goddamn bow, kid!” Connor roared between finger whistles.
Grinning ear to ear, Cassie dipped low, dragging her bow out theatrically before straightening—
And freezing.
The bleachers were empty.
The Kings gone.
Connor…gone.
Cassie jerked awake, heart hammering, applause still ricocheting in her skull. For a moment, she couldn’t recall where she was. Then a snore cut through the silence.
Margie.
Reality slammed back hard: Connor—Clifton—The clubhouse.
She sat up fast, legs tangling in the couch cushions. She hadn’t meant to pass out—hell, she hadn’t planned on staying at all. Snatching up her things, she crept past Margie’s sleeping form and slipped down the hall into the commons.
Harsh morning light fell across the lone figure slumped at the bar. Nash, head down, one arm draped across the wood, the other wrapped around Connor’s cut.
It was a jarring sight—seeing him. Of course, she’d seen him last night when they’d been nose to nose, screaming…but this was different. This was…he was…
Her throat dried, her stomach twisting sharply.
Forget Nash.
She just needed to get the leather and get the hell out.
Easing behind the bar, skirting broken glass, she found Nash not just gripping Connor’s cut—he was sleeping on it.
She was debating whether to try to pull it free—hoping maybe he’d drunk enough that he wouldn’t notice—when:
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Cassie jerked back as Nash shot upright, eyes bloodshot and wild, knee cracking against the bar. He cursed, blinking hard at her, mouth opening and—
Bang. Bang. Bang.
“I know you’re in there, Nash. Open up, you hear me?”
Despite the heat, Cassie’s flesh goose-pebbled—she knew that voice.
“Jesus Christ,” Nash muttered, shoving off his stool and staggering toward the door.
Grabbing Connor’s cut, Cassie shoved it into her bag and made a beeline for the back hall, trying doors as she crept past—each one locked.
Back in the commons, the front door slammed open. “Oh, I fuckin’ knew it. You’re drunk, ain’tcha? You know Junie had a goddamn softball game this morning? That you missed?”
Swearing under her breath, Cassie tiptoed back the way she’d come, pausing at the entryway before diving behind the bar.
“It’s fine, Mama,” came a younger voice. “Stop actin’ like he burned the house down. It’s one dang game.”
“Why you always defendin’ him? He’s a grown-ass man who don’t need no little girl comin’ to his rescue.”
“Could we not do this in front of the kid?” Nash barked.
“Could you start actin’ like she’s your kid then?”
“Look, Addy—somethin’ came up last night.”
Holy hell. Cassie had to get out of here. Her eyes flicked between the bar and the hall a few paces away. If she timed it right, a couple quick steps would carry her past Nash’s office and out the side door.
“Oh, Nash. Yeah, I see your somethin’. She’s tryin’ to sneak out right now.”
Cassie froze mid-step, eyes squeezing shut.
“Honey,” the woman called, voice sharper now, “Nash don’t care what door you leave from, long as you leave. One and done, like the Big Bang. Ain’t that right, baby? Emphasis on the bang.”
“Addison,” Nash growled. “Don’t.”
“Oh, please.” Addison’s sneer cut through the room. “You didn’t give a damn when we were married, and nothin’s changed. Still lettin’ your dick call the shots—and now your daughter’s watchin’ it happen.”
The words hit Cassie harder than they should have.
Not because she cared about their mess—because she damn well did not.
But because Addison had the audacity to act like she wasn’t cut from the same cloth as Nash.
The hypocrisy of it was almost laughable.
Almost—if it didn’t feel like a new knife twisting inside an old wound.
Slowly, Cassie turned. Chin first. Then her eyes.
It was a collision of sorts—the past slamming headlong into the present. All the whispers and giggles of girlhood long gone, they were women now, standing on opposite sides of way too much history.
Addison’s gaze widened, her sneer slipping. “Cassie?” she whispered.
Addison Lee—Addison Walker now—was still blonde and beautiful. Still smug as hell looking, too. Beside her, a dark-haired girl in a dirt-streaked softball uniform clutched a glove, misery written plain across her young face.
Cassie had once practiced a thousand venom-laced accusations, blistering one-liners honed and ready to fire should the chance ever present itself. But now, face-to-face with the girl who’d sworn them best friends forever, her mind went blank.
Seconds ticked by in strained silence before Addison’s surprise slipped away. She glanced at Nash—at Cassie—back to Nash again, her eyes narrowing into slits.
“So this is why you missed the game,” she started slowly, her tone tightening. “You spent the night here with…her.”
Nash made a sound—half curse, half growl—as Cassie’s temper flared, breaking loose before she could choke it back. Fury shoved her forward in quick strides.
“I’m here,” she spat in Addison’s direction, “because Connor is dead.”
She didn’t wait for the fallout. She shouldered past Nash, yanked the door hard enough to crack against the wall, and left.
“Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ. Jesus-fucking-Christ.”
Cassie’s hands clamped the wheel as she tore down Black Bear Trace, the road pitching and bucking through the hills, half-eaten by erosion. She took a turn too fast, skimming the edge of the shoulder.
“Why the hell did I even come here?” she shouted. She should’ve flown straight back to New York after the morgue. She still could. She didn’t have to be here—she could handle everything else from a distance—emails, calls, money transfers—and forget Clifton Ridge even existed.
She definitely didn’t have to stand in that clubhouse like a damn fool, face-to-face with Nash and his wife—or ex-wife, whatever the hell she was—and their kid.
Oh my god, their kid. Ten, maybe eleven years old, that little girl had Nash’s dark hair and Addison’s sun-kissed beauty.
A whole life Cassie hadn’t even known existed until now.
Her grip tightened. Her foot pressed harder on the gas, sending her wide around the next curve. She didn’t want this town. Didn’t want its people, its roads, its memories—any last horrible piece of it.
A horn split the air and Cassie’s head snapped up. She’d drifted across the line, oncoming headlights bearing down, too close, too fast. She jerked the wheel, gravel exploding as the car fishtailed onto the shoulder. Slamming the car into park, she dropped her head into her hands.
Stupid. Reckless. Just like she’d been last night.
Just like she’d always been in this goddamn town.
Sucking in air, her fingers slid shakily toward the gear shift—then froze at the sight of red and blue lights flooding the rearview mirror.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Cursing, she dug out her wallet and rental paperwork as the cruiser rolled to a stop behind her. A moment later, a sheriff’s deputy appeared at her window, a wide-brimmed hat shadowing his face.
“License and registration, ma’am.”
Cassie shoved both out the window. “It’s a rental. I’m just passing through.”
“I see that.” He glanced at her ID, then did a double-take. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Leaning down, the deputy tugged off his hat to reveal a mess of red hair. “It’s me, Cas. Ollie—Ollie Caldwell.”
She blinked at him, disbelieving. But no—those were the same broad shoulders from his football days, though he’d gone softer around the middle.
The same red-orange hair, now streaked with early gray.
A crisp tan uniform, a badge clipped to his chest, a utility belt at his hips, holstering a service weapon.
“Holy sh—” Her voice caught. “Ollie?”
She saw them clear as day: Connor and Ollie lighting firecrackers off the school roof, shot-gunning warm beers in the woods, leaning out the windows of Ollie’s car with baseball bats, splintering mailboxes up and down the holler.
And now Oliver “Ollie” Caldwell was standing in front of her…in a goddamn deputy’s uniform.
Towns like Clifton didn’t run on law—they ran on quiet understandings and loud loyalties. You didn’t call the cops; you called your cousins, your neighbors, the Kings. Ollie had known that. He’d grown up in it, same as she had.
Hell. The world hadn’t just moved on while she was gone. It had gone and flipped upside down.
“Ollie,” she repeated, dazed. “You’re a…cop. How the heck did that happen?”
He gave a dry cough. “Uh, well, same way as most things, I guess—one thing after another.”
Hesitating, he glanced down the road before meeting her eyes. “Look, Cas…I reckon I know why you’re here. I was on duty when they…found him. Wasn’t much on his phone—a burner, mostly wiped. But there was one number in there…saved under Fiddlebean.”
Cassie’s heart skipped. Fiddlebean.
“Didn’t mean much to the others,” he continued. “But I remembered. So I told the deputy to try it. Didn’t want anybody gettin’ the news before kin.”
It had been her daddy’s nickname for her, born of the violin in her hands and the beanpole legs that carried her. She hadn’t heard it in years. And after Daddy died, she hadn’t wanted to hear it ever again.
She turned her head, blinking fast. “I, um…I really need to go, Ollie. I have so much to do—I should stop by the house, and then—”
“Cas, hold up—did you say the house?”
Something in Ollie’s voice—surprise, maybe concern—made her stomach twist. She turned back slowly. “What?”
Ollie scratched the back of his neck, hesitating. “Ain’t no easy way to say this…aw, hell, Cas—the house is gone.”
She stared at him, stunned. “What…like a fire or somethin’?”
“No, nothin’ like that,” he replied quickly. “It’s still standin’. Just…it ain’t yours no more. The bank took it.”
“That’s bullshit,” she snapped. “Grandpap Ezra built that house. It’s been Berry land for a hundred years.”
Ollie’s gaze slid toward the trees. “Con, he, uh, let the taxes go. Long enough that the county came knockin’.”
Memories crashed in—the yellow siding, the smoke-stained chimney. Great-great-grandpap laid the foundation, Papaw Willie added the second story, Daddy had finished it with the porch. All Connor had to do was hold the fuck on.
“And everything inside?” she whispered.
“Mostly gone. I think he sold off a lot. Other stuff’s…destroyed. I can take you over if you want—don’t much like the thought of you goin’ alone.”
Cassie stared past him at the empty road. She didn’t need or want Ollie’s pity; she just needed to see it with her own eyes.
“Thanks, but no,” she gritted out. “I’ve got it.”