Chapter 9
nine
“Sometimes, what’s dead must be burned away to make room for new life.” - Cristen Rodgers
Nothing boosted Jocelyn’s ego quite like landing that line and watching Cole take the hit. His brows slowly lowered over those pale blue eyes, his shoulders pulling tight.
“Suspected arson,” he repeated, setting his coffee down.
She’d already noticed his hands—long-fingered, calloused, more like a craftsman’s than a restaurant owner’s—and dragged her stare from the cup he’d set a little too hard on the table. “Still unsolved.”
He leaned forward, expression shrewd. “What do you mean by ‘a series’?”
A dark chuckle slipped from her, half frustration, half thrill at making him work for it. “For the year before my mama’s death, there’d been several suspicious fires—houses, businesses. Always accelerant, always strategic ignition points. No victims, no connections. Different methods each time.”
He frowned and looked out the window, chewing on her words.
That burn ignited in her stomach again. Someone was finally listening. Other than her therapist—who didn’t know the half of it—no one had cared enough to hear her out. Nan avoided the topic. Friends acted like it was some late-night crime show they hadn’t subscribed to.
And so, Jocelyn licked her lips, eager to drop her next bomb. “The weirdest part?”
His head swung back, expression wary.
“They stopped after the fire that killed Mama. Look it up. How many fires since that night?”
“Hell if I know.” His gravelly mutter sent a shiver down her spine that she ignored. “But judgin’ by your face, not many.”
Her grin broke before she could stop it. Their gazes locked for a beat or two before he allowed his own crooked smile.
“Next thing I know, you’ll be stringin’ up maps and red yarn on my restaurant wall.”
She lifted her hands. “I just did research.” And had a meticulously pieced-together journal dedicated to the whole thing, but he didn’t need to know that.
“Just a regular Sherlock over here,” he said, the corners of his mouth curving.
She raised a brow. “Don’t tell me you want to be my Watson. I don’t think you’d take orders very well.”
He huffed a laugh. “Pegged me there.” Shaking his head, he reached for his coffee again.
It felt to her like a distraction, a way to keep his smile from breaking wider. Whatever it was about this that amused or intrigued him didn’t matter. She just appreciated the fact he’d let her lay it all out. It felt good to walk through it with someone.
“So, what’s next?”
“Frank Leone.”
He squinted one eye at her. “Explain.”
So she did.
Even with Cole as backup this time, Jocelyn’s palms grew clammy with anticipation as she waited.
Two hours earlier, she’d explained Frank’s connection to her family until Cole had to leave to open the restaurant.
Afterward, she’d wandered over to the general store to get something for lunch and went back to her hotel room, forcing herself to concentrate on design work for a client in North Carolina.
Normally, she would have finished the project quickly, but distraction dragged her under again and again.
Her thoughts kept circling back to her impending meeting with her mama’s old boyfriend, making everything take twice as long.
That anxiety had spiked the moment she walked into the Nail—Cole’s affectionate shorthand for the restaurant.
The name had stuck, adopted by locals who treated it as their regular hangout.
Rustic-industrial, classy and masculine without being overpowering, the place drew a clientele that ran the gamut of income and background.
On this side of the restaurant, the bar ran twice as long she was tall, the top a solid plank of cedar.
Its epoxied surface gleamed under the copper pendant lights hanging above, drawing focus to its rich caramel color.
Jocelyn twisted sideways on her stool so she could watch the door, the smooth coating beneath her palms the only thing keeping her steady.
Frank Leone worked as a mechanic in the next town over and often stopped at the Nail after work for a beer and burger a couple of times a week.
As far as Cole knew, Frank had never settled down with anyone after her mama, though he admitted he made a habit of not sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.
Jocelyn had been too young to fully understand her mother’s relationship back then, but she’d known enough—Bonnie didn’t make a habit of introducing boyfriends to her daughter.
Frank had been different. Serious. A regular fixture in their home, talking about marriage more than once.
Her mama had never outright said no, but looking back, Jocelyn wondered if she’d ever wanted to say yes.
Despite her mama’s reluctance, Frank had seemed over the moon for her, which explained the way he’d reacted to Jocelyn the other day.
After Bonnie’s death and before Nan decided to move them, Frank had come to see her a lot.
But in those weeks after the fire, Jocelyn often felt she was consoling him more than the other way around.
The day she and Nan had left, he’d given her a tight hug, told her he’d be in touch, and then she’d never heard from him again.
As a girl, the sting had been sharp, too many layers deep to heal quick. He’d been the closest thing to a father she’d known, and her world had been upended. But there were more important things now than chasing an apology from a man who’d clearly never moved on himself.
When she spotted Frank as he walked into the Nail, it seemed like he knew she was waiting for him. His gaze swept the room, posture hunched as if bracing for hurricane-force winds. The tension radiating off him mixed with her own, winding her tighter.
“Buy him a drink.”
She stiffened, glancing backward.
Cole was busy pouring a beer behind the bar, his face tipped down to make it less obvious that the words had come from him.
Frank caught sight of her just as she turned forward again. He stood frozen for a moment, his expression making Jocelyn wonder if he'd turn and walk out. He surprised her by clenching his fists and squaring his shoulders, pushing through his reluctance.
With his compact build, black hair and wide-set dark eyes, his Italian heritage was apparent in both his features and his surname. In her memory, he’d moved with more of a swagger, but just then, he seemed a little brow-beaten.
“Hey, Jossie,” he said stiffly, sliding onto the stool beside her.
“Hey, Frank.” She faced the bar. “Can I buy you a drink?”
He shrugged without looking at her. “Sure.”
Cole appeared, setting a beer in front of him. The two men exchanged a look Jocelyn couldn’t read, leaving her with an inexplicable sense of exclusion that ran deeper than the moment. She rolled her shoulders to chase away the feeling.
Cole moved on, leaving the silence to stretch between her and Frank. What sat in that gap was heavy, and her heart strained under the weight of it.
“I’m sorry about the other day,” she said, trying to ease the pressure. “I shouldn’t have come at you like I did.”
Frank shook his head, never looking away from the beer in his hand. “No, I’m sorry. I was off-kilter, and I didn’t handle it well.” He finally lifted his head, meeting her eye. “God, you’re the spittin’ image.”
Heat rose in her cheeks. She wasn’t sure if she was flattered or unsettled. Especially knowing how in love with her mama he’d been.
He turned away. “It just knocked me sideways.”
A glass appeared in front of her—an old fashioned. Jocelyn blinked, then looked up in surprise. It was a good guess, but even if it hadn’t been, it was a quiet gesture of support she wouldn’t have expected, even from Cole.
She gave him a grateful smile then took a sip to steady herself. “How have you been, Frank?”
He lifted a shoulder and brought the beer to his lips, maybe to buy time—either to talk himself into being honest or to carefully craft a falsehood. The air felt heavy with both.
“Been alright,” he said finally. “Plenty to complain about, but plenty to be grateful for.”
Diplomatic. So neither. Or both.
She tapped on the sides of her glass, waiting for the liquid courage to kick in. “Well, I guess that’s good.”
Sighing, Frank folded both arms on the bar and turned to her. “Jossie, why are you here?”
She winced, taking a long stall sip. So much for easing in. The hurt and history between them had more of an impact than she’d care to admit. Why couldn’t there be some part of her that wasn’t bruised?
If anyone knew how the town had treated them, how badly her mama had wanted to leave Cedar Hollow, it was Frank.
With his offers of marriage more than once came suggestions of moving, starting over somewhere people didn’t know them.
Frank would know there wasn’t much reason for Jocelyn to come back now.
The case was closed, even if none of them were healed.
She swallowed and almost told him the truth, but instinct held her back. His grief was still too obvious. She settled on a half-truth.
“I’m the same age Mama was,” she said softly.
Frank went rigid, staring at her until he forced himself to take another drink of his beer. It would’ve looked normal but for his tension.
“I guess I just wanted some way to feel connected to her again. To understand her life as it was back then. My therapist encouraged me to… to find some closure.”
Frank’s jaw ticked.
“Anyway, John’s award ceremony was an excuse to come. But she’s the reason I’m staying for a little.”
He rubbed a hand over his mouth, taking a long moment to digest that—or to hide what he didn’t want her to see.
She let him have the time to process and glanced down the bar. Cole was pouring drinks at the other end, but his attention was angled toward them. He said something to someone, his gaze unwavering.
“So why talk to me?” Frank’s tone held an edge she didn’t understand, like he blamed her—the nine-year-old who left—for the silence that had followed.
She turned back to him, ignoring that new sting. “You were part of our lives,” she said carefully. “You were important to her.”
“Was I?” His fist tightened around his glass.
“She wouldn’t have brought you around if you weren’t.” Jocelyn hesitated, thinking of how perceptive she’d been as a child, and how much she’d still missed.
Frank gave his head a small shake. “I loved your mama.” The unspoken words echoed beneath what he said: still do.
Jocelyn had seen it the other day, the way his face lit at the sight of her, sending him to another time and place, before he realized she wasn’t—couldn’t be—Bonnie.
It made her reluctant to ask the questions she truly wanted to.
But one memory pressed forward, something she felt wouldn’t tip her hand too far.
“Did you take Mama out that night?” she asked.
Frank drew a breath and looked upward, irritation edging his sigh. “I don’t remember, Joss.”
“Nan had me most of the evening,” she pressed. “So I thought maybe you’d had a date.”
“Probably. She was off that night, right?” His tone carried paternal exasperation, as if they were discussing something as trivial as her teenage spending habits.
From the other end of the bar, she felt Cole’s focus settle on them again, the curiosity like a caress. Maybe the interaction wasn’t as mundane-looking as she was hoping. It was just as well. She felt like her shoulders were tucked into her ears.
“Yeah,” she said quietly, trying to concentrate on Frank. “How come you didn’t stay after?”
His head snapped toward her. “What?”
“Why didn’t you stay over like you usually did? You always made the best French toast.”
Something like fear darted across his face for a moment. “I-I don’t remember, Jossie. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I wish I had been. Maybe if—” His words broke off into an unsteady exhale.
Jocelyn bit her lip, feeling the weight of his grief. It was heavier than hers, unworked and raw. Pity filled her when the understanding settled more solidly that he truly hadn’t moved on.
“It wasn’t your fault, Frank.” She placed her hand on his arm.
His eyes jerked away. He patted her hand once before pulling free. “That’s about all I can handle tonight, Hon.” He drained his glass and reached for his wallet.
“It’s on me,” she said quickly.
“No, it’s not.” He tossed cash on the bar and leaned down to press a kiss to the top of her head. “It was good to see you, baby girl.”
She cupped her glass with both hands, blinking back tears as he walked away.
Several minutes passed as the Friday night rush pressed in, the room filling with chatter and movement. Jocelyn finished her drink, tasting none of it.