Chapter 1 #2
The thought slipped in uninvited, as it had far too often over the past four years. He’d trained himself not to think about her, not to wonder where she was or whether she was happy. But cases like this—cases that demanded intuition as much as logic—made forgetting about her impossible.
They’d been a good team once. More than good.
Annie saw patterns where others saw chaos, connections where others dismissed coincidence. Her mind worked differently than his, and together they’d solved cases that had stumped the department for decades. She always insisted they pray before examining evidence.
“God sees everything, Jack. He already knows the truth we’re looking for.”
He’d stopped praying after his wife Lily was killed. But with Annie, it felt natural. Right.
The Brennan kidnapping. Cold for fifteen years before they cracked it in less than a month.
The Morrison murders. Three weeks of working together had accomplished what three years of conventional investigation hadn’t.
And then he’d ruined it.
He remembered the way she had looked at him during long nights hunched over files and crime scene photos. How she leaned closer when they debated theories, her perfume mingling with the scent of paper and coffee. The way her eyes would suddenly light up when something clicked.
Just thinking about her brought a tight ache to his chest. That pull he’d felt around her wasn’t subtle, and the memory twisted through him—sweet, painful, impossible.
He had pushed her away back then. He was too damaged, too afraid to let anyone in again. And even now, he knew she deserved better than a man who woke in cold sweats and saw danger in every shadow. Haunted by the past and things left unresolved.
Ten years ago, when Lily was murdered in Memphis, he’d stopped believing God had a plan for his life. Three years later, when he returned to Fairview broken and faithless, he’d sworn he’d never trust anyone again.
Then Annie came along.
Another three years of working cold cases with her had slowly pulled him back toward both faith and hope. Her quiet prayers. Her certainty that God cared about justice for forgotten victims.
Until the night she told him she loved him—and the terror of losing someone else had driven him away from both Annie and God.
The radio crackled, jerking him back to the present.
“Unit Forty-Seven, respond to 438 Main Street. Assault and breaking and entering. Victim secure. Requesting detective on scene.”
Jack was already reaching for his jacket before the dispatcher finished. Any excuse to escape the ghosts on his desk was welcome.
The drive took less than five minutes in Fairview, but his mind wandered along familiar streets. He’d lived here most of his life. Every corner, every family, every buried secret.
That was the blessing and curse of small-town policing. Nothing stayed hidden for long—and everyone’s business became public property.
He parked behind the ambulance and patrol car, noting the small crowd of neighbors gathered despite the late hour. News of violence traveled fast here.
“What do we have?” he asked Officer Martinez at the door.
“Break-in at the antique shop,” Martinez said. “Victim’s a thirty-three-year-old female. Banged up but nothing serious. Says the intruder was after something specific.” He glanced at his notes. “A locket. Suspect fled when she called 911.”
“Description?”
“Tall. Broad-shouldered. Masked. Male voice. That’s all she could give.” Martinez nodded toward the stairs. “She’s upstairs. Paramedics cleared her, but she’s shaken.”
Jack entered through the side door, taking in the narrow staircase at the back of the storage room. As he climbed, his eyes scanned automatically—floor, walls, banister. Anything left behind. Hair. Blood. Fibers.
He paused at the top of the stairs, preparing to introduce himself.
The woman looked up just as he stepped foot into the apartment.
Familiar baby blue eyes stared back at him, sending warmth throughout his body.
Annie.
Her expression shifted in quick succession—recognition, surprise, then something that looked like pain before settling into careful neutrality.
“I should’ve known you’d be the detective they’d send.”
Four years. Four years since he’d last seen her, and she looked the same. Dark hair catching the light. Intelligent blue eyes that missed nothing. A quiet strength beneath delicate features.
The sight of her hit him like a physical blow. When had she come back? How long had she been here?
The officer taking her statement stepped aside, leaving them alone. Silence stretched between them, heavy with things left unsaid.
“I didn’t know you were back in town,” He finally managed to say.
“I didn’t exactly advertise it.” Her tone was cool. Controlled. She was building walls—and he deserved every one of them.
He sat across from her, notebook in hand, falling back on procedure because it was the only solid ground left. “I know you’ve already given a statement, but I have a few follow-up questions.”
“Okay.”
“Tell me about this locket. Do you have it?”
Her hand lifted instinctively to her throat. “I bought a box of old jewelry at an estate sale, and it was mixed in with everything. It’s Victorian. From the late 1800s, I believe.”
“What makes it special?”
“I don’t know.” She met his gaze. No hesitation. No evasion. “There’s something inside—a small key and what looks like folded paper. They broke in while I was trying to open it.”
“Whose estate sale?”
“The Blackwood's. The mansion on Ridge Road.”
The name landed like a freezing rain, sending a chill through him.
“Anything else you can remember?” he asked.
She hesitated. “On my way home from the sale, a black SUV nearly ran me off the road. I thought it was just an aggressive driver—but now…”
“You think it might be connected?”
“Maybe. They might have wanted me to crash so they could search my car. What I don’t understand is why he was so desperate to find that particular locket.”
Blackwood.
Every cop in eastern Tennessee knew the name. Bootlegging. Organized crime rumors, and the eerie legends surrounding Eleanor Blackwood and how she vanished nearly a century ago.
“There are stories,” Jack said carefully. “Old ones.”
“What kind of stories?”
He studied her expression—interest sharpening beneath fear. The same look that had always worried him.
“We can talk more about that later, I need you to think carefully,” he said instead. “Is anyone else following you? Have you had any strange calls or visits?”
“I’ve only been back two weeks,” she said. “I’ve been focused on the shop.”
Two weeks. And he hadn’t known.
“Where were you living before that?”
“Nashville. Consulting.”
He nodded, jotting it down.
He collected the locket she’d been cradling in her palms and placed it in an evidence bag.
If this had come from the Blackwood estate—if it was tied to Eleanor’s disappearance—then Annie had walked straight into something far darker than a break-in.
He glanced at the bruises forming on her arms, anger burning low and steady.
“I’ll need you to come in tomorrow for a more detailed statement.”
“Can I come in early?” she asked. “I have the grand opening.”
“That’s fine.”
As Jack left the apartment, one thought burned through everything else: This was one story about the Blackwood’s he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear.