Wait for Me (Willow Harbor #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Ella

I was currently trapped behind a stack of boxes in our new kitchen while James, my husband, worked in the dining room, where he was assembling our new table and chairs.

“Alright, I’m going to head into town and get us something for dinner.

That way, you can keep unpacking,” James said as he entered the absolute war zone that was our kitchen.

It was almost four p.m. and it would be dinnertime soon.

I couldn’t believe I had been at this all day and barely made a dent.

I had some canned soup somewhere, but who knew if I’d find it before six o’clock.

I sighed. “Thank you.”

I had thought that it would be a good idea to open nearly every single box and empty the contents onto the floor and counters so I could visually see what needed to be put away. Now, I had regrets about that method. James leaned over a pile of three boxes that I was wedged behind.

I grinned up at him as he puckered his lips for a smooch. Propping up on my knees in the kitchen, I kissed him. “I love you,” I told him.

He reached out and grasped the sides of my face, gazing into my eyes intently. “And I love pizza, so that’s what we’re having.”

I barked out in laughter and smacked his shoulder as he grinned at me. James was always joking; it was one of my favorite things about him. Our life was built around happiness and joy.

If we’d still lived in Boise, we could get pizza delivered, but we’d moved into our dream house in the farmlands of Willow Harbor three days ago, and now it was thirty minutes to town.

James called out a goodbye one more time before I heard the front door shut and his truck fire up. I put on some of my favorite worship music and went back to work, determined to get this kitchen in working order before my sweet husband got back with pizza.

I’d lost track of time when hunger pangs hit my stomach, but I was pleased that I’d finally gotten the kitchen done! My grandmother’s cast-iron pans, my Crock-Pot, and every mismatching dish I’d collected were safely stored away. I’d even had time to wipe the cupboards and counters down.

There was a solid knock at the door, and my gaze flicked to the clock.

Six! Where was James?

I frowned. Living on a ten-acre farm out in the country, thirty minutes from any stores or big neighborhoods, meant we didn’t expect many drop-in visitors, and my husband wouldn’t knock on his own door.

Maybe it was the neighbors wanting to introduce themselves. Or James forgot his key and it was him.

I smoothed my long brunette hair in the mirror as I made my way through our new home and then turned the corner. My steps skittered to a stop when I noticed the cop car in our front yard, parked right beside the willow tree where James had just installed a swing.

No.

My heart beat wildly against my rib cage, and I reached out to pull the door open with a shaky hand.

“Hello, officers?” It was a question, not a statement. It was a, Why in the world are you all the way out here on my farm in the middle of Idaho? A female and male police officer stood stiffly before me, their faces blank.

Everything’s fine.

My gaze scanned the back of the cop car as a wild thought that maybe James had been arrested and they were bringing him home ran through my head.

He’d never broken a law in his life, but there was a first time for everything.

But the back of the car was empty. Where was he?

Thirty minutes into town, thirty minutes to get fresh pizza, and thirty minutes back.

He should have been home a half hour ago.

Unless he stopped by the hardware store or something…

“Ella Collins?” the female officer asked, breaking into my thoughts.

She knows my name? Why does she know my name?

‘God, help me.’

I gripped the edge of the doorframe as a wave of adrenaline spiked through my system. They only sent cops to your door, who asked for you by name, for a few reasons. A few very bad reasons.

“We have some grave news. Can we come inside?” she asked.

I lost my purchase on the doorframe and sagged against it, black dots dancing at the edges of my vision.

“Just tell me,” I managed to say.

‘No. God, no. You wouldn’t do this to me. You wouldn’t. You would protect him.’

The woman shared a concerned look with her male partner and swallowed hard. “There was a robbery in town, and your husband, James Collins, was involved in a fatal shooting about an hour ago…”

A high-pitched whine sounded in my ears as she detailed the event.

Some man high on drugs had robbed the pizza store.

The policewoman stressed that it’s never happened before in Willow Harbor.

It was a safe town, and the shooter was from the city, blah blah.

James tried to help calm the situation and got shot.

He was pronounced dead on the scene. They apprehended the shooter and will press full charges. Yes, she was sure.

“Yes, ma’am, he’s dead.”

Time stopped. My heart stopped. Breathing became painful. This wasn’t real. My soul felt like it had been ripped from my body and then my skin had been filled with heavy cement. Why was I so heavy?

How? Why? Where is God?

“We were able to identify him on scene based on his license, so we won’t need you to come do that.”

A sob built in my chest, shaking me out of my shock as I thought of my husband dead.

Why did she keep using that word? James couldn’t have been dead. He’d just kissed me and told me he loved pizza.

“He was just installing a swing on the tree this morning. And then he put together our new dining table,” I said stupidly, gesturing to the willow for proof.

“We want to start a family, and James put up a tire swing for our future children to play on,” I told them, as if talking about the future would bring my husband back from the dead.

The male cop hadn’t said a word, but he frowned at my statement and stared at his boots.

“Is there someone we can call to be with you? Social services can come by later,” The female said as I stood there frozen.

I didn’t want some stranger here to make sure I wasn’t going to hurt myself.

I wanted to be alone to process this. I’d had a rough childhood.

My father was an abusive alcoholic, so I’d dealt with stress and trauma my entire young life.

I was good at compartmentalizing, so I did that now.

I turned the knob off on my emotions and cleared my throat.

I went into survival mode then, straightening my back and putting a mask of calm over my face.

My mother lived in Paris as a food writer. James’s parents were in New York, and my best friend, Anna, was in Seattle. I had no one local. I was heartbreakingly alone in this moment.

“I’ll be fine.” My voice was hollow. A shell. I was a shell.

‘God, help me.’

“Okay, well, here is the number of a trauma counselor. The Willow Harbor morgue should be contacting you about your wishes for the remains.”

The remains.

The remains of my husband.

No.

James was dead. He was really dead.

Oh, God.

The male cop, who had been silent nearly the entire time, now chose to speak. He looked me right in the eyes and frowned slightly. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” He handed me a white plastic bag, and I took it, having no idea what could be inside.

I nodded, blinking back tears, and then somehow got myself inside and shut the door. The second I heard them drive away, I burst into hysterical sobs.

My body shook as pain swept out from my heart and infiltrated every cell of my being, and my sobs turned into violent screams.

James. My life. My family. My everything.

Denial hit me hard then. This wasn’t happening. This had to be a mistake. She’d mentioned that he was ID’d at the scene, but surely they were wrong. Surely, James was alive.

After fumbling for my phone, I dialed Handsome Hubby.

When a ringing sound came from the plastic bag I was holding, I screamed and dropped it. The contents spilled out, and my gaze went to the few drops of blood on his wallet.

I hung up, barely clinging to consciousness. I wanted to pass out at that moment. I wanted blackness to swallow me whole.

No.

Dead on the scene.

With another shaking hand, I dialed my mother. It was the middle of the night in Paris, but I didn’t care.

Voicemail.

“Call me, Mom,” I managed through sobs.

Next was Anna. If she didn’t pick up, I was going to lose it. I was going to let this black cloud engulf me, and I’d never get out of it.

“Hey, bestie. How is life in Farmville?” She sounded her usual cheery self, and for a moment, I just wanted to keep her like that, to absorb my best friend’s normal voice before I broke her with this news.

She loved James like a brother. I’d known her since we met at church camp when we were twelve.

This would ruin her. “Ella, you there?” A bit of concern laced into her voice.

“James died in a robbery. He was shot.” I sounded like a robot. One second sobbing—the next, I was devoid of any emotion.

‘God, help me.’

“What?” Anna said, her voice clearly warning me that if this was a joke, she would kill me.

I wished it were.

“He’s gone, Anna. And I don’t know what to do…”

“No!” she shouted in a guttural wail, sending chills down my spine, and then she burst into sobs.

Hearing her break broke me. We cried together then, not speaking for the next ten minutes.

Finally, when she could find her voice, she spoke in a fragile whisper.

“Hold on. I’m coming,” was all she said, and then she hung up.