Chapter 43 Abilene
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Abilene
Monday
Oh no.
My heart doesn’t just stutter—it drops, as if something vital has slipped loose inside my chest, when I spot the envelope on the mat.
I stare at it like it’s a living thing. Like it might crawl away if I look too hard. My hands go cold, then hot, then numb, anxiety zigzagging through my veins in sharp, electrical bursts that leave me dizzy.
Another letter.
Same cream envelope. Same careful, restrained handwriting.
Familiar now in the way a recurring nightmare becomes familiar.
You recognize the shape of it before it fully forms.
From “a friend,” I can tell.
My pulse thunders wildly as I take a step toward it, then stop. My breath goes shallow, caught somewhere between ribs that suddenly feel too tight.
I crouch slowly, feeling the floor might tilt if I move too fast, and pick up the envelope. My name is written neatly across the front.
Just Abilene.
I sit on the bottom stair because my legs won’t hold me anymore.
The paper trembles between my fingers as I open it.
Abilene,
I think it’s time we talked face-to-face. There are things I should have said sooner.
If you’re willing, meet me today at four at Old Mill Café.
Please come alone.
—E
Alone.
My throat closes. I read the letter again. And again, like repetition might blunt the edge of it.
It doesn’t. It only sharpens the sense that everything is finally, irrevocably moving.
My first instinct is to stand up and walk straight down the hall.
Mara is here. In my house. Drinking my tea. Folding her clothes into my spare dresser. Belonging.
She’d see my face and know something was wrong immediately. She would ask questions wrapped in concern and give answers shaped like detours. She’d tell me what’s safe.
I press the letter flat against my thigh, my palm over it like I can keep it from burning through me.
I think about the trail.
The way her steps faltered when I asked the wrong question. The way her voice softened just a little too quickly.
The way every sharp edge I reached for was smoothed down before I could get purchase.
Mara doesn’t want me to know everything.
The realization lands heavy and hollowing all at once.
Maybe she thinks she’s protecting me, or protecting herself. Maybe those two things have always looked the same to her.
My chest aches with the effort of holding all of it, love and suspicion, gratitude and mistrust, without letting any of it spill.
I fold the letter with care and slide it back into the envelope. My hands are steadier now, and that scares me more than the shaking did. This doesn’t feel like panic anymore.
It feels like resolve.
Whatever this is, whatever truth has been circling me, whispering from paper and memory and half-finished sentences, it’s done waiting.
And I’m done letting everyone else decide how much of my own story I’m allowed to know.
I stand there for a long moment after, the house breathing around me as it always does. Familiar creaks. The faint hum of the fridge. The bees outside, indifferent to my personal crisis.
I force myself up, smooth my hands over my jeans like I can press the turmoil back under my skin, and walk down the hall toward the guest room.
Mara’s door is open. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, tying her boots, hair loose around her shoulders. Comfortable. Settled.
I guess she plans to be here awhile.
“Hey,” she says, glancing up. “You heading out?”
The lie forms before I even finish swallowing.
“Yeah,” I say. My voice sounds normal. That feels like a betrayal all on its own. “I forgot I told Sophie I’d stop by the boutique. She wants my opinion on a window display.”
Mara smiles, indulgent. “Sounds good. That shop is a great addition to the town.”
I manage a small laugh, but my chest tightens anyway. Guilt seeps in slow and thick.
She hasn’t done anything wrong, not really. She just hasn’t done right, either.
“I won’t be long,” I add, too quickly.
Mara studies me then. Just a second too long.
Flames flicker behind her eyes. Concern, maybe. Or calculation. I can’t tell anymore.
I grab my jacket, my keys, and step outside before I can second-guess myself again. It’s cooler than it was this morning, clouds rolling low over the ridge, trying to eavesdrop.
As I pull out of the driveway, guilt claws at me harder.
I hate lying. I hate secrets.
I hate that I’m starting to understand why the women in my family learned to keep them anyway.
The drive into town feels unreal, like I’m moving through a version of Colter Creek that’s been slightly misaligned.
Same storefronts. Same sidewalks. Same people going about their day, blissfully unaware, even as my entire understanding of my own history is about to tip sideways.
I park. Cut the engine. Sit there with my hands on the wheel until my pulse steadies enough that I trust my legs to carry me where I’m going.
Alone.
Whatever waits for me is already in motion.
And this time, I’m not turning back.
The café is quieter than I expect when I push the door open, a little bell chiming overhead. It smells of coffee that’s been sitting too long on a warmer and cinnamon from something baked this morning and forgotten.
Familiar. Ordinary.
My pulse is anything but.
I pause just inside, scanning the room with the useless hope that I’ll somehow recognize the person I’m supposed to meet.
A sign. A feeling. Anything.
Nothing.
There are only a few people inside: a man hunched over a newspaper at the counter, a couple of teenagers sharing earbuds in the corner, and a woman sitting alone in a booth by the window, her hands wrapped around a mug.
I hesitate, uncertainty curling tight in my chest.
Then the woman looks up.
Her eyes widen in surprise recognition. She stares at me like I’ve reached back through time and tapped her on the shoulder.
And then she lifts her hand and gives me a small, tentative wave.
“You must be Bonnie’s girl,” she says.
The words hit me square in the ribs.
I take a step forward without meaning to. “I… what?”
She smiles, soft and a little sad. “I’d know that face anywhere. You look so much like her, it nearly knocked the breath out of me.”
My throat tightens. No one ever says that anymore. Not like this. Not with certainty instead of nostalgia.
“I… yes,” I say, suddenly unsure of my own name. “I’m Abilene.”
She gestures to the seat across from her. “Please. Sit. Before I start crying in public like a lunatic.”
I slide into the booth, hands numb, heart racing. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”
She shakes her head. “Not yet.” Then, after a beat, she adds, “But I knew your mother, growing up.”
That does it. My breath catches, sharp and painful.
“I’m Evelyn Mercer,” she says, extending her hand across the table. Her grip is warm. “Bonnie’s best friend.”
Evelyn holds my gaze for a beat longer than comfortable, as if trying to decide what kind of truth I can survive.
Then she sets her mug down and says, very quietly, “Before I say anything else, I need you to hear me clearly.”
My fingers tighten around the edge of the table. “Okay.”
“I didn’t send those letters to scare you,” she says. “Or to play some kind of game. I sent them because I didn’t know how to walk up to you and say, ‘Hi, I knew your mother better than anyone, and I’ve been sitting on parts of your history for twenty years.’”
My throat goes tight. “So you… are the one.”
“I am.” She lets out a breath. “And I’m here now because the letters became something they were never supposed to be. I can see that.”
I swallow hard. “Why ask me to come alone?”
Evelyn’s eyes flick toward the counter, then back. “Because I don’t trust an audience. Not in this town. And because…” Her mouth tightens. “Because there are people who will try to protect you by controlling the story. That doesn’t help you. It just keeps you small.”
Heat rises behind my eyes. Mara’s face flashes in my mind. Her easy smile. Her careful detours.
Evelyn nods understandingly. “Yeah. Like I can see you’ve been through already.”
I press my palm to the table to calm myself. “Start at the beginning.”
Her expression softens. “The beginning is… your mom was funny. Clever. Mischievous. She was the kind of girl who could get you in trouble and have you laughing about it.”
A laugh tries to break through my panic and fails halfway. “That sounds like her.”
Evelyn’s smile flickers. “It is her. Everyone turned her into a saint after she died because it was easier. But Bonnie was real. She was stubborn. She had dreams bigger than this valley. And she loved you so hard it probably scared her.”
My chest aches. I stare down at my hands so I don’t cry in a booth at four in the afternoon.
“I’ve been told so many different versions of her,” I manage.
“That’s because people have been mixing three different stories together,” Evelyn says. “And the mess made it sound like something sinister.”
I lift my eyes. “Three stories.”
Evelyn nods once. “One: the rivalry. Two: the family arguments. Three: the accident.”
My stomach flips. “Right. So what was the rivalry?
“Nothing, really,” Evelyn says, and her tone is rueful. “But the town loved that part. Ate it up.”
“And the family arguments?”
She leans in slightly. “Mara and your mom… they were sisters, but they were also oil and fire. Mara wanted motion. Escape, excitement, anything that didn’t feel like being trapped. Bonnie wanted freedom too, but she wanted something solid to stand on. A plan. A real door out.”
“And my father?” I ask, and the word tastes strange now. More loaded than it did this morning.
Evelyn’s face tightens. “Elias was… complicated.”
My shoulders go rigid.
“He wasn’t a monster in the way the town liked to whisper,” she says carefully. “But he was controlling in a way that doesn’t leave bruises anyone can point at. He wanted things his way. Wanted your mom to fit inside the life he chose.”
My throat closes. “She didn’t.”
“No,” Evelyn says softly. “She didn’t.”