“Tea sounds perfect.”
He hung her coat and hat by the fire and went to put the kettle on. When he came back, she was standing close to the flames, color slowly returning to her cheeks.
“You’re stuck here for the night,” he said. “Roads are already impassable and getting worse. The weatherman was wrong by about twelve hours.”
“First snow of the season?”
“First big one. We had a dusting last week, but nothing like this.” He handed her a cup of tea. “I hope you don’t mind being stranded.”
“I knew when I left the studio that I probably wouldn’t make it home tonight.” She wrapped her hands around the warm mug. “Simone warned me about mountain weather. Said it could turn on a dime.”
“She’s not wrong. Izzy left dinner warming in the oven. You hungry?”
“Starving.”
They ate at the big kitchen table—steaks, baked potatoes, and a salad Izzy had thrown together. The conversation was easy, wandering from the ranch to her photography to memories of summers spent at the O’Hara place. But Beckett could sense there was something more she wanted to say. Something hovering just beneath the surface.
After dinner, they moved to the living room with fresh cups of tea. The fire crackled and popped, and outside the windows, the snow continued to fall in thick curtains of white. Marnie curled up in one of the overstuffed chairs, her feet tucked beneath her, and stared into the flames.
“I spent a lot of years in therapy, you know,” she said quietly.
Beckett settled into the chair across from her, giving her space. “I’m glad. I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for you growing up. And that you were able to hide it from all of us.”
“At first I thought maybe if I’d been born different, he wouldn’t have had a reason to beat me.”
“Some people don’t need a reason. He would’ve found one no matter what.”
“That’s what my therapist said.” She nodded slowly. “He was just a bad person. There’s no cure for that. And it took me a while to admit to myself that part of me was glad the O’Haras hadn’t been able to adopt me, even though I felt broken without them in my life. Even though I hated leaving you before we’d ever had a chance to get started.”
“Why were you glad?”
“Because for as long as I could remember, my one goal was to have freedom. From my father and from this town. I was counting down the days until I could leave. I needed to know that I could survive on my own. And once I’d survived on my own, I needed to discover that I hadn’t deserved what he’d done to me.”
The firelight played across her features, casting half her face in shadow. She looked vulnerable in a way he’d never seen before, and it made him want to pull her into his arms and never let go. But he sensed she needed to get this out—needed him to listen.
“They placed me with a foster family in Bozeman,” she continued. “It was only a year before I aged out, but it wasn’t bad. I had clothes that fit and three meals a day. And there was never the sound of a belt being pulled through loops.”
She took a sip of tea, steadying herself.
“I made it through college. I took photography on a whim—just trying to fulfill a fine arts credit—but I found a calling instead. Life looks different through a lens. There’s always beauty through a lens, even when life isn’t so beautiful.”
“I kept up with you,” Beckett admitted. “Over the years. I saw articles about the cases you helped solve. The gallery showings.”
“Then you know about Clive.”
He nodded, his jaw tightening. “I saw pictures of you with him. You looked happy.”
“Not happy in the relationship. But happy in my career. Fulfilled.” She set her tea aside and pulled her knees up to her chest. “He walked into my studio in Savannah one rainy afternoon. He was one of the most well-known gallery owners on the East Coast, and he wanted to represent me. My life became a whirlwind. He arranged a show in New York.”
“The show was a success,” Beckett said. He remembered seeing the headlines.
“The money started rolling in. And Clive started paying more attention to me personally.” She set her tea aside and pulled her knees up to her chest. “I was flattered. He was sophisticated, well connected, almost twenty years older. I thought that meant he knew what he was doing—that he’d take care of things. Take care of me. I didn’t realize until later that “taking care of things” meant taking control of everything.”
Beckett’s hands tightened on the arms of his chair, but he kept quiet.
“I thought I was finally getting it right. I’d spent time on my own, worked my way across the country, built a business from nothing. I thought I was ready.” She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “And then I found myself walking on eggshells all the time. Doing everything I could to please him so he’d be happy with me.”
“Did he hurt you?”
