“Not everything is sinister,” he muttered to himself, mostly because he remembered that glimpse of Zach Simmons—father and husband—that had reminded Royal of the good people he’d met since moving here.
Thanks to Brooke.
Maybe Brooke knew Zach Simmons, or Zeke probably would. He could ask them what they thought.
But his mind didn’t stay where it should. It flitted off.
Brooke knew Franny Perkins.
He shook his head.
“Weird-ass town,” he muttered, then happened to look up to the apartment across from his. Franny Perkins’s apartment.
And as if he’d conjured her, there she was in the window. In much the same position he was in—looking out at Main Street. She was illuminated by a light in her apartment. It was hard to tell from this distance, but itfeltlike she was looking over at him. He was no doubt illuminated to her too.
As if to confirm, she raised a hand in a little wave.
Not knowing what else to do, Royal raised his own hand in waved acknowledgment.
Then she turned away from the window and lowered her blinds. He watched those closed blinds for longer than he wanted to admit, wondering what a night in Franny Perkins’s apartment looked like.
None of his business. But he was putting her theory in his report. Because she was on to something there. And if the Feds knew who they were looking for, it didn’t make sense—to Royal’s way of thinking—to keep local law enforcement out of it. What if he saw something that would connect, but missed it because he didn’t have all the details?
He shook his head, closed his curtains, and went back to his report.
Chapter Eight
Franny didnotgo to the bakery the next day. She had her pride, didn’t she? And since Royal had essentially caught herwindow peepinglike some kind of stalker last night—even though she’d justhappenedto look over and see his lights on, and him pacing in the warm glow of them—she was staying far away from Royal Campbell.
So, she worked from bed. And byworkshe meant: updated her website, checked her social media properties, fooled around with a pitch that wasnother book proposal, and did a quick internet search of Royal Campbell.
With only a tiny modicum of guilt about it.
She didn’t find much. The social media story posted by Bent County about his hiring. He also had no social media, no internet profile.
“What is with these people?” she muttered irritably. It was like they were all…hiding from something.
Whichdidgive her a little trickle of an idea for her book. What if it wasn’t justoneperson hiding in Hope Town.Oneperson with secrets. What if it was a town where people went to hide? And then one of the problems they were hiding from came knocking?
With the questions percolating, Franny actually pulled up her manuscript file and put a few sentences together. Then a few more.
When her stomach rumbled, she muttered about leaving her computer. She had a first chapter, a good idea of what wouldhappen next, and she’d even incorporated some of her research about the history of Hope Town into her fictionalized version.
She ate lunch with some malice—it was hard to eat a packet of tuna without malice. She didn’t even have a bag of chips to balance out all thishealth.
Maybe she should go to the grocery store. But she could see the next scene play out in her head and she didn’t want to stop and disrupt her creative flow.
A cop with secrets. A jaded FBI agent. A town inexplicably populated by people who didn’t have pasts—that they’d let anyone else know about.
Since everything was clicking, after she finished eating she let herself keep writing in bed. The whole beginning took shape. Both main characters becoming real and three dimensional even if she didn’t know all their secrets yet.
Who would want to? Things would get boring. Finding the answers to the questions was a journey she didn’t want to end too quickly. But eventually the haze of creative clicking started to lift. Too many ideas. Too many different ways to go.
She blinked up, noted the sun was much lower in the sky than it had been. She glanced at the time. Nearly three. And she’d actually gotten some solid words in.
That called for a reward.
She had no such rewards in her kitchen, but downstairs there might be a cupcake if Lia hadn’t sold out. And since she had no expectation of running into Royal at this hour, she gave herself permission to head down to the bakery.
