My daddy was dead to me since I understood what he did to Momma. I never bothered to find him.
Rust was dead to me since he left me in Vegas, but now it feels like he owes me a debt for my broken heart. I’m overdue to collect.
The least he can do is keep my ass from rotting behind bars. Besides, since he didn’t rat me out when I tried to steal his daddy’s horse as a kid, I figure my chances are pretty good he’ll keep my secret.
But Rust isn’t the only person from my past I’ll have to face. His parents were more of a family to me than my own mother ever was. For all I know, they hate me now. I’d understand if they did.
Then there’s Caleb Harper, my only other friend. His mom was a teacher at my school and she took pity on me when I was a little girl. The Harpers often invited me over for supper or took me out for excursions. Caleb and I hung out by proxy, like siblings.
The invitations stopped when I was around ten years old and Momma sent the sheriff to the Harper’s house, claiming I’d been kidnapped. It was a huge scandal that put the whole town in a tizzy. Caleb and I remained friends despite it, until Rust and I broke up and facing any part of my past became too painful. We haven’t spoken since then.
What would Caleb and his family say if I ran into them now?
I don’t know what to expect from my return and that uncertainty makes me sick to my stomach. My knuckles blanche as I grip the steering wheel like it’ll give me all the answers if I strangle it hard enough.
Over the years, I looked up Rust online a handful of times but couldn’t find much information. No website. No social media accounts. I dug up a single mention of his name as the owner of an auto repair shop in Redbird Creek. That’s my only lead.
Who knows what he looks like now, if he’s still got all his teeth or all his hair. And all his marbles. It’d be fucking satisfying to find out he turned into an ugly, crazy hillbilly.
I stretch my neck and roll my aching shoulders. Exhaustion weighs on my bones. I’ve only been driving for a few hours, but I feel like I ran headfirst into a brick wall.
In addition to the complicated feelings about my past and the people I left behind, being a first-time murderer is hard enough.
Accidental murderer, I correct myself.
Why did that drifter jump out of the tree line in front of my car? Everybody knows you shouldn’t cross the road right after a sharp turn! That’s basically suicide, though I doubt the law would agree.
After it happened, I expected a lot more panic, but I’m oddly calm. Probably in shock. And surprisingly, logistics were the real problem. Try stuffing a grown man into the tiny trunk of a Chevrolet Spark! Thank fuck my personal trainer included weightlifting sessions in my workouts.
I glance over my shoulder. The dark road is empty, though I can’t shake the feeling of being followed. It’s like there’s always somebody watching me, some paparazzi waiting to shove cameras in my face.
Life in the limelight has made me paranoid.
I turn on the radio, drumming an irregular beat on the steering wheel. The music fades into the radio announcer’s smooth voice.
“Breaking news! Fans are left disappointed as country star Tally Creed is said to have canceled her concert in Louisville less than twenty-four hours before kicking off her anticipated tour. Rumor has it that the trailer park bombshell has suddenly fallen ill, but an insider tells us she’s been struggling with mental health issues and writer’s block. We wish Tally the best and keep her in our prayers. To tide you over, here’s her hit single?—”
I slap the off button.
Wishing me the best? As if. Fucking vultures.
Seems the anonymous tip I called in from a gas station phone got through. About time I made the old rumor mill work in my favor, but what was the bit about my mental health and writer’s block?
I rub a hand across my face. How the fuck did they hear about that?
There’s always some leak on my teamand the paparazzi seem to know exactly where to find me to take a snapshot of my worst moments. You’d assume my manager would do something about it, but the sadistic prick enjoys seeing me in the crossfire of criticism.
Right now, I wish I could turn back time to this afternoon when my inability to write a goddamn song was my biggest worry.
In the rearview mirror, I catch a glance of my guitar case strapped in the backseat next to my travel bag. My heart pinches.
Sure, I can play and sing. But my inspiration, my spark?
It’s dead.
The music in me is gone.
My phone vibrates on the passenger seat. The name Rex Dalton appears on the screen and my eyes roll. I don’t need another lecture from my fucking manager. When the ringing stops, I call the voicemail number and put it on speaker.
