ONE
Laughter bubbled up in her chest and spilled from her lips as she watched her mom try to mimic her dance moves. Her mother had always said she was a terrible dancer, but nothing could have prepared her for the truth of it.
Waving her hands over her head frantically, her mom said, “I’ve got it!”
“You’re not even moving your feet,” she replied. “You literally look like you’re trying to flag down an ambulance.”
In answer, her mom giggled. The sound was light and airy and so unexpected that it made her heart clench. When was the last time she heard her mother laugh at all, much less so brightly?
“Loosen your arms a little,” she instructed. “In fact, loosen your whole body. You want to be fluid. Like this.”
Her mom tried to mirror the languid undulation of her hips, shoulders, all the way up to her arms extended toward the ceiling.
“Am I doing it?”
“Auditioning for a martial arts movie? Sure.”
“Oh, come on!” Her mother tried harder, twirling around in slightly tipsy circles. “I’m doing it! I’ve got it!”
Plopping onto the edge of the bed, the girl giggled until her abs hurt. The harder she laughed, the more unnatural shakes, twitches, and shuffles her mom injected into the performance. Then her mom added her own song, belting out lyrics she was clearly making up on the spot but singing them with the conviction of a Tony Award-winning Broadway star.
She was captivated by this version of her mother. Here, away from the house, away fromhim, they were so different. Everything was different.
When was the last time either of them felt so free? When was the last time they felt jubilant? The last time they didn’t have to calculate their every move, every step, the volume of their voices? When was the last time she went more than a day without his hands on her? His body covering hers? She’d learned not to scream long ago but she still hated every second. Hated that even when he left her alone, he came back in her nightmares.
“Darling,” her mother said, coming to a sudden stop and wiping the sweat from her brow with a forearm.
Thoughts of him had made her body go rigid. “What?”
The bed dipped as her mother sat down beside her. “Darling, what’s wrong? You look distraught.”
God, she wanted to tell her mother the truth. Because her mother would put an end to it, to him. Except that her mother had been worn down by him, too. Right now, she didn’t want to say the ugly things that would make their already complicated lives more complicated. She just wanted to enjoy this evening for what it was—a reprieve. She wanted to soak in every last moment, every detail, because soon they would return to their reality.
Because there would be no escaping him. Not tomorrow or the next day. Maybe never.
TWO
For what felt like the thousandth time in the past ten minutes, Josie Quinn stomped on her brake, bringing her SUV to an abrupt halt. She and her passenger, Wren McMann, lurched forward, the seat belts across their chests pulling taut and jerking them backward. They’d probably have bruises by the time they got home. If they ever got home. In front of them, the line of cars seemed endless. Brake lights as far as the eye could see. This particular road rarely saw so much traffic, but Denton was hosting its first annual Balloons and Tunes Festival.
“This is ridiculous,” Josie muttered, swiping a stray lock of black hair from her cheek.
The small city was nestled among the mountains of Central Pennsylvania along the banks of one of the branches of the Susquehanna River. Its limits extended well beyond the tightly packed streets at its core, spreading along rural routes and winding mountain roads for miles in every direction. For Josie, who worked as a detective for the Denton Police Department, the city had always struck the perfect balance of urban and rural life. Except that when a children’s hospital build that was supposed to bring in significant revenue stalled, the mayor and city council had started looking for other ways to attract visitors.Now Denton was home to a week-long event that rivaled the size and scope of any state fair, and included concerts every night of the week as well as twice-daily hot air balloon launches, weather permitting.
In theory, the festival was a great idea. It had certainly brought in what felt like an endless stream of visitors. Every hotel, motel, Airbnb and campsite in the area was booked solid. The number of people patronizing coffee shops and restaurants had tripled. Even Denton Memorial’s Emergency Department had seen an uptick in minor accidents and heatstroke victims, though Josie wasn’t sure that counted as increased revenue. They were on day two and, in her opinion, the festival had brought more headaches than dollars.
The increased traffic was the least of the city’s problems. Although the festival had its own on-site security, it was little more than a few college-age guys sitting in strategically placed tents and calling 911 every time something went wrong. So far, Denton PD had been summoned to the festival grounds for reports of robbery; violations of noise ordinances; fights; drunk and disorderlies; a balloon chase vehicle that had gotten into a fender bender; and a few escaped goats. Yes, actual goats terrorizing the festivalgoers. The entire police force was stretched thin. Josie hadn’t seen her husband, Noah Fraley, a lieutenant for Denton PD, since it started.
The SUV inched forward. The festival itself was taking place on three hundred acres of public land in the southern part of the city. It was nowhere near the office of Wren’s therapist or their home, but here they were, already forty minutes into a drive that should have taken twenty. Up and down the street, residents emerged from their houses, lingering on porches or on the sidewalks to gawk at the long line of vehicles. The only sounds were the occasional beeps of horns, the whir of the air conditioner, and the scratch of Wren’s pencil against a page ofher sketchbook. Josie glanced over, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever it was Wren was drawing, but she’d angled the page away from Josie’s view.
After fifteen more minutes, they’d traveled two car lengths. Josie bit back a curse as the hands-free feature on the console lit up with an incoming call.
The name flashing across the screen read:Douchebag.
“Damn,” said Josie, punching buttons.
From the passenger’s seat, an amused voice said, “I hope that’s not the name you have saved for Noah.”
Barking a laugh, Josie looked over at Wren again, a small thrill shooting up her spine when she noticed the fourteen-year-old’s smile. “It’s not,” she said. Her fingers scrabbled over the console, trying to send the call to voicemail.
