“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 earbudsin 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.
