I take a step forward without meaning to. “I… what?”
She smiles, soft and a little sad. “I’d know that face anywhere. You look so much like her, it nearly knocked the breath out of me.”
My throat tightens. No one ever says that anymore. Not like this. Not with certainty instead of nostalgia.
“I… yes,” I say, suddenly unsure of my own name. “I’m Abilene.”
She gestures to the seat across from her. “Please. Sit. Before I start crying in public like a lunatic.”
I slide into the booth, hands numb, heart racing. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”
She shakes her head. “Not yet.” Then, after a beat, she adds, “But I knew your mother, growing up.”
That does it. My breath catches, sharp and painful.
“I’m Evelyn Mercer,” she says, extending her hand across the table. Her grip is warm. “Bonnie’s best friend.”
Evelyn holds my gaze for a beat longer than comfortable, as if trying to decide what kind of truth I can survive.
Then she sets her mug down and says, very quietly, “Before I say anything else, I need you to hear me clearly.”
My fingers tighten around the edge of the table. “Okay.”
“I didn’t send those letters to scare you,” she says. “Or to play some kind of game. I sent them because I didn’t know how to walk up to you and say, ‘Hi, I knew your mother better than anyone, and I’ve been sitting on parts of your history for twenty years.’”
My throat goes tight. “So you… are the one.”
“I am.” She lets out a breath. “And I’m here now because the letters became something they were never supposed to be. I can see that.”
I swallow hard. “Why ask me to come alone?”
Evelyn’s eyes flick toward the counter, then back. “Because I don’t trust an audience. Not in this town. And because…” Her mouth tightens. “Because there are people who will try to protect you by controlling the story. That doesn’t help you. It just keeps you small.”
Heat rises behind my eyes. Mara’s face flashes in my mind. Her easy smile. Her careful detours.
Evelyn nods understandingly. “Yeah. Like I can see you’ve been through already.”
I press my palm to the table to calm myself. “Start at the beginning.”
Her expression softens. “The beginning is… your mom was funny. Clever. Mischievous. She was the kind of girl who could get you in trouble and have you laughing about it.”
A laugh tries to break through my panic and fails halfway. “That sounds like her.”
Evelyn’s smile flickers. “It is her. Everyone turned her into a saint after she died because it was easier. But Bonnie was real. She was stubborn. She had dreams bigger than this valley. And she loved you so hard it probably scared her.”
My chest aches. I stare down at my hands so I don’t cry in a booth at four in the afternoon.
“I’ve been told so many different versions of her,” I manage.
“That’s because people have been mixing three different stories together,” Evelyn says. “And the mess made it sound like something sinister.”
I lift my eyes. “Three stories.”
Evelyn nods once. “One: the rivalry. Two: the family arguments. Three: the accident.”
My stomach flips. “Right. So what was the rivalry?
“Nothing, really,” Evelyn says, and her tone is rueful. “But the town loved that part. Ate it up.”
