Our drive hugs the river after only a few exits on the highway, and just as the view of it starts to get lost behind the tree line, the Welcome to Rumor sign comes into view. It’s only a twenty-minute ride from campus, not too far from Nashville, but tucked away enough that people need to be looking to find it. It’s a smalltown that lives up to its name. It’s where I grew up, where my family lives, and where I wanted to return to.
I spent so much of my life longing to feel close to my family, but needing distance. Growing up a Crowne wasn’t for the weak or sensitive. My family’s business thrived, while our reputations were dragged through too much mess to ever really come out seeming clean. Distance felt necessary. Then I felt too far.
I click the button to roll the window down farther, and the warm breeze blows in the savory smells of earth and herbs that linger in the air here.
Dry dirt kicks high under crunching gravel, painting his shiny black sports car with a film of dust as we pull into the oversize parking lot. The standout bright neon sign is dark now, but it’s still big enough to read. The Whispering Fool is the kind of bar that encapsulates all the things I didn’t want for my life—a beacon where most of the nasty rumors about the Crowne women began. And every woman from my grandmother to my youngest sister fueled those rumors in varying degrees of bold displays of careless and crass behavior. A bar that’s as much of a show as the life I’m trying to fit back into.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Reed look over to me twice. It’s why I wanted to avoid too much silence.
“You can ask, but I’d rather you didn’t,” I tell him, assuming the typical questions will start any second now. Specifically, ones like,Where have you been? Are the rumors true?Or my favorite:How could you have done that to your family?
“I didn’t say anything,” he says. “Your family never stopped believing you’d find your way back to them.” He leans along the armrest between us. “I’m just happy you did and that you’re alright.”
Am I alright?
With one hand draped along the steering wheel and the other still on the center console, he smiles, and while it’s comforting,there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to hear what he’s going to say. “You look good, Dr. Crowne.”
I bark out a laugh. It’s smooth, I’ll give him that.
“What? You do. You seem . . . different. But it suits you.”
I am different.
“I’m not inviting you for a nightcap, Reed,” I say with my hand on the latch for the door, quirking my eyebrow at him.
He shakes his head. “That wasn’t where my head was, Wyn.” But he smiles once more, like my proclamation isn’t at all surprising, but rather reassuring. “Just glad to see you’re good...that we’re good.”
I don’t know what we are, but the reality is that I’ve been avoiding him since I returned.
When I lean down before closing the passenger door, he meets my eyes through the still-open window. “Grab a coffee with me this week?”
I simply nod and smile as I grab my phone from the center console, charged enough to turn back on finally.
Quiet settles as his car pulls away. I look around the empty parking lot of the bar—this place was probably rowdy as hell little more than an hour ago. Birdie’s always been adamant about a midnight closing time. Anyone who tried to linger any longer, she had no problem hoisting her shotgun up to rest on her shoulder as my mother would so eloquently deliver the line: “You don’t have to go home—at least not alone—but you sure do have to get the fuck outta here.”
Even though the neon sign by the road and the one above the door are dark, there’s still a light on inside. I tilt my head back and take a glimpse at the big moody sky, with its deep grays and purples, deciding just how much rain it wants to dispense.
I whip my head to the left at the sound of movement over the gravel. My stomach sinks, feeling instantly unsafe. On instinct, my hand moves to my back pocket, where I put the sharp-tipped key chain. I stay completely still, waiting and listening. The sounds of rushing water from beyond the riverbanks that loop halfway around the property, the chirp of bullfrogs, and the intermittent sounds of cicadas singing out in the ebb and flow of their calls. But that’s it, nothing else. And yet, Ifeelit.
I’ve been hunted before. I know what it feels like to be watched and timed. The crawl of someone’s attention rolls along my damp skin, as if it’s powering me up. I know better than to wait and see—waiting only gives them time. Time isn’t something I’m interested in giving up any more of.
My hair whips across my face, blinding me for a few seconds as I react quickly. I don’t think about where I’m heading; I only know I need to get far away from where I just was. Taking long strides, I glance along the darkened side of the old building. Nothing’s there except a tire lying in the grass, no cars or bikes left in the lot. Not a straggler or drunk passed out in the weeds.
Shit.
I pull my phone from my purse and glance up at the double doors to the bar, stepping inside. Finding Birdie’s number, I press call. The red glow from the sign that reads Sinners and Goddesses Welcome bathes my path as I move along the entryway. The overpowering smell of bleach tickles my nose. It should smell like stale beer, smoked barrels, and a hint of lavender from mixing bleach with Fabuloso. It’s the only way to get this place fresh again before the next day, Birdie would say. Only, there’s nothing floral or nostalgic lingering in the air now.
Something isn’t right.
The second I enter the main room, there’s enough light for me to make out filled garbage bags, a caddy with cleaning brushes, solutions, and putty knives. But it’s the thick pieces of cloth piled on the floor, absorbing a deep, dark red liquid that had spilled out and pooled in a spot right in front of me that has every hair along my arms raising as a sinking feeling settleslow in my gut. In a panic, I take a quick inventory of what else shouldn’t be here—equipment I’ve never seen, jugs of unmarked liquid, a pile of shredded clothes, and a pair of men’s work boots neatly placed next to it.
Stepping back shakily, I’m careful not to make any more noise than I already have. My body vibrates, remembering the way danger feels when it’s too close, the way it slithers just before it strikes, tearing everything apart. I take another step back the way I came.Don’t panic.And another. Quietly, I take three more steps back.
On the fourth ring, Birdie answers. “Wyn? It’s late, honey. You alright?” she says faintly from the phone. My foot hits the threshold, but before I can respond, a heavy arm wraps around me like a vise against my ribs, trapping both of my arms at their sides. I can barely suck in a breath before a hand covers my mouth. I bite it, but I can’t catch the palm; instead, I taste latex. Frantically looking as the bar’s doors come into view, I try screaming, but only a gut-clenching groan escapes. I’m held so tightly, my back pressed against a bigger, stronger, and taller body that barely budges even as I try thrashing out of its grip.
The deep voice grits out, “Calm down.”
“Fuck you,” I try shouting, but it comes out pathetically stifled.
