The shadows of the trees—their leaves lush and their branches heavy with nuts—stretched across her body as she plunged into the embrace of the orchard, the sky disappearing underneath the canopy of leaves, coolness slipping over her as she breathed in the scent of coming rain and freshly turned earth.
As she moved deeper into the trees, into the safe hold of the roots and branches that had sheltered her throughout her life, she let her mind return to Cass. And to Howard Wells.
When she moved back home, she hadn’t even thought about writing a book about Cass. She’d been focused on getting her dad healthy . . . but that didn’t happen. And then she found herself dealing with his terminal cancer and an orchard that needed to be nursed back to life, and by the time she looked up again, able to breathe, years had passed. And she needed a change.
She didn’t want to just write investigative pieces for magazines and websites anymore. She wanted to do something bigger. Something personal. And when Cass’s mother asked her to write about her daughter, she couldn’t say no. So Abby set out to write a book about Cass’s life—and her loss. A tale of a town in mourning . . . and then a town haunted, by the specter of a man too terrible to comprehend and the last girl he ever killed.
She hadn’t wanted to be focused on Wells—there were plenty of books about the methodology—and psychology—of Dr. X. She wasn’t a psychologist, she wasn’t interested in profiling him or dedicating more ink and paper and words to his evil. When it came to killers like him, the ones that were so horrible, so vile, so profane against the very humanity they came from, their victims always got lost in the shuffle.
She was interested in telling Cass’s story.
But as she began to research it, Cass’s story took a turn. It started when she got her hands on the police interviews with Wells and compared them to the FBI tapes. It had taken a lot of favors to get both—the FBI had taken over the case pretty fast—but their local police had done the initial arrest and questioning. When she compared the police interviews with those conducted by the FBI, the first inkling that something wasn’t quite right began to snake its way into her mind.
“Abby?”
A voice jerked her out of her thoughts, and Roscoe barked, tugging on his leash.
She was sure she was dreaming as the figure broke through the fog and she got a clear view of him.
It was him. Standing there like the answer to all the questions she’d been asking herself. For a moment, she just stared at him, her mouth hanging open. And then she snapped her jaw shut and said, “Paul.”
Roscoe was still pulling on his leash, so Abby snapped her fingers. “Settle, boy.”
Paul’s handsome face broke out into a smile—so familiar, but different at the same time. His eyes crinkled in places they didn’t before, but his hair was still that unruly shock of gold, dipping into his bright blue eyes.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He held out his arms and she stepped forward into them, letting him hug her. He smelled like the orchard, like green fresh leaves and summer, of memories she’d tried to avoid and promises she’d broken.
She closed her eyes, breathing it all in, trying to calm her thundering heart.
It was hammering harder in her chest now than it had been at the prison. Yet she had nothing to fear from Paul.
Except her own damn weakness.
“It’s good to see you,” he said when they pulled apart. “What are you doing wandering the rows this late?”
“It’s my orchard,” she said, feeling that telltale defensive prickle up her spine. “I can walk it in the middle of the night if I want.”
His smile grew wider. “Same old Abby,” he said.
She folded her arms across her chest. Now that Roscoe knew he was a friend, the old dog had sat at her feet, his tongue lolling out of his mouth to an impressive length. “It’s been a long time,” she said pointedly.
Three years. She remembered all too well the last time they’d been face-to-face. It hadn’t ended pleasantly.
Paul’s mother, when Abby saw her every weekend at the farmer’s market, liked to complain about how her son never visited. Tandy Harrison was a battle-axe of a woman, if you ever met one. She wasn’t ever a farmer’s wife—she was a farmer herself, first and foremost.
For all of Abby’s life, the Harrisons had been their next-door neighbors—well, as close to next door as you could get with acres of land between their houses. Tandy had spearheaded a weekly rotation among her father’s old friends to sit with him once a week, giving Abby some free time to herself. Tandy was the type who looked out for her own—and she pretty much considered the entire population of Castella Rock her own.
Abby was grateful to her and admired her. When she was younger, Tandy was the closest thing to a mother figure she had. And now that she was a grown woman, she was the valued giver of insight that Abby sought when it came to all things regarding the orchard.
“I’m home for the memorial,” Paul said. “Will you be there?”
Abby nodded. “Of course.”
They looked at each other, the silence stretching between them.
It shouldn’t be this awkward. She’d known him her entire life. He was the boy next door. She’d crossed the meadow between their properties thousands of times, looking for him. He’d been her first kiss, when she was six. And she’d “married” him when they were seven, with ring-pops they’d stolen from one of his sisters.
He was woven into the tapestry of her life and stories. When he and Cass had gotten together, it had made sense. They fit together. And Abby was happy that the two people closest to her loved each other.
But by the time they were seventeen, things had changed. They all had changed.
Except for Cass. Cass hadn’t lived long enough to change.
Her stomach twisted at the long-buried thought. “I should get back,” she said, jerking her thumb behind her. “It’s late.”
He nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets, and for a second, he looked so much like the boy she knew, it took her breath away. “I . . .”
Oh, God. Please don’t let him bring it up, she thought. Please let him just let it lie.
The last time they’d seen each other, it had been a disaster. She’d been grieving. They’d both been drinking. It had gotten terribly, terribly messy. And they hadn’t spoken since then. He hadn’t come home since then. She hated the idea that maybe she was the reason he stayed away.
“It’s good to see you,” he said. “I’m glad you’re coming tomorrow.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” she said, and then mentally winced, because she knew he had missed it the past few years. She’d worried, that first year, if it was because of her. But Tandy had told her he had a case. She prayed that was the truth. She hated the idea of what happened between them keeping him from his family and their traditions.
“Then I guess I’ll see you there.”
“Yeah.”
She turned to go, and as she was walking away, she heard him say, “Night, Winny,” and the sound of her childhood nickname, the one only he and Cass called her, made unexpected tears prick the corners of her eyes.
She took a deep breath, tightening her hands on Roscoe’s leash, and continued through the rows of trees, leaving Paul behind.
It was what she was good at, after all.
Chapter 6
Two years ago
The funeral had been beautiful. Abby had made sure of that. She felt an ache down to her very bones as she dragged herself up the porch steps of the farmhouse. She’d spent the last week and a half frantically running around, arranging everything, getting the service ready, the flowers, the programs, all the food.
And now, it was finally over.
Now, she could finally grieve. Alone. Away from the well-wishers and the concerned neighbors and everyone from church who just wanted to help.
She just needed to get inside the house and lie down.
“Hey, Winny.”
The voice, soft, rough, and so familiar, sent a warm rush of relief through her.
He’d come.
She turned, and Paul was standing there at the bottom of the porch steps, looking like he’d just gotten off a plane. His hair was rumpled, and his wrinkled shirt was open at the collar.