How had it come to this? How had I become the villain?
“I’m heading to Montana. Might be gone a week or two,” I told him, knowing he wouldn’t ask why or how long I’d be gone.
Asking too many questions might cross that invisible line drawn between me and my family. Besides, Dad knew why I left town. And like Tiff, he thought I should have moved on years ago.
“All right,” he murmured.
“I left in a hurry. Would you mind taking the trash to the curb on Wednesday?”
“What about Tiff?”
“She’s moving out.”
“Oh.” He paused. “Okay.”
“And would you mind grabbing my mail every few days? Just so it doesn’t pile up.”
“Sure.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Yep.” He ended the call.
These stinted, abrupt conversations had become normal. And somehow, that was my fault.
Next time I left, I’d call a friend to check on the house.
I set my phone aside and focused on the road, taking in the landscape along the way. Plenty of mountains. Dense evergreen forests. This part of Montana wasn’t all that different from Idaho. Maybe that was why Cormac had returned. He’d wanted a taste of home.
The only thing he deserved to taste was three squares a day from a prison cafeteria.
Fuck, but I hoped this lead was something real. Hope was a dangerous game for a man like me, especially where Cormac was concerned. But with every passing mile, it stirred, building and swelling in my very bones.
By the time I arrived in Quincy, my muscles were jittery. My fingers drummed on the steering wheel as the highway slowed, turning into Main Street. As I eased down the road, I soaked in the small town like a sponge.
The Eloise Inn, the hotel where I’d booked a room, was the tallest building in sight, interrupting the jagged mountain horizon in the distance. Businesses, restaurants and a couple of bars filled the downtown area.
The lampposts that lit the sidewalks were wrapped in twinkle lights. Store windows were decked out in autumn décor, pumpkins and potted mums and vibrant leaves.
As I passed a hardware store, I made a mental note to stop by and pick up a map of the local area. Digital maps and GPS worked for some, but I’d always preferred paper.
My mentor had taught me that.
He’d also taught me that time was critical. If a suspect had too much of a head start, catching up became impossible. The APB had been posted Friday afternoon. Unfortunately, it was Sunday. But two days was faster than any of the other leads I’d found.
Maybe Cormac thought that after four years, the world had forgotten about his crimes. Maybe he’d gotten comfortable wherever it was he was hiding. Maybe if he’d built a shelter, settled into the area, he might not be as quick to leave.
A string of maybes. That was all I had.
It would have to be enough.
I parked on Main, taking my bags from the back of my silver Dodge and hauling them into The Eloise Inn. The desk clerk checked me in efficiently, sending me to my room on the fourth floor with two keys and restaurant recommendations for dinner.
I was too anxious to eat much, so rather than stop by Knuckles, the hotel’s restaurant, I dropped my bags in my room, then headed outside.
“Howdy.” A man nodded as I passed him on the sidewalk outside the hotel.
“Evening.” I dipped my chin, already liking Quincy’s friendly atmosphere and the fact that here, I was a nameless, faceless stranger.
I’d hardly left the house in the past two weeks because of the recent media attention. The one time I’d gone to the grocery store, I’d gotten plenty of sideways glances. The cashier had flat-out asked me if I was that cop.
Until that shitstorm died down, I was more than happy to spend my days in Montana.
Ironic, that I’d started my career to stand apart. To be one of the heroes. To wear my gleaming badge with pride. These days, the last thing I wanted was attention. And my badge had a tarnish that no amount of polishing seemed to erase.
Exactly why I’d left it behind.
I crossed Main, heading for the coffee shop. The small green building had a sandwich board out front advertising today’s specials. Mocha latte. Ham, apple and swiss panini. Pumpkin chocolate chip cookies. The words were written in chunky block letters, each adorned with swirly flowers.
The shop’s large, black-paned windows consumed most of the street-facing wall, giving patrons a clear view of the sidewalk and street. In the evening light, they acted like a mirror, reflecting the cars that passed as well as people walking by, me included.
Goddamn, I looked like shit. I dragged a hand through my hair, attempting to tame the dark strands. It needed a cut, and I hadn’t shaved in a few days. The stubble on my jaw was thick. Maybe I’d leave it, grow a beard.
Tiff hated beards.
That didn’t matter anymore. And a beard might distract from the dark circles beneath my eyes. Sleep had been light since, well . . . I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept for more than four or five hours in a row.
I finger combed my hair one more time, but the effort was futile, so I straightened the collar of my plaid jacket before reaching the coffee shop’s door.
Eden Coffee was written on its face in gold lettering. I pulled it open and breathed in the scent of coffee and food. Good food. My stomach growled. Guess I was hungry.
I’d been in the middle of lunch with my laptop when I’d come across the Quincy Police Department’s APB. That meal had been abandoned in the trash, and I hadn’t stopped again once I’d hit the road.
The shop’s walls were the same deep green as the exterior, giving it a warm, inviting feel. Wooden tables and chairs filled the space on either side of the aisle that led to a counter at the back of the café.
The glass display case overflowed with pastries and desserts. The espresso machine’s hiss dulled the conversation from the occupied tables. My boots thudded on the hardwood floor as I made my way to the counter.
The barista wore a pine-green apron. Her jet-black hair was pulled into a short ponytail at the nape of her neck. She had thick, winged eyeliner and her lips were stained purple. Not plum or wine, purple, like a grape jellybean.
She held up a finger as she finished steaming her jug of milk. “Give me one minute.”
“Sure.” I nodded, scanning the large chalkboard menu mounted to the wall behind the counter.
A table in the far corner beside the glass windows would give me an open view of Main and also provide a decent workspace. Better than the cramped desk in my hotel room.
“What can I get you?” the barista asked.
“Ham and swiss panini, please. And a, uh . . .” I peered into the display case. “What’s your favorite thing in there?”
“It’s all good, but I think Lyla is just finishing a batch of her cowboy cookies. Highly recommend.” She pinched her fingers together and did a chef’s kiss.
“Sold.” I dug out my wallet, handing over a twenty just as a woman emerged from the hallway that led deeper into the building.
She carried a tray of cookies, her hands covered in tangerine oven mitts. Her apron was the same pine-green shade as the barista’s. A dusting of flour covered her heart and there was a one-inch streak on her forehead, above her delicate right eyebrow.
Her cheeks were flushed the same pretty shade of pink as her soft pout. A tendril of dark hair had escaped the messy knot on the top of her head and swept across her temple.
My hand lifted, acting on its own, either to tuck that lock of hair behind an ear or wipe away the flour streak.
Her sapphire-blue eyes darted to me as she set the tray on the counter, then pulled off the oven mitts.
Even with the two black eyes she’d tried her best to cover with makeup, she was breathtaking.
She offered me a small smile before dropping her chin into the chunky scarf wrapped around her neck as she began adding cookies to the display case. That scarf was thick, but the bruises on the long column of her throat seemed determined to make an appearance. They peeked out beneath her dainty jaw.
Black eyes. Bruised throat. Clear signs that someone had wrapped their hands around her neck.
The APB from the local authorities had described Cormac perfectly. Better than any previous report. The bulletin had stated that he was a suspect in an attempted murder but hadn’t listed a means.
Strangulation, maybe? That was fitting. And according to the APB, this crime had occurred outside of Quincy, in the wilderness. Cormac’s playground.
There was a chance this woman had nothing to do with him. That I was simply desperate. But I’d listened to my gut for a long, long time. And it was shouting that she was the one who’d crossed Cormac’s path.
“Here you go.” The barista set a plate on the counter with my sandwich, some chips, a pickle and one of those fresh cookies. “Anything to drink?”
“Water. Please.”
“You got it.” She nodded, then put her hand on the other woman’s shoulder. “I can finish with the cookies, Lyla.”