Other people, like my captain, had required DNA tests to prove Vera was in fact Vera.
Was it strange not to feel the weight of my badge on my belt? Yep. But fuck, I was glad I’d never have to see that asshole’s face again.
Sorting through the mess had been a nightmare, but we’d made it through. The world now knew that Vera Gallagher was alive—the local papers had plastered her photo on the front page for weeks. A few national news sources had picked up the story too.
But the story we’d spun in Quincy with Lyla’s help had held up. As expected, Vera still refused to talk about that night with her mother. Since there wasn’t a damn thing people could do to make her talk, they’d had to accept the rest of the details.
Cormac had taken Vera. They’d been living off the grid for four years. And finally, she’d left. She’d come home to a family friend. Uncle Vance.
The FBI had rushed to Idaho in hopes of finding Cormac, but also as expected, they hadn’t found him. And just like before, they’d move on to other cases. Now that I wasn’t searching for Cormac, the world would likely forget he even existed.
The media attention had dwindled, though not fast enough for my liking. Not only had they drudged up the details from that night years ago, but since I was linked to Cormac, the gas station shooting had made a resurgence too.
Thankfully, that investigation was over.
I’d been cleared of any wrongdoing, thank fuck. But the damage had already been done. The captain wanted me to keep a low profile, so he’d put me on desk work. The rumors about the family suing the department had faded—probably because they’d realized their chances of winning were slim to none. Still, he hadn’t wanted to take any chances. Hadn’t wanted to broadcast my face to the public.
Apparently, the attention I was getting with Vera was already too much.
So for the past six weeks, I’d been doing paperwork. A lot of fucking paperwork. It had just about sent me over the edge. But I’d stuck it out. For Vera.
I’d wanted to be at the station, in the department with a few resources at my disposal, until she was a full-fledged member of society.
She had her social security card reinstated. She had a driver’s license. She had a checking account and a credit card.
And since the FBI seemed to have run out of questions for her, well . . . I was thinking we were out of the woods. So today, I’d called it quits.
“Do you want milk or water?” Vera asked from the kitchen.
“Water, please,” I answered, walking through the house as a shiver rolled over my shoulders. “Is it chilly in here?”
“Not really.”
“Huh.” Maybe it was just this house.
Had it always been this cold and sterile? Yes. Even when Tiff had lived here and I hadn’t been missing furniture, this place hadn’t had much of a personality. The walls were a dull gray that seemed to suck up the light. My lack of home décor skills meant there was no artwork to bring color into the space. No toss pillows or throw blankets or house plants.
It was nothing like the warm, inviting farmhouse on the outskirts of Quincy, Montana.
Goddamn it, I missed Lyla.
I should have made her promises, even when she’d asked me not to.
All I wanted was to pick up the phone and hear her voice. Every day, I fought the urge to drive to Montana for a glimpse of her beautiful face. It killed me to think of her moving on.
But I wouldn’t tell her I was coming back, not until I knew it was true. I wouldn’t call her, drag her along, and make promises that I might not manage to keep.
Was she okay? Did she miss me a fraction of how much I missed her?
“Big spoon or little spoon?” Vera asked.
“Big. I’ll get napkins.”
With them in hand, I went to the table and took my usual seat.
Vera carried over a bowl of soup made with golden broth, carrots, noodles and chicken.
“Looks delicious.”
“I’ve never made chicken noodle soup before.”
I stirred it for a minute, letting it cool, then took that first, steaming bite. Salt filled my mouth. It was like swallowing a gulp of ocean water, but I fought a grimace and choked it down. “Yum.”
Vera took her own bite. And immediately spit it back into the bowl. “Oh my God. It’s awful.”
“It’s not.” I took another bite. Fuck, it was awful.
“I tasted it and it wasn’t salty enough, so I added some but . . .” She set her spoon aside as the corners of her mouth turned down. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. You’re a good cook. One salty soup isn’t the end of the world.”
Her chin began to tremble.
“Vera.” I covered her hand with mine as tears filled her eyes. “It’s just soup.”
“It’s not even about the soup.” She sniffled, wiping at her lashes. “The cashier at the store today asked me if I was that girl from the paper.”
Shit. “What happened?”
“I lied and told her no.”
Because otherwise, Vera would get bombarded with questions. People had no qualms about stepping past boundaries if it meant satisfying their curiosity. People were the worst.
“I’m tired of lying, Uncle Vance. I’m tired of being recognized everywhere I go.” She caught another tear. “And I miss my dad.”
“I know you do, kiddo.”
“I thought . . . I thought it would feel different being here. I thought it would feel more like home. I thought . . .” Vera trailed off and dropped her gaze to the salty soup.
“Thought what?”
“Thought I would feel them.”
Hadley and Elsie.
Maybe, if we could have visited the spot where I’d scattered their ashes, Vera would have felt that connection. But the snow was here to stay. If she wanted to visit, it would have to be this spring.
“What are we doing here?” She sniffled, drying both eyes. “You miss Lyla.”
I missed her so much it was hard to breathe.
If Vera wanted to go back to Quincy, I’d start packing tonight. But I also needed her to say the words. To choose that path for herself.
The only reason I was in Idaho was for Vera. To give her whatever life she wanted. But if we went back to Montana, that was it. There wasn’t a fucking chance I’d leave Lyla again.
“What are you saying, Vera?”
“I’m saying . . . I think we made a mistake. I think we should go back to Montana.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
LYLA
Crystal walked into the kitchen with her mouth flapping open. “You painted snowflakes on the windows.”
“Well, yeah. I do every year.”
“But usually after Halloween. When you didn’t do them by Thanksgiving, I figured you wouldn’t do them at all.”
I shrugged. “Just took me a little longer to get in the holiday spirit.”
It was a lie. The only spirit currently occupying my body was misery.
But if I’d perfected anything in the past six weeks, it was faking happy. Faking normal.
Every year, I hand-painted snowflakes on the windows of Eden Coffee so that when tourists and locals came in for a cappuccino or pastry, they’d be greeted with charming, winter décor. So last night, after closing down the shop, I’d spent five hours adorning the glass with snowflakes of various shapes and sizes.
It had been well after midnight when I’d made it home and crashed. Then I’d roused at four, returning to the shop to spend another day faking it.
“You’re not wearing lipstick today,” I said, taking in the soft pink of her mouth.
She shrugged. “I couldn’t pick a color.”
“Well, lipstick or not, you look pretty.” I smiled. It was Sunday and her day off. Why had she come into the shop? “What are you up to today?”
“I came downtown to shop for Christmas presents. But it’s busy, so I wanted to pop in and make sure you didn’t need help.”
“Thanks for checking, but I’ll be okay.”
I picked up the tray of muffins I’d pulled from the oven earlier and had set out to cool. With Crystal trailing behind me, I carried them to the counter, scanning the room to make sure no one new had wandered in while I’d been in the back.
Nearly every table was full. Every table but the one against the window.
Vance’s table.
And the reason it wasn’t full was because I’d taken away his chair. Both chairs, actually. Did it look ridiculous to have an empty table in the corner? Yes. But I couldn’t bear to see another person in that spot. Not yet.
The minute I appeared with fresh muffins, three people came to the counter, each buying one to take to their seats. A man I’d never seen before asked for a refill on his coffee.
This time of year, there’d be a plethora of unfamiliar faces in Quincy. The weekends from now until New Year’s would be slammed at the shop. Tourists would flock to our little town to shop or enjoy a winter getaway in the charming atmosphere.
The streetlamps along Main were all strung with white twinkle lights. Mine wasn’t the only shop window decorated for the season. And Eloise told me yesterday that the last open room at the hotel had just been booked. There were no vacancies until January.