Sighing, I pushed away from the wall and looked down the hall.
Maybe I wouldn’t have flipped out so strongly if I hadn’t heard the news on the radio just as I was leaving the interstate—news of a woman missing from Frederick. I caught the tail end of her name—Banks. She was a nurse at Memorial Hospital. Her husband had last seen her the morning she’d left for work.
My breath caught as a cold shiver skated over my skin. Frederick was not far from Berkeley County. Usually a forty-five-minute drive on days when the traffic wasn’t bad. The tips of my fingers felt icy as I opened and closed them.
One missing person was horrible and sad, incredibly tragic no matter the circumstances. Multiple missing people was terrifying, major news, and a pattern—
Cursing under my breath, I cut those thoughts off. The missing woman had nothing to do with me. Obviously. God knows I fully understood how traumatic a missing person could be, and I really hoped that the woman was found safe, but it had nothing to do with me.
Or with what happened ten years ago.
The brisk early-January winds rolled across the roof, startling me. My heart thundered against my ribcage. I was as skittish as a mouse in a room full of starved cats. This was—
My cellphone rang, jarring me out of my thoughts. Bending over, I reached inside the oversized hobo bag and dug around until my fingers curled around the slim surface. I pulled it out, lips twitching when I saw the caller.
“Sasha,” Mom said the moment I hit answer. Her laugh made my smile spread. “Where in the world are you? I saw your car out front, but you’re nowhere to be found.”
I winced a little. “I’m upstairs. I got out of the car and started to walk in, but I . . .” I didn’t want to say the words, admit how unnerved I was.
“Do you need me to come upstairs?” she asked immediately, and I squeezed my eyes shut.
“No. I’m fine now.”
There was a pause. “Sasha, honey, I . . .” Mom faded off, and I could only wonder what she was about to say. “I’m glad you’re finally home.”
Home.
Most twenty-nine-year-olds would feel like a failure if they returned home, but for me, it was the opposite. Coming home was an accomplishment, a feat not easily completed. Opening my eyes, I swallowed another sigh. “I’m coming down.”
“I was guessing you would.” She laughed again, but it sounded shaky. “I’m in the kitchen.”
“Okay.” I clenched the phone tighter. “I’ll be there in a few.”
“All right, honey.” Mom hung up, and I slowly placed my phone back in the bag.
For a moment, I stood stock-still, rooted to the floor, and then I nodded curtly. It was time.
It was finally time.
I was floored.
The inside looked nothing like I remembered. I stepped through the foyer, blown away by the change that had taken place in the last ten years.
Purse dangling from my fingertips, I slowly made it through the main floor. The vases full of artificial orchids were new and the dated chairs by guest check-in were gone. The two great rooms had been opened up to create one large space. Soothing gray paint replaced the flowery wallpaper. The old traditional chairs with the velvet upholstery had been changed to teal-and-white thick-cushioned wingback chairs strategically placed around the end tables for easy conversation. The brick fireplace had been stripped back and painted white.
Another surprise waited when I entered the dining area of the inn. Gone was the cold, formal table that forced every guest to eat together if they dined at the inn. I’d always hated that, because hello, awkward. Five large round tables covered in white linen were staged throughout the large room. The fireplace in here was painted to match the one in the sitting room. Flames rippled behind the glass. A station to serve drinks had been moved into the room and sat catty-corner to the fireplace.
The Scarlet Wench had finally come into the twenty-first century.
Had Mom mentioned this at some point? We’d talked on the phone a lot and Mom had visited in Atlanta multiple times in the last ten years. She had to have brought this up. She probably had, but I tended to zone out anything related to this town, and I must’ve zoned out way too much.
This was significant; seeing this was important, because now I knew I’d checked out way too deeply.
A knot formed in the back of my throat and stupid tears burned the back of my eyes. “Oh God,” I murmured, wiping the back of my hands under my eyes as I blinked rapidly. “Okay. Pull it together.”
Counting to ten, I cleared my throat and then nodded. I was ready to see my mama. I could do this without breaking down and crying like an angry, hungry baby.
Once I was sure I wasn’t going to have an epic meltdown, I got my feet moving. The scent of roasted meat led me to the back of the house. A pocket door with staff only posted was closed. Reaching for it, I was suddenly thrust back into the past, and within seconds I saw myself running through this very door and into the arms of my waiting father after the first day of kindergarten, the watercolor painting I’d done flapping from my outstretched hand. I remembered shuffling through this door the first time my heart had been crushed, my face streaked with dirt and tears because Kenny Roberts had pushed me into the mud at the playground. I could see myself at fifteen, knowing my dad would never be waiting for me again.
And I saw myself bringing the boy I’d met in Econ 101 through this very door to meet Mom, and my heart did an unsteady flop, pulling me right out of the stream of memories.
“God,” I groaned, shutting that train wreck of a thought process down before those pale blue wolf eyes formed in my mind. Because once that happened, I’d be thinking of him for the next twelve thousand years, and I really didn’t need that right now. “I’m such a mess.”
I shook my head as I slid the door open. The knot returned with a vengeance the moment I spotted her behind the stainless-steel counter, standing where Dad used to until he passed away from the widow-maker—a massive, undetected morning heart attack.
Forgetting about the dread I’d felt the whole long-as-hell drive up here and what I’d heard on the radio, I felt like I was five again.
“Mom,” I croaked, dropping the bag on the floor.
Anne Keeton stepped out from behind the counter, and I stumbled in the rush to get to her. It had been a year since I’d seen her. Last Christmas, she had traveled to Atlanta, because she’d known I wasn’t ready to come home then. Only a year had passed, but Mom had changed just as much as the inn had.