Things finally reached critical mass when Killian ordered him to interview a survivor from the Crystal Lake Middle School shooting; a twelve-year-old whose mother—a teacher’s aide—had been shot and killed while standing just three feet away. That’s where he had drawn the line and walked away, though not before letting Killian and an entire newsroom full of reporters know exactly what he thought.
It was a habit he had, saying what was on his mind. Usually without thinking before he opened his mouth and frequently in the presence of witnesses. Not that he regretted a word of what he’d said to Killian that day. There were people who needed a dose of truth now and then. Killian was one of them. Stephen Ludlow had been another.
SIX
Clear Harbor, Maine
November 29, 2016
Traffic was virtually nonexistent as Christine pulled onto the highway. Good riddance, she thought as the Rover’s headlights swept past the dirty remnants of yesterday’s snowfall mounded around the guardrail. She didn’t know where she was headed. She only knew there wouldn’t be snow on the ground when she got there.
What she needed was a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, preferably one where they’d never heard of Stephen Ludlow, where she could lay low and take stock of what remained of her life. If only such a place existed. It didn’t of course. The Examiner had seen to that. But with a few days head start, she might be able to disappear until the fervor died down—or some new bit of schadenfreude captured the world’s attention.
In the meantime, she needed to put as much distance as possible between herself and Clear Harbor. The only question was how far she’d be able to go before fatigue and the reality of what she’d done finally caught up with her.
Two hours later, she had her answer. Her eyes had begun playing tricks on her several miles back, and more than once, she’d found herself mesmerized by the strobe effect of the highway’s broken white lines. She had no idea where she was when she finally stopped for gas, but she was glad for the chance to stretch her legs.
She took a chance on the ladies’ room, which reeked of bleach and cherry air freshener, then bought a pair of bottled waters and several packs of Nabs. This wasn’t her first rodeo; she had subsisted for days on nothing but water and peanut butter crackers, and the less she stopped, the less likely she was to be recognized. She wasn’t sixteen anymore, wasn’t flat broke, wasn’t worried about seeing her face on a runaway poster, but somehow the stakes felt just as high. In fact, she’d spent a good portion of the drive dusting off her street smarts. Never use your real name. Pick one alias and stick with it. Cut your hair. Cover any tattoos. Lose the jewelry.
As she pulled back onto the highway, she glanced at her hands on the steering wheel, the ring finger of her left hand conspicuously bare. She’d taken care of the jewelry, at least.
The sun was on the wane when she finally crossed over into Virginia. She had eaten the last pack of crackers sometime around noon, and whatever benefit she’d reaped from the hour of sleep grabbed at a New Jersey rest stop had long since worn off. She needed food and sleep, and she needed them soon. Unfortunately, she hadn’t a clue where she was. Perhaps it was time to pull out the atlas and just pick a destination.
As it turned out, she didn’t need the atlas. She had gone only a few miles when she spotted a billboard for HISTORIC DOWNTOWN SWEETWATER. The name felt familiar, conjuring images of cobbled streets and tiny hole-in-the wall galleries, a quaint inn with a wishing well in back—and Stephen. Without meaning to, she had stumbled onto one of the tiny towns they had visited on their honeymoon.
They had stayed at a small inn whose name she couldn’t recall, had eaten fish and chips at a pub called the Rusty Nail, and then hung around for trivia. They’d been happy then, newlyweds with the whole world before them. What had happened to that couple?
On impulse, she peeled off at the exit and followed the main road through the center of town. Not much had changed. The town was small and picturesque, the sidewalks lined with trendy shops and locally owned cafés. Her mouth watered at the thought of food, but her first order of business was finding a place to sleep.
She pulled into the parking lot of the first inn she saw, an old converted farmhouse called the Fife and Feather. It was small but charming; two stories of clean white clapboard fronted with black shuttered windows and a small porch of weathered brick.
A wreath of magnolia leaves and creamy satin ribbon hung on the front door, reminding Christine with a bit of a jolt that Thanksgiving had come and gone. In the chaos after Stephen’s death, the holiday had simply slipped her mind, along with the turkey she had ordered from Longley’s. She was still wondering what had become of the unclaimed bird as she stepped into the Fife and Feather’s cozy lobby, a snug, low-ceilinged room decorated with shaker furniture and primitive American folk art.
“Hey there!” A pretty blonde stood grinning behind the registration counter. She looked to be in her thirties, but there was an air of prom queen about her too, perky and bright with her messy bun and shimmery pink lips. “Welcome to the Fife and Feather.”
Christine ran a hand through her hair, painfully aware of her bedraggled appearance. “I was driving by and saw the VACANCY sign. I’m hoping you still have a room available.”
The woman’s smile widened as she produced a registration form from somewhere below the counter. “You’re in luck. The leaf peepers are gone, and it’s too early for Christmas guests. You can pretty much take your pick. What brings you to Sweetwater?”
“I’m, uh . . . just passing through.”
“So just the one night then?”
“Yes. Just one night.”
“Well, we’re happy to have you. I’m Missy Beck, by the way—the owner. And since we’re so quiet, I’m going to put you in my favorite room. It was actually the library back when the Holcombes owned it. The bookcases are all original.”
Christine didn’t have the heart to tell her she wouldn’t be paying attention to much of anything except the bed. “Does the inn serve dinner?”
“Sorry. I’m afraid we’re limited to breakfast. But I can offer you one of these to take the edge off.” She held out a plate of what appeared to be freshly baked oatmeal cookies.
Christine took a cookie, nibbling politely. “I don’t suppose the Rusty Nail is still in business, by any chance?”
Missy looked surprised. “The Nail’s been closed for years. It’s a pizza place now, and a pretty good one if that’s what you’re in the mood for. I take it you’ve been to Sweetwater?”
Christine nodded. “Years ago, on my honeymoon.”
“Oh, nice. Is your husband traveling with you this time through?”
“No, he’s . . . I’m a widow.” The word stopped her cold. It was the first time she’d said it out loud, and it surprised her how easily it had slipped from her tongue.
Missy reached across the counter to give her hand a squeeze. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. And you, so young. Was it sudden?”
“Yes. He was—” She paused, realizing she was about to say too much. “He drowned.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either—at least not all of it. She closed her eyes briefly, trying to dislodge the images that had been haunting her for days. Had he been conscious? Had he struggled, and if so, for how long before the water had finally filled his lungs?
Missy’s gray-green eyes filled with sympathy. “You poor thing. I have a friend who lost her husband a year ago, and I’ve seen what she’s gone through. I know it’s hard in the beginning, but it does get easier. Tomorrow will be better, and then the day after that. As long as you have friends, you can get through anything.”