Stephen and Honey had a little girl, and that little girl was now an orphan. She had assumed Ray Rawlings’s motives for wanting to keep his sister’s sins under wraps had to do with shielding the family from scandal. But maybe it was more than that. Maybe it was about protecting an innocent little girl. The moment Honey’s name was made public the reporters would swarm. It would be only a matter of time before they stumbled onto Iris—a child with a famous father and a mother who wasn’t his wife. Had Stephen given a second thought to what might happen to his daughter in such a case?
And suddenly it was there—the question she’d been trying not to ask herself. How had Stephen taken the news that he was going to be a father? Had he been angry? Horrified? Or was it possible the idea of a child had actually appealed to him, that in some dark and ambivalent corner of his alpha male psyche, part of him longed to leave a piece of himself to the world?
Or maybe the questions she should be asking weren’t about Stephen at all, but about herself? Was there some part of her—some broken or missing part—that had prevented her from seeing that Stephen needed more? Had she been so busy trying to outrun her own scars that she had missed the signs? Or had the affair been exactly what it looked like, a midlife crisis with a celebrity-struck, surgically enhanced blonde, the child a mere afterthought? Was it only obligation that had bound them together, or had it gone deeper? The only two people who could answer those questions were dead.
But there was Rhetta.
She had come to Riddlesville for answers, but there was still so much she didn’t know, things she’d never gotten around to asking. Was she really willing to go back to Sweetwater without knowing all of it? And if so, why had she bothered to come at all? The question continued to churn long after she had slipped between the thin hotel sheets and switched off the light.
The water is icy, a million needles prickling at her skin. And murky. Like tea or dirty dishwater. There is a light in the distance—no, a pair of lights—dismal points in the watery gloom. Lying lifeless along the bottom is a hulk of cold bent metal. A face looms behind a square of glass, blue-white and familiar, pale hair fanned out around her head like a halo. She floats there with eyes closed, a grisly mermaid, the sunken place at her temple strangely bloodless. And then suddenly, her eyes are not closed. They’re wide and glassy, vivid violet through all that water. And then the blue-tinged lips begin to move. It’s a strange thing to be aware that you’re dreaming, to know what’s coming and not be able to wake yourself or at least look away. A surreal and terrible déjà vu. Except tonight the dream is different. There’s a new face peering out at her through the glass, a tiny face with vivid violet eyes—a small, bright echo of the other. She does not speak at first. Her mouth is closed, silent. And then she begins to cry, a miserable wail through all that water—Nonny! Her face is suddenly filled with terror, her hands splayed in panic against the glass. It’s too much to see, too much to hear. And then, with lungs near bursting, she is swimming away from the tiny face, the terrible wail growing fainter as she claws her way madly toward the surface.
Christy-Lynn sat bolt upright in bed, drenched and gulping for air, the echo of Iris’s pale face still fresh in her mind. Please God, not the child too. Her heart battered her ribs as she dragged her eyes to the clock on the nightstand, the numbers glowing blue in the unfamiliar dark: 11:15.
Kicking off the sheets, she padded to the bathroom, sponged her face and neck with cold water, then stripped off her sweat-drenched clothes and climbed back into bed. She was about to reach for the TV remote when she spied her phone charging next to the bed. She pulled up Missy’s number, then peered at the clock again. It was long past the boys’ bedtime, which meant Missy was probably already passed out, exhausted after a day at the inn, followed by an evening of baths and homework. On impulse she scrolled down to Wade’s number. He’d put it there, after all, in case she needed to talk. And she did.
He picked up after a single ring. “Please tell me you’re not driving.”
Christy-Lynn dragged the sheet up reflexively at the sound of his voice, covering her bare breasts. “No, I’m not driving.” There was a pause. He was waiting for her to say more, except she didn’t really have any new information since the last time they’d spoken. “I ate,” she said lamely.
“Good. But why aren’t you asleep?”
“I’m sorry. It’s late. I shouldn’t have called.”
“I didn’t mean that. I just meant I was hoping you’d get some rest.”
“Not going to happen, I’m afraid.”
“Can’t sleep?”
“Ghosts,” she said quietly. “She showed up in the dream tonight too.”
“The little girl?”
“Iris,” she told him softly. “Her name is Iris. And yes. I can’t stop thinking about her. There’s so much I don’t know, things I never got the chance to ask.”
“At the risk of sounding heartless, why would you want to know anything else?”
Christy-Lynn raked a hand through her bangs. How did she make him understand when she didn’t understand herself? “Honestly, I’m not sure I do. But I’m here now, so I was thinking . . .”
“Oh, God . . .”
“I was thinking about going back. If Rhetta will still talk to me after the way I walked out. I’m just not sure I can handle seeing Iris again.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe it’s time to just let this go and come home like you said you were going to.”
“I don’t think I can. Not until I know the rest of it.”
“The rest of what, Christy-Lynn? They had an affair. What else is there?”
“What else is there?” she echoed, aware that she sounded faintly hysterical. “There’s a child. One Stephen never told anyone about and never bothered to provide for. Never once did he bring up the idea of us having a baby. Not once in eight years. But he had a daughter with Honey. Did the child mean anything to him, or was she just a mistake, an accident he wasn’t willing to own?”
Another sigh, softer this time. “Why are you doing this, Christy-Lynn? Torturing yourself like this? It’s over.”
Christy-Lynn closed her eyes, knees hugged to her chest. “I know you don’t understand. You couldn’t. And you don’t need to. But there are reasons I need to know what happened and why, things I need to figure out. So for me, it isn’t over. Why do you care anyway?”
“Because it’s what he did—what he always did. He swooped in, took what he wanted, and then made it someone else’s fault. And now I see you falling right into it, taking the blame because he was a snake. You deserve better than that.”
The remark took Christy-Lynn by surprise. “How do you know?”
There was a long pause, as if he were hunting for an answer. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I just do. Look, you’re tired. Try to sleep if you can and then come home. You’ve got something here, something that’s yours. Maybe that’s what you should focus on. Not the past. And not someone else’s mistakes. The future.”
“All right.”
“Call me when you get on the road.”
“I will.”
But even as she ended the call, she knew she wouldn’t be heading home first thing in the morning.
TWENTY-SIX
If Rhetta was surprised to find Christy-Lynn standing on her porch again the next morning, she hid it well. She was still in her housecoat and slippers when she answered the door. “I suspected you’d be back.”
Christy-Lynn ran her tongue over her lips, her mouth suddenly dry. “About yesterday—I’m sorry about walking out like that. I was just . . .”
The sound of cartoons mingled with the aroma of frying bacon drifted out onto the front porch. “I’ve got breakfast going for Iris if you’re hungry.”
Christy-Lynn shook her head. Food was the last thing on her mind. “No, thank you. I just have a few more questions.”
“Yes, I thought you might.” She pulled back the door and stepped aside. “Come on in then and let me get her fed.”
Iris sat cross-legged in front of the television, clutching a bedraggled teddy bear to her chest. Her hair was still sleep-tangled, her eyes glued to the screen. Christy-Lynn fought down a shudder as snatches of the previous night’s dream came flooding back. That tiny face, frantic behind the glass. What in God’s name was she doing here?
“Coffee?” Rhetta offered as Christy-Lynn followed her into the tiny kitchen.