TWELVE

Sweetwater, Virginia

December 12, 2016

Christy-Lynn stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jacket as she ducked across Main Street. As the last mild days of autumn gave way to chillier weather, Sweetwater’s holiday season had shifted into high gear. Wreaths glowed from every downtown lamppost, and tiny white lights had transformed the drilling green into a twinkly winter wonderland.

Not that she’d been paying much attention. She’d been too busy tying up the loose ends of her marriage. After a cursory examination of her finances, it was clear that even if Lloyd and Griffin never sold another Stephen Ludlow novel, there was more than enough money for her to live comfortably for . . . well, forever. But the truth was she wasn’t sure she even wanted it. It felt tainted somehow, earned by a man she only thought she knew. What she really wanted—really needed—was to shed any reminder that she’d been married to Stephen at all, to erase him the way she had erased so many other calamities from her past.

Maybe she’d donate it all to charity. Or set up an endowment of some kind. But in whose name? Stephen certainly didn’t deserve to be remembered as a philanthropist. Perhaps an anonymous donation of some kind. She would have to give it some thought. In the meantime, she had contacted a Realtor to put the house up for sale. She wasn’t sure where she’d eventually end up, but for now at least, Missy seemed happy to have her at the inn, and the truth was she was starting to get comfortable. Perhaps a little too comfortable.

She could feel herself settling in, becoming part of the weft and weave of Sweetwater’s daily life, and beginning to bond with Missy and Dar. Last night, they had insisted she come along to the annual tree lighting ceremony on the green, and then for pie and coffee after. It had been a lovely night, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was taking advantage of their friendship by lying about her identity—and why she was really in Sweetwater.

She’d been keeping up with the news, checking in online and on TV every few days. It seemed the worst of the frenzy surrounding her disappearance had begun to die down, thanks in large part to the newly surfaced sex tape of some reality show star and her pool boy. And if the shots taken by the intruder on her terrace had ever shown up anywhere, she never saw them. Now, as she lingered in front of the local bookshop, staring at her reflection in the dusty front window, she wondered if it might not be time to move on.

She was restless. Not bored, exactly, but fidgety and in need of focus. She had wrapped up the last of her editing projects last week, and for the time being had decided to decline any new projects. Suddenly her plate was disturbingly empty.

A sharp clatter jolted Christy-Lynn back to the present. She turned to find Carol Boyer banging on her shop window, waving a wad of damp paper towels in an attempt to get her attention. Christy-Lynn smiled and waved back. Carol owned the Crooked Spine. It wasn’t much, a shabby corner shop with outdated titles in the front window and a cramped little café in back where she’d spent more than one afternoon sipping bad lattes and typing up edit notes, but it was something of a fixture in Sweetwater’s quaint downtown.

Carol waved her inside with a conspiratorial grin then beckoned her toward the café. “I’ve been experimenting,” she announced proudly as she slipped behind the counter. “I’ve been trying to come up with something festive for the holidays, and I think I’ve finally got it. I know how much you love my lattes, but I was wondering if you’d try one of these and tell me what you think. I’m calling it a noggiato.”

Moments later, Carol placed a frothy mug on the counter and sprinkled on a bit of nutmeg. “There you go,” she said, beaming. “Give that a try.”

Christy-Lynn sipped politely, trying not to shudder as the first sip went down. It tasted like scorched eggnog and was so sweet it made her teeth ache, but she wasn’t about to dash Carol’s hopes. “It’s very . . . festive,” she said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “I’m sure it’s going to be a huge hit with your customers.”

Carol scanned the empty shop with forlorn eyes. Her shoulders sagged. “What customers?”

“Slow afternoon?”

“More like a slow year. It’s the middle of December, two weeks until Christmas, and I haven’t seen a customer for hours. I don’t know what’s happened. I’ve been running this place for twenty-six years, and it’s never been like this. I guess people just don’t want real books anymore. Rather read on one of those electronic thingies.”

Christy-Lynn suspected there was more to the story than the advent of e-readers as she surveyed the worn carpet, scarred shelves, and lumpy armchairs. The place had probably been homey once but now felt like a musty basement.

“Maybe it could do with a bit of a face-lift,” Christy-Lynn suggested. “A little rouge and lipstick.”

Carol frowned. “Lipstick?”

Christy-Lynn couldn’t help chuckling. “It’s an expression. It means to spruce the place up. A little paint. Some carpet. Maybe some new chairs up front. And you could brighten up the café a little. Some tablecloths, fresh flowers. It wouldn’t cost much.”

Carol pulled off her glasses and gave them a wipe with the corner of her apron. “I just haven’t got it in me,” she said wearily. “It’s not the money. It’s just . . . I’m tired.” She held her glasses to the light, then slid them back onto the bridge of her nose. “I’m seventy-four, and I have two grandbabies down in Florida that I never get to see. But this place has been part of my life—part of this town—for almost thirty years.” She was back behind the counter now, filling a small sink with hot water. Her glasses were fogged, her eyes nearly invisible. “I know it’s silly, but I hate to think of the place not being here.”