Trouble. The word hovers ominously in the quiet. “But Derrick—”

“It isn’t just tonight, Christy-Lynn.”

“The money you took from the Piggly Wiggly?”

She nods, sighing heavily. “And . . . other things.”

“What things?”

“Things I didn’t want you to know about. It has to do with a guy I know. An . . . arrangement we had.”

“Sex?” Christy-Lynn asks softly.

“Yes, sort of.”

“So you could get drugs.”

She nods again, eyes skittering away. “And one night I got caught. It didn’t amount to much—solicitation, first offense. But it all adds up, and now . . .”

“You’ll go to jail?”

“That’s how it’s looking.”

Christy-Lynn takes an involuntary step back. “What about me? Did you tell them you had a daughter?”

“There are places . . .”

“No!”

“It’ll only be for a few months,” she promises in the wheedling, petulant voice she hauls out when she’s made a mess of things. “A year at the most. It’ll be over before you know it. And when it is, we’ll be together again. We’ll move away, start somewhere new. It won’t be so bad, you’ll see. You’ll even be able to visit me.”

But Christy-Lynn has stopped listening. She doesn’t want to visit her mother in jail or move somewhere new when this is all over. Because it will never be over. It will only start again in a new town, with a new set of problems, and probably a new dealer.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Charlene whispers, reaching for her daughter. “So sorry.”

“I know, Mama,” she says quietly, ignoring her mother’s outstretched hand. “You’re always sorry.”

TWENTY-TWO

Sweetwater, Virginia

May 1, 2017

Christy-Lynn eyed Wade’s Jeep in the driveway as she lifted her hand and knocked a third time. He was clearly home. Was he ignoring her? Paying her back for snubbing his lunch invitation? If so, it probably wasn’t a great time to ask for a favor.

She knocked again and waited, almost relieved when there was still no answer. It had been a crazy idea anyway. She was about to step off the porch when she heard a door slam somewhere around back. She weighed her options—suck it up and ask what she’d come to ask or leave with her pride intact and no hope of getting the answers she now knew she wanted.

Skirting the remains of last winter’s woodpile, she made her way around the back of the cabin. Wade was coming down the deck steps, a red nylon tote slung over his shoulder as he headed for the small wooden canoe beached at the waterline. He had one leg in when he spotted her. He straightened and stood staring at her, a hand raised to shield his eyes against the lowering sun.

“Hello,” she said awkwardly, as if she’d been caught trespassing.

“Have you changed your mind about lunch?”

She ducked her head sheepishly. “I came to talk.”

“About a truce?”

Christy-Lynn smothered a groan, too weary to spar. “Can’t we just . . . talk?”

“Get in the boat.”

Christy-Lynn’s eyes went wide. “What?”

“If you want to talk, you’ll need to do it on the water.”

She laughed, though something told her he wasn’t kidding. “I’m not really dressed—”

“We won’t be waterskiing or anything. Kick off your shoes and leave your purse. You’ll be fine.”

Christy-Lynn eyed the canoe warily, asking herself again just how badly she wanted Wade’s help.

“What’s wrong? Can’t you swim?”

“Of course I can swim.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

When it became clear he had no intention of relenting, Christy-Lynn dropped her purse and kicked off her ballet flats. Wade steadied the boat as she stepped in, instructing her to keep both hands on the gunwales—which she assumed meant the sides—as she inched her way forward, then turned and carefully lowered herself onto the narrow cane seat.

A moment later, Wade was pushing away from shore, settled across from her as they headed smoothly out onto the water. For a time, neither spoke, Wade paddling with close, easy strokes, Christy-Lynn marveling at the echo of sunlit clouds mirrored in the lake’s glassy surface.

“It’s beautiful.” She took a deep breath, feeling herself relax as she filled her lungs with pine-scented air. She hadn’t meant to say it aloud. In fact, she didn’t realize she had until Wade met her gaze.

“Yes, it is. So?”

“So . . .”

He shrugged, his face blank as he pulled the paddle out of the water and laid it across his knees. “It’s your meeting.”

Christy-Lynn nodded. “Yes, I guess it is.” She paused to regroup, then began again. “The last time I was here you said something. You said I might not really want to know the truth about the woman in Stephen’s car.”

“Yeah, sorry. I had no right to say that stuff. Your grief is none of my business.”

“No, it isn’t. But that doesn’t change the fact that you were probably right. The longer I thought about it, and about what I might learn, the more I realized I was afraid.”