Sadie started walking, occasionally stopping to listen for the sound of that Dodge. As she kept walking, she heard only the hum of the crickets and crunch of her boots against the dirt road.

“Good Lord, Johnny and Danny, this is a mess.”

“You always did have a talent.”

Her brothers’ voices echoed in her head. Johnny’s letters had arrived regularly until very recently, but Danny had sent only a few since he had gone into the army. She feared the war had swallowed them both up.

As she walked, her breasts ached, and her nipples began to leak milk. Her baby girl must be so hungry by now. There was canned milk at the cabin and Karo syrup. Her mother would know how to prepare the two and see that the baby had been fed. Her mother would not let her down, even if Sadie had shamed her mother with her own foolish choices.

The first hints of sunrise appeared on the horizon, lighting the mountains in rich orange and yellow. As pretty as it was, it was also working against her now.

As she rounded a familiar bend, a set of headlights appeared on the road. The smooth engine did not sound like Boyd’s Dodge, but knowing Boyd, he had called on anyone with a car to get out and look for her.

Taking no chances, she ducked into the brush off the side of the road. The aroma of honeysuckle was thick and gave her hope. She would have to find a new way. A new path.

The car slowed, downshifted, and came to a stop. She had not been quick enough. The driver had spotted her.

CHAPTER TWO

LIBBY

Saturday, June 6, 2020

Bluestone, Virginia

They said bad luck came in threes. But that was not really true. Bad luck could come in threes, fours, fives, or any number it chose.

Today’s first stroke of bad luck arrived with a hard shove to Libby McKenzie’s shoulder and a voice shouting in her ear, “Get up!”

Wrenched from sleep, she sat up quickly, swung her legs over the side of the couch, and knocked over the empty wineglass on the coffee table. Her head spun, and her stomach churned as she pushed back a tumble of dark hair. “What?”

“Libby, get up! You have to be at the wedding venue in one hour.” The shouts came from her friend Sierra Mancuso. They had grown up together, her family living next to Libby’s, and until Libby had gone to boarding school at age thirteen, they had been inseparable.

Libby’s mouth was as dry as cotton. “What about my alarms? I set two.”

“The two I just shut off?” Sierra glared down at her best friend. Her blonde hair was slicked back into a bun, and she wore a black shirt and pants along with sensible shoes. All were telltale signs that Sierra was working a catering gig today.

Both thirty-one, they had been through several life-altering losses together. Sierra’s major life setback had been her husband’s death to cancer last year, and the right cross that had taken Libby down a peg had been three miscarriages and a divorce. They were both the walking wounded and had retreated to their hometown of Bluestone, into their parents’ homes, until the dust settled.

Libby looked at her phone and the purple clock that had been hers since seventh grade. The red digital numbers read 8:02 a.m. “Damn.”

“I’ve started the coffee.” Sierra clapped her hands. “I’m making eggs. Chop-chop.”

“I’m on it.”

Libby jumped to her feet and dashed up the stairs toward the small bathroom. After stripping off her oversize T-shirt, she turned on the hot water and waited as the old pipes rumbled and the water heated.

Her dad, Dr. Allen McKenzie, had been the town pediatrician for thirty years. He had never said no to a patient, not even toward the end, when he had been sick. He had died six months ago.

All promises of never returning to her hometown aside, Libby had moved back to care for her widowed father toward the end, and after he passed, she just decided to stay. It made good economic sense versus living in a rented apartment in Richmond. After the divorce, it was hard to afford anything on a photographer’s salary. Since January, the plan had been to regroup, save up some money, and then get back to living a real life in a real city by Christmas. She was going on six months of regrouping, and she still was not back up on her feet.

Steam finally rose from the water, and she quickly hopped under the hot spray. Adrenaline had her in and out of the shower in under five minutes, and she toweled off and crossed to her old bedroom.

Her room was as neat as she had left it when leaving for college thirteen years ago. The same SAVE THE EARTH posters hung on the wall along with an Ansel Adams print of the Montana skyline. She had yet to sleep in the twin sleigh bed still made up in the paisley purple coverlet purchased from IKEA when she was sixteen. It was one thing to move home, but it was another level of sad to sleep in her first bed again. It felt equally weird to sleep in her parents’ room or the third bedroom, which was her father’s office. The upstairs simply held too many memories that hinted at her parents’ troubled marriage. That left the couch in the living room.

From the open suitcase on the neatly made bed, she removed a dark pair of slacks and a white blouse. She fished a brush from the side of the suitcase and pulled her hair back into a smooth ponytail. Next came her makeup kit, and she quickly applied mascara and rouge. She replaced all the items in her suitcase and then wiped off the bathroom counter and hung up her towel. By 8:12 a.m. it looked like she had barely been there. Perfect.

Barefoot, she hustled down the steps and grabbed her camera bag and shoes before dashing across the back lawn to the Mancuso house. She pushed open the kitchen door.

“Do you even use the house?”

Libby sat in a kitchen chair and laced up her shoes. “I just took a shower.”

Sierra set a cup of coffee in front of Libby, then ladled eggs onto a blue plate and set them in front of Libby, along with a fork. Also on the plate was a strawberry, thinly sliced and fanned.

Libby took a bite of the eggs, discovering the jolt of protein was what she needed. “Bless you.”

Sierra filled a large orange mug sporting a Virginia Tech logo. “You’re like a ghost. You come and go but leave no traces.”

“It’s just weird,” she said. “I haven’t really lived there in years.”

“You live there now.”

She sipped her own coffee, craving the jolt of energy. “Not really. I’m still visiting.”

When her father had become ill last year, he had set about cleaning his home and decluttering, tossing away all the unnecessary baggage that came with living. The walls had been repainted a pale gray and the trim a bright white. He had not tackled any of the larger projects like the kitchen and bathrooms, no doubt thinking the new owner would renovate them their way.

He had left her with a stripped-down version of his home that was now ready to go on the real estate market. He had wanted Libby to sell it and take the money to find a new place to live. Libby had told him she would think about it, which she was still doing.

Sierra shook her head. “You’re afraid to put down roots.”

“I did that, remember? Roots don’t always run deep enough.”

“They could if you didn’t baby them too much.”

Libby arched a brow. “You live over your parents’ garage, Sierra. It doesn’t get any less settled than that.”

“At least I’m living there. I’ve unpacked my bags,” she said with a grin.