“I’ve got to run.” I sprinted toward my house, glad to have escaped before I blurted out my name, giving the officer the two words that, when entered into his police computer, would once again make me the outcast of the neighborhood.
I double-bolted the kitchen door, then leaned against the scorched countertop and put my head in my hands.
He had no right to my past. I wasn’t a sex offender with an obligation to announce my crime to the community every time I moved. My past was private.
And I intended that it stay that way.
3
Daylight poured through the windows of the six-sided drawing room, the one I’d chosen for the new master suite. I groaned and rolled to my elbow on the narrow cot. My travel clock said nearly nine. I could kick myself for thinking that sleeping in was possible without blackout shades to cover the array of double-hungs.
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, though I could swear I hadn’t gotten a wink. After reading past midnight, I’d fallen into a fitful slumber punctuated by train whistles that seemed to blend into one all-night-long peal.
At the thought of the train, my meeting with Officer Brad splashed over my mind like a bucket of cold water, bringing me to immediate wakefulness.
I sat up. I hadn’t wanted to start out with stares of accusation right off the bat. I’d rather enjoyed my encounter with David Ramsey and had hoped to keep a low profile, at least until I found out if David was available. I hadn’t been in a relationship since college. I figured I could handle one by now. And David Ramsey, with his ring finger bare of gold, made a possible candidate. But one wrong word from Brad Walters could put the kibosh on that in a hurry.
I tweaked my split ends. What chance did I stand with a hunk like David anyway? I’d have more luck with the boy in blue, even with my record. But honestly, Brad Walters could be available ’til the moon turned to cheese. I wasn’t about to get involved with a police officer. I had run for my life to escape his prying last night, only to sneak back outside later to retrieve my forgotten gear. The last thing I needed was a table for two at the local restaurant, with Sherlock Holmes in the seat across from me.
I faced facts. Whether I liked it or not, my love life would remain as barren in Rawlings as it had in Walled Lake, Pontiac, and Rochester. But that didn’t give me permission to lie around and get depressed.
I jumped up and did my morning stretches, giving the neighborhood watchdog quite a show in my T-shirt and spandex shorts. The woman was in her front yard, bundled in one of those fat, quilted coats. She appeared to be minding her own business as she cut back her rosebushes for the season. Yet, every so often, she’d toss her gray hair in my direction.
Spy.
Let her have her thrills. I reached toward the ceiling, then touched the floor. I wasn’t about to start caring what the neighbors thought—except for one.
Five minutes later, I gave a final stretch. I checked out my reflection in one of the far windows. Tall, slim, and toned.
Mm-hmm. I still had it.
I took a few cleansing breaths. The contractors would be here at ten, and I still needed to shower and find some food to stuff into the hole that had formed in the lining of my stomach.
I rifled through my backpack and picked out my supplies: two-in-one shampoo, a bar of Dial, and a razor. The double-bladed Daisy with lubricating strip was a privilege I didn’t take lightly. I probably had the smoothest legs in the state.
I headed to the bath off the kitchen. Twenty minutes later, I ran a brush through my snarls, then pulled on blue jeans and a turtleneck. I tied my sneakers, flung on my denim coat, and covered my still-wet hairdo with a floppy knit hat that Grandma had given me when I’d been a freshman in college. I’d hated the flashy pink thing back then and had pitched it in the back of my closet. But now, I treasured it. Grandma had made it with her own hands.
I locked the front door and started up the street toward the quaint business district that made Rawlings seem like the set from a ’20s mobster movie. The crisp morning air was invigorating. All the phantoms from the previous night disappeared into cool autumn sunshine. I paused at the railroad tracks, determined not to let one of the numerous Midnight Specials that had flown past last night flatten me this morning.
All clear.
I angled kitty-corner over to Independence Alley and the Whistle Stop Coffee Shop. I’d seen the local coffeehouse on my first trip to town and spent many an hour plotting leisurely morning walks over to its irresistible row of carafes marked Hazelnut, Vanilla Nut, Amaretto, Irish Cream, Chocolate Raspberry . . . Its convenient locale was probably the determining factor for the purchase of my big old haunted mansion.
I smiled at the server behind the cash register, a girl of about eighteen whose hair matched the mahogany of the counter.
I consciously avoided staring at all the face jewelry. “I’d like a tall café mocha with extra whipped cream, please.”
The girl looked at me over her nose pearl, with a long, sweeping gaze that had my dream of a quick cup of java melting like a marshmallow in boiling water. I tried not to breathe any more of the robust coffee scent than absolutely necessary. A caffeine headache already prodded my temples, no doubt aggravated by the delay.
The teen’s eyebrow ring gave a tilt. “You totally look like someone who used to live around here.”
Yeah, that’s me. Generic face.
“I just moved in,” I said. “Maybe it’s the hat that’s familiar.” I gave the brim a jaunty slant. “It’s me, Ilsa Lund.”
The girl’s lip curled in ignorance.
“From Casablanca,” I said.
The clerk’s eyes glazed.
“It’s an old movie.” That was one thing I had been grateful for over the years. I’d gotten to see the classics, something of which the younger generation was obviously deprived.
I waved it off. “Never mind. I think I’ll have a cinnamon roll too. That big one in front will be perfect.”
I pointed through the glass of the display case. The girl wrapped the pastry in paper and handed it to me, then got busy at the coffee machine.
While I waited, I looked out the window and took a bite of the aromatic roll. The sugar melted on my tongue, nearly sending my mouth into spasms from the sudden onset of food.
Rawlings was about as perfect a town as I could imagine. Cobblestones paved the one-block length of Independence Alley. Near the corner, the stones made a Liberty Bell pattern with the numbers 1776 beneath, welcoming visitors to the one-way street. Across from the coffee shop was Clothing Junction. Sweaters with Halloween designs hung like scarecrows in the window. Next to it was Heavenly Scents, then Fashion Depot and Victoria’s Sweet Shop. Pumpkins, bales of straw, and stalks of corn decorated the street all the way to the door of the historic Rawlings Hotel at the far end.
“Here’s your coffee.” The tapping of fingernails on wood accompanied the words.
I turned and gave the girl my biggest smile. “Thanks. Have a great day.” I left a big tip, hoping that my next visit would merit top-notch service.
As I walked down Main Street, I could see a burgundy truck pulling into my driveway, the words Lloyd & Sons etched in white on the side.
I quickened my pace, shoveling down bits of roll in between sips of coffee. I loved a contractor who was early. The project had a chance of getting done on schedule if the pattern held.
“Here I am,” I called, waving as I cut across both street and tracks. I’d just landed my foot on the corner of my lawn when the high-pitched squeal of a police siren sounded behind me.
I froze. The cinnamon roll and coffee I’d been savoring suddenly lodged in my throat.
Bleep. Bleep. The siren persisted.
