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She let him hold her for a long moment. It wasn’t exactly a fatherly embrace, but he didn’t do anything inappropriate, either. She relaxed, feeling safer than she’d ever felt in her entire life.
“Okay. I’ll stay for a while.”
He squeezed her, then let go and stepped back. “Good. I’ll help you figure out a plan. But this is good.”
Brielle agreed. It was good. Even better than going straight to Vegas. She could take her time. Hide out where no one would find her. Where she was safe.
And later, when he left her alone again, she was so grateful to be there, she didn’t notice he’d locked her in from the outside.
CHAPTER 6
Marigold
I passed a truck on the way to my parents’ house, and for a second, I thought it was Zachary. My heart fluttered, which was so silly. It wasn’t even him, just an older man driving a similar truck. And who cared if we drove past each other? It was a small town, I saw him out and about from time to time.
Maybe I was just worried about him after the incident at the salon. It wasn’t my misplaced crush, just friendly concern.
That didn’t really account for the heart flutters, but I pushed it out of my mind.
I had a break between clients, so I’d decided to stop by and visit my mom. She’d had a minor medical procedure on her left wrist a few days earlier and I knew from experience I needed to check on her in person to make sure she was recovering as well as she claimed on the phone.
My parents, Craig and Alyssa Martin, lived on a quiet street in the house I’d grown up in. When they’d bought it, it had been a modest three-bedroom, one bath starter home. My dad had later added a second story, expanded the garage, and built an art studio for my mom. In the chilly fall weather, the light in the windows made it look warm and inviting.
I knocked and let myself in. “Hi, Mom. It’s me.”
“Hi, flower,” she called. “Back here.”
I moved through the familiar space, past old family pictures and my mom’s paintings, making my way toward her voice at the back of the house. My dad was forever working on the house, but the furnishings hadn’t changed much in the last twenty years. They had the same comfortable furniture in earth tones, the same moss green dishes in the kitchen, and the same white tea kettle perpetually on the stove, ready for visitors.
A beaded curtain hung in the doorway of my mom’s studio, and the hardwood floor was covered with years worth of paint splatters. Several easels held in-progress paintings and huge windows let in light from the backyard. Dressed in denim overalls and a white tank top, her dark hair pulled up in a haphazard bun, Mom stood in the middle of it all, her head tilted, one hand on her hip.
“Mom?”
She held up a finger and tilted her head in the other direction.
I waited while she contemplated the half-finished painting in front of her. She grabbed a wide paint brush and a tube of paint, then squeezed a glob of light blue on the canvas. With exaggerated strokes, she smeared the paint all over the picture she’d been working on.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“No.” She kept brushing the paint back and forth across the canvas. “This one’s junk.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t junk. Did you have to ruin it?”
“Yes.” She put the brush down and turned. “Sometimes there’s no other way but to start over.” Her face broke into a wide smile and she opened her arms. “Come here, flower.”
I hugged her, breathing in her familiar perfume while she held me.
“What are you doing here?” She pulled away, her brow furrowing with mild confusion.
“I told you yesterday I’d stop by.” I gestured to the brace on her left wrist. “I want to make sure you’re okay.”
She picked up an almost-empty mug and peered into it, as if she expected it to be full. “You told me? Sorry, I must have forgotten.”
My mom was something of a hot mess. Dad called her a flighty artist, and although he meant it with affection, it was also true. It seemed like her memory wasn’t the best and she was constantly losing things, but I tended to think her memory was fine. She just didn’t pay attention. Her mind was forever in another world.
And it wasn’t as if she were old. Not even close. She’d been a young mom when I was born, and was only in her fifties now. And she looked it. Her dark hair only had a few sparkles of gray and the smile lines around her eyes gave her a cheerful appearance rather than aging her.
“So how is your wrist?” I asked.
