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I park in a spot out front and sit for a moment to gather my thoughts.
Returning here wasn’t an easy decision.
My sister Erin blinks through my mind. My sister Riley does as well. Next, it’s my father’s turn, but with him I just see the blood splatter. Then lastly, my mother with my Glock in her hand.
“Wonderful,” I mutter as I force myself out of the truck before I change my mind and head straight back to Nevada.
No sooner do my feet land on the ground than the sound of the distant falls embraces me like an old friend. It’s late morning, but the fog is still hugging the ground and I can feel the mist brushing against my skin, a cold reminder of the mysteries that lie hidden in this town.
I pull my jacket tighter around me, steeling myself as I head for the entrance. It’s not just the warmth of the diner or my mother’s embrace I’m here for—it’s the search for truth in a place that, for all its beauty, harbors a very dark secret beneath its surface.
As much as I’d like to brag that I know each and every one of them, I have a feeling I know just enough to be dangerous.
The sign reading Bea’s Diner flickers above the entry. Like a lot of things in Pine Ridge Falls, it’s holding on to its charm by a thread. The windows are streaked with the muddy trails of countless storms and a part of me wonders if it’s a harbinger for things to come.
Inside, it’s light and bright, a touch too warm with the scent of freshly grilled burgers and fries alerting me to the fact it’s just about lunchtime.
Eighties music plays softly from the speakers, and just above that is the chatter of happy customers. A few families sit scattered about, a handful of couples, and just about as many singles are hunched over their meals and coffee.
The interior, much like the exterior, wears its age with a certain dignity quickly overshadowed by a cry for renovations. Red Naugahyde seats pepper the place with color, their surfaces cracked and peeling just like the walls. The black and white checkered floor, once pristine, now shows signs of wear. The ample counter up front is chipped and faded and yet stands proud like a true testament to years of service. The last three of those years has been in the hands of my mother.
She was the head waitress here just before that, ever since she graduated from high school. It’s safe to say I’ve grown up here, but that was when it was called the Corner Café.
In elementary school, I’d help my mother wait tables, in junior high, I hid behind a stack of menus from the embarrassment of being seen at my mother’s place of employment, and in high school, I sat in the alley out back with the stoners hoping the cute boys would notice me. That last bit didn’t happen until much later and not in Colorado. It turns out, the boys in Virginia found me much more their type, especially the boys in Quantico.
I half-expected to see my mother behind the counter as soon as I set foot in this place. She knows I’m coming, so that’s the reception I rehearsed in my mind. Her presence is as much a part of this place as the diner itself.
Instead, my eyes fall on another face, one that feels just as much like family, and I make a beeline his way.
“Well, well,” I say with a laugh trapped in my throat. “I knew I was in Hell, but I didn’t think I’d get to see the devil himself.”
His lips curl at the tips because he knows I’m right.
3
Special Agent Fallon Baxter
“Fallon Baxter? Is that really you?” he says with a laugh, and soon I’m ensconced in a rocking embrace by the first boy who pushed me out of a treehouse when we were twelve. Okay, so the only boy who attempted to send me to an early grave.
“Robby Reed.” I pull back and examine him, same stark blue eyes, dimpled smile, and nefarious intent written on his face, albeit with more gray peppered in his hair and beard. He’s clad in a navy uniform—not a surprise. I knew he was a deputy, but I spot that shiny badge on his chest and gasp. “Sheriff? Look at you go, Robby!”
“That’s right,” he says. “And it’s just Rob now, and as far as this badge goes, you’d better watch your back.”
“I guess I’ll have to. Nice to know you’ve been moving up in the world since I’ve been away, Rob.”
“You know me. I always have a plan B.”
Something soft rubs up against my shin and I glance down with a start, half-ready to reach for my gun when I spot a fully grown, fully adorable yellow lab.
“Hey there, cutie. What are you doing here?” I ask, offering up a quick pat to his back.
“That’s my buddy,” Rob says. “Whose name just so happens to be Buddy.”
“I see.” I laugh as I give the powder-white cutie a scratch between the ears. “Creative,” I tease.
Robby has always been the kind of friend that I can say anything to. He had his friends, and I had mine, but our social Venn diagrams crossed often enough for us to feel as if we ran in the same circles.
“What can I say? I needed a friend.”
