By the seventh inning, her team had edged out a narrow lead.Thefinal out came on a strike, the opposing batter’s shoulders slumping as the umpire called it.Thegirls erupted into cheers, dogpiling near the mound, dust rising in a golden cloud.
Rose clapped, shouting encouragement, but she felt hollow.Thevictory didn’t settle inside her the way it used to.Thegirls hugged and laughed, butRose’sgaze kept flicking back to the bleachers, to the clusters of neighbors still murmuring as they gathered their things.
After the game, the field began to empty.Foldingchairs folded.Coolersrattled back to trucks.Thesun dipped lower, baking the dust into reddish crust beneath their shoes.
Rose lingered by the dugout, clipboard limp in her hand.Shewanted to go home, to shut the door, to be anywhere but under the weight of all those eyes.
But as she rounded the corner of the concession stand,Declanwas waiting.
His ball cap shaded his steady gaze, and his arms hung loose at his sides.Hewasn’t smiling, but there was no judgment in his face either.Justquiet steadiness.
“You okay?”he asked.
The words were simple, but they cracked something inside her.Sheopened her mouth to say yes, but the word caught in her throat.
Instead, she looked past him toward the field, now nearly empty, dust swirling in lazy eddies.“Justtired.”
Declan didn’t push.Hejust nodded, the silence stretching comfortable, steady.Hestood there with her, quiet and unshakable, like he was giving her the space to climb down from the wall she’d built, brick by trembling brick.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
That evening,Brianapoured another glass of wine and sat by her window, enjoying the faint breeze stirring the curtains.Shehummed, content.Thegame had been a perfect stage.Thewhispers were stronger now, loud enough to sting but soft enough thatRosecouldn’t fight back without naming the very thing she wanted hidden.
It was working.
ButBrianawasn’t finished.
She pulled a notepad from her purse and jotted down a few lines, testing the shape of them.Ananonymous note, just vague enough to plant deeper suspicion.Somethingthat could slip under a coffee shop door, or appear in a church pew, or get tucked into the box of pies at the farmers market.
A secret wasn’t truly power until it was dangled just out of reach.
AndBrianaintended to dangle it untilRosebroke.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Monday started with silence.
Not the peaceful kind.Notthe early-morning quietRoseusually cherished when opening the coffee shop.Thiswas a different kind of silence.Sharp, expectant.Thekind that hung in the air when someone had just walked into a room and no one wanted to be the one to say something first.
By ten a.m., she’d had three customers cancel pre-orders.
By noon,Mrs.Trammell, one of her steadiest regulars, walked past the window without coming inside for her usual latte.
Rose didn’t need a town crier to know what was happening.
Briana had planted her seeds.
And now, like poison ivy, they were winding their way throughPickwickBend.
She slammed a tray of muffins into the oven with a little more force than necessary.
“Need help with those or just working on your pitching arm?”came a voice from behind her.
She turned to seeAcenstanding in the doorway and wearing that maddeningly calm expression that always made her want to either kiss him or throw something.
Maybe both.
“I’m fine,” she said.
