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Trial to begin July 10.
She kept scrolling.
Charged with the murder of his sister…
She drew in a sharp breath, pain pinching her heart. After her mother’s death, the world had divided cleanly in two — before, and everything after.
She scrolled on.
Extensive documentary evidence. Financial records. Witness testimony.
Remains detained without bail at Rikers Island.
She locked the screen before she reached the end.
July 10.
That was all she was interested in.
By this time next year, it would be over.
So would her reason to be in this town.
She swapped the phone for a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled slowly, the nicotine easing the sharp edges inside her chest.
Her gaze lifted to the parking lot beyond the elm. Leaves skittered along the sidewalk in dry, restless spirals. Sunlight flashed off windshields. Across the street, the brick storefronts sat shoulder to shoulder — the bakery with its striped awning, the hardware store with its display of seed bags and rakes out front.
Clearbrook. Familiar. She wouldn’t quite call it home — but it was something close. Would she stay?
And why did the idea of leaving feel … wrong?
She took a final drag, ground the cigarette into the sand-filled urn, and straightened.
Until the day of reckoning arrived, she had a job to do.
A promise to keep.
*
Felicity was at odds with herself the rest of the day, which was why she found herself pulling up at the Iron Horse that evening. The tavern sat a few miles outside town, where the blacktop narrowed and the cornfields pressed in. Battered pickups and a long line of Harleys filled the parking lot, chrome glinting beneath the flickering neon horse above the door.
The crowd inside ran rough and rowdy.
Which was exactly why she’d chosen this place.
The men here wouldn’t look at her with quiet contemplation.
Like she was a puzzle they had to solve.
Twice now, she’d gone to Fitzpatrick’s and tried to scrub Ronan Murphy from her mind, only to fail spectacularly. The moment another man’s hands touched her skin, she recoiled.
And it had been like that since that night almost eighteen months ago.
It wouldn’t do for Deputy Delilah to be branded a tease. She needed to close the deal tonight. Hence, anywhere but Fitzpatrick’s. Clearly, the place was jinxed.
She stomped up the wide wooden porch and pushed through the door.
Warm air rolled over her, thick with the smell of spilled beer, fryer grease, and stale sweat, mixed with the unmistakable tang of engine oil, leather, and cigarettes — even a faint hint of weed — that rode in with the bikers.
