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Chapter 1
Crystal Lake held a lot of bad memories for Hudson Blackwell and he remembered every single one of them on the long drive back from Washington, DC. By the time he crossed the bridge that separated the north side of town from the south, his mood was black and a scowl transformed his handsome features into something dark.
He pulled up at the main stoplight downtown, fingers drumming along the steering wheel, eyes scouring the quaint buildings that lined each side of the street. The place had gotten a face-lift since the last time he’d been home, and he noted a few new shops. Mrs. Avery’s flower depot was about the only one he recognized, and his scowl deepened as he thought of the last time he’d been inside.
God, he hated coming back here.
The light turned green, but instead of heading out to the family home on the lake, he made an abrupt U-turn and a few minutes later pulled into the parking lot of the Coach House. Hudson killed the engine of his black F-150, gaze on the building.
Now this place hadn’t changed a bit, and for the first time since he’d begun this trip home, a slow smile curved his lips. The parking lot was shit, potholes galore, the tin roof looked rusted as hell, and the front entrance and door needed a new coat of paint. The overhead sign hung crooked, held in place by one hinge, and it looked like a good gust of wind could knock the damn thing clear off. He didn’t remember it being this bad, but hell, it was something he could live with.
As he walked inside the darkened interior, he was assaulted by the smell of stale beer and that certain mustiness only a place like this could hold. Hudson had never been one for change, so he’d take the sticky floors and crap smell over new any day.
It was an early Monday afternoon, late September, and the place held few customers. Hudson didn’t make eye contact, though he took note where each of them sat, and headed for the bar, taking the last stool at the far end. Neon beer signs twinkled down at him, casting shadows along the wall of bottles lined up in a row. He pushed aside a damp used coaster and, out of habit, reached for his cellphone. He paused and then let his arms rest on the bar.
Work was a long way away and, at the moment, the least of his worries.
“What’ll ya have?”
A huge, hulking man stood in front of him, a faded black wife-beater stretched thin across wide shoulders and bulging biceps. His head was shaved clean and glistened with sweat, while his handlebar mustache and full beard did nothing to hide the colorful tattoos that lined his neck. Hudson had never seen him before and frowned, glancing to the end of the bar.
“Where’s Sal at?”
The bartender’s eyes narrowed, and he tossed a rag over his shoulder. “You from around here?”
Hudson nodded, leaning back on his stool as each man took measure of the other.
“Sal’s been taking some time off.”
Huh. As long as Hudson could remember, the owner of the Coach House could always be found behind his bar, serving up drinks (which was the reason you’d be there) and advice (whether you wanted it or not).
“He okay?”
The bartender took his time answering, wiping up the edge of the bar though his eyes never left Hudson. “As good as you’d expect. Now, what’ll you have?”
Hudson considered digging deeper, but something told him he probably wouldn’t like what he’d find. “Cold beer would be good.”
“Draft or bottle?”
“Draft.”
Less than a minute later, Hudson cradled a cold mug of Guinness and settled in to watch the game. With the MLB pennant race on, it was as good a way as any to pass the afternoon, and the fact that he’d rather watch it here than at the house said something. What that something was he didn’t want to dwell on. No sense in going there just yet.
He was well into his second Guinness when someone took the stool a few places down from him. A quick glance in the mirror behind the bar told him it was a male, early to mid-thirties, an A’s ball cap pulled low over clipped dark hair. The length of his arms told Hudson he was tall, and the tattoos told him ex-military. His clothes were on the dirty side, as if he’d been working outdoors, but the watch on his wrist was a Rolex.
The fact they were close in age told Hudson there was a good chance he knew the guy, but he paid him no mind. Quite frankly, he didn’t care. He was content to sip his beer and watch the Red Sox get their asses kicked. He wasn’t ready to head down memory lane just yet. Hudson lifted his mug and took a good long drink, eyes on the pitcher as he squared up at the mound.
“How’s Sal doing?” The man spoke, and Hudson’s hand froze midair.
“Not good, Jake.” Hulking bartender guy leaned forward, shaking his head.
Hudson’s eyes widened. He knew the voice right away. Jake Edwards was a few years older than Hudson, and while they hadn’t exactly been friends—Jake had been pretty tight with his own crew back then—they’d hung out a time or two. It sure as hell explained the Rolex. The Edwards family came from old money, not as old as the Blackwells, but still, their privileged asses were part of Crystal Lake’s elite.
Hudson looked down at his beer, his face dark as he thought of family and the reason he’d come back here. For a moment, his vision blurred, and he slammed his eyes shut, because just like that, it felt as if he’d never left.
“You leave here now, Hudson, don’t expect a welcome back if you change your mind. You’re on your own and good luck with that.”
His eyes flew open, and for a second, he was disoriented. Like a ghost from the past, his father’s voice sliced through his head, tugging something ugly and dark from deep inside him. Hudson clutched his hands together, fisting them so tight, his fingers cramped. A slim tan line cut across his left ring finger, and he wondered how long that reminder would stare him in the face.
A reminder of what he’d lost and most likely never deserved.
With a sigh, he pushed back the unfinished beer, not really feeling the Guinness anymore, and stood to leave. He tossed a couple of bills onto the bar, nodded at the bartender, and had e
very intention of leaving without saying a word to Jake Edwards, but the man in question saw things differently.
“Holy shit. Hudson Blackwell.” Jake slid from his barstool, pushing back the brim of his cap and offering up his hand. His smile was genuine, his handshake firm. “I can’t remember the last time we were together.”
Hudson shook Jake’s hand and took a step back, feeling sheepish as he remembered the tragedy the Edwards family had faced a few years back. “Sorry to hear about your brother.”
Jake’s smile faltered a bit. “Thanks.” He glanced around the Coach House. “It’s weird. Being back here without him. I stop in for a beer, meet up with the guys, and expect Jesse to walk in and join us.” Jake lifted his chin. “You back visiting the old man? I hear he’s not doing too good.”
Tight-lipped, Hudson nodded. “He’s in Grandview.” And just like that, he wasn’t in the mood to talk. “I haven’t been out to the house yet. I should get going.”
Something flickered in Jake’s eyes at about the same time Hudson’s internal radar erupted, hitting him square in the chest and pumping boatloads of adrenaline into his system. Jake was talking, but he ignored the man, taking a step back as he scanned the Coach House. In his capacity as an FBI agent, this feeling, this sixth sense, had saved his ass more times than he cared to count. He didn’t sense danger or anything like that, but something was coming for him.
The door to the bar opened, and the late-afternoon sun filtered in, haloing dust and dirt into beams of hazy light. It camouflaged the person standing in the doorway chatting to one of the customers who was on his way out, but he could tell it was a woman.
“She’s been back for a while now. Working here for a couple of months.”
Eyes still on the door, Hudson frowned. “What was that?”
“Rebecca.”
Hudson swung his gaze back to Jake, the entirety of his world narrowing down to this one man.
“Rebecca.” It was a name he hadn’t uttered in years.
