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Had seen the older one only one other time, driving that same old gold wagon through town.
But everyone in this small town knew about Rachel. About that night.
And no one seemed to forget.
She cleared her throat and pushed the memory aside as she shoved open the screen door and the warm scents of hot coffee and baked goods drifted outside. An espresso machine gurgled and hissed. Near the back of the establishment, four regulars had camped out with iPhones and newspapers scattered over a round table.
Brit Watkins, one of Rachel’s high school classmates, was working the counter. Tall and slim, she wore her blond hair pulled back into a tight bun. Large gold hoops dangling from her ears, a baby bump visible beneath her apron, she glanced up from filling a cup. “Hey, Rach,” Brit said and slid the cup over to the man in line in front of Rachel, a guy in his seventies with a silvery beard-shadow. He paid for his purchase with exact change, then left another quarter in the tip jar and moved aside to doctor his cup with cream and some kind of sugar substitute.
“What’ll it be?” Brit asked.
“How about a sixteen-ounce coffee.”
“You got it.” Brit’s smile didn’t quite touch her eyes, but then it never had. Not since that night. Maybe not before. Brit was one of the kids who’d been in the factory that night, and like most of the people who’d been at the scene of the tragedy, she was a little reserved around the woman who’d been charged with killing her half brother.
Rachel nodded. “And a maple bar and chocolate donut with sprinkles.”
Brit arched an eyebrow.
“For the kids.” She smiled. “But don’t judge me.”
“Breakfast of champions,” Brit said, one side of her mouth lifting as she poured the coffee, then bagged the pastries.
“They’ve had a rough week. No—that’s not really true. Their lives are pure bliss. I’ve had a rough week.”
Brit actually chuckled. A rarity. “I get it. Teenagers. I’ve got four on the payroll, if you count Mickey, who never seems to show up for his shift. So . . . here ya go.” She handed over a white sack and Rachel’s change.
Rachel dropped the coins into the open tip jar out of habit. “You’re going to Lila’s tonight, right? For the meeting.”
“What? Wait. No.” Brit glanced at a calendar hanging over a bookcase laden with ceramic cups. “Oh, darn. Really? Is that tonight?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Shoot! I should never have let Lila rope me into it,” she said, her forehead puckering in consternation. “I guess Pete will have to handle the kids tonight.” She blew out a long sigh. “It’s just I’m so tired, all the time. I get in here before five in the morning five days a week, and with this one”—she tapped her protruding belly—“I’m always tired.” Another sigh as the front door opened and a woman dressed in heels, a slim skirt, and a leather jacket entered.
“Are you coming?” Rachel asked.
“Not much choice. I said I’d cater the event and I will. Pete had a fit that I volunteered, but once I’d agreed, I really couldn’t back out. It was last year and now”—she glanced down at her protruding belly—“an ‘oops.’”
Rachel knew all about Brit’s surprise pregnancy. Her husband, Pete, was thrilled, in search of that ever-elusive son after three girls. Brit? Not so much.
“I can’t believe Lila talked me into catering the thing. Geez, why did I agree to it?” Brit wiped the steam wand of the espresso machine with a vengeance. “I should have my head examined.”
“She can be very persuasive.”
“And then some,” Brit said with a snort.
Lila. Forever the enigma. Once Rachel’s best friend. Mother of Luke’s son. And now married to Cade’s father. Which made her Rachel’s ex–stepmother-in-law and created a situation that was beyond weird or “sick,” as her son said. In Rachel’s estimation, Dylan wasn’t all that far off the mark. Six years after graduation Lila had eloped with Charles Ryder, a widower who was twenty-five years older than she. Somehow, the marriage had lasted, even as Rachel and Cade’s had foundered.
She didn’t want to think about that.
Ever.
CHAPTER 3
Cade threw out an arm, fingers scrabbling on the sheets as he searched for Rachel and came up empty. Half asleep, he opened a bleary eye just as the reality of his life surfaced. He was alone. In his bed. In his condo. “Crap.”
How long would it be for it to really sink in that he was divorced, that his ex-wife had moved on, and that he had better get the hell over her? He’d screwed up and he was paying for it. Every damned day.
