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ZOE
Her eyes stayed on her phone, but a response hadn’t come last night or this morning.
Zoe looked through the slits of the window blinds, watching an officer walk the front of her property. He seemed relaxed, not on guard.
He drew his phone, talked for a few seconds, and then put it back in his pocket and resumed his patrol.
Zoe’s eyes dropped to her phone again. She didn’t know why she’d sent the message, and she felt a tinge of regret.
She groaned, exhaling a soft sigh. He was just doing his job—protecting her, seeming to worry about her... it was his job. It was nothing more than that. He’d also admitted she was implicated in the murders.
She read the message again and wished there was some way to retract it. Was there? She stared at her phone—she had no idea. She groaned, closing her eyes.
Zoe locked her phone, pushing it away and forcing herself to get on with her day.
He’d read it at some point today and likely not respond anyway. The text didn’t ask for a response, it just thanked him for protecting her. If he was simply doing his job, he would read nothing more into it.
Zoe went to the laundry and put in a load of wash, tidied the kitchen, and then sat at her desk.
It was time to take control of her life, pick up the shattered pieces, and be in the state of mind that would allow her to help with the investigation any way she could.
She turned on her laptop and opened her email. She composed a new message to an old colleague.
She needed to be strong and focus on what she could control, because she’d spent too much time focusing on what she’d lost. Most of all, she owed it to Lana to be strong and help this investigation, and she couldn’t do that living in the cloud of grief that had enveloped her for the past few years. When her husband died, she’d felt robbed by grief—robbed of the last year they should’ve had, happily married—but the death of her parents had broken her. He’d been a wonderful husband—picking up the pieces, however in hindsight, she wished she’d been stronger and had focused on what she still had instead of what she’d lost.
She wouldn’t make that mistake again.
And although it hurt, the reality was that she had little left to lose now. She’d hit rock bottom and it was time to let go of the pain and control the things she could control. It was time to take the reins and truly live again.
Yet the second she had that thought, guilt crept back in. Guilt that she could live her life when her parents, husband, and sister had been robbed of theirs. Deep down, she knew her family would want her to be happy—her husband had told her so. His last words to her, as he’d died in her arms, were to live for him.
Hot tears pooled in her eyes as she yet again felt like a failure for how she’d dealt with her grief. She hadn’t lived for him; she hadn’t lived at all. She hadn’t been strong enough.
She drew a deep, shaky breath.
But today she was strong enough, and she was going to do everything she could to clear her name. At this stage, she was still implicated in the murders. Yes, they could prove she’d been in St. Louis, but she could’ve hired someone, or she could be involved in other ways. She wasn’t—and now it was time to prove it. Hopefully, it would also create some new leads in the case and help Mitch find the killer.
She read the email through once more then hitsend. Now she would wait to see what came of it. She didn’t feel ready to leave Redwater—it wasn’t the fresh start she’d planned, but today was the first time in years she felt like she could live again.
Maybe it was knowing Lana was dead. Although it had shattered her, at least she knew. The false hope of seeing her again had been extinguished, and now she could deal with a certain reality: Lana was gone.
Her phone chimed on the table and her eyes darted to it.
New Message: Mitch Shaw
Butterflies knocked around in her stomach, as if caught in a cyclone.
She held her breath as she tapped on her phone, opening the message.
Hey. You don’t need to thank me, I want to help you however I can. I’m here for you, whatever you need.
Her pulse raced a little faster and she read his response three times.
Her message had been ambiguous, and his reply was equally so. She didn’t know if there was more there—if there could be more—or if she was reading too much into this.
She started to write a response, but stopped. She didn’t know what to say.
Trying again, she wrote:Hey...,
