Читать книгу Silver Lake Secrets - Alison Stone - Страница 11

TWO

Nicole slipped off her long winter coat and hung it on the closet rod inside the funeral home foyer. Missy’s fuzzy pink jacket hung in the far corner. A sudden bubble of hope bloomed inside Nicole and then popped.

No, her friend wasn’t running the vacuum or dusting some dark corner of the funeral home before she headed to her other cleaning jobs for those wealthy enough to pay for it. No, her friend had forgotten her jacket here yesterday and had asked to borrow Nicole’s along with her car last night.

How Missy had left her winter jacket at work on a freezing afternoon was beyond Nicole. Missy often claimed she’d get hot and sweaty doing her job and walk out without it. Happy, carefree and a tad forgetful. That was Missy.

Nicole drew in a deep breath trying to settle her prickly nerves. The walk here had done nothing to expend her nervous energy. The sweet smell of flowers and a faint whiff of lemon dusting spray always struck her when she entered through the front door. But the funky smell was a small price to pay for working primarily in solitude. She thrived on peace and quiet.

Except today. Today Nicole wished Missy would appear with her headphones and vacuum, cracking her pink bubblegum. Her friend was an otherwise bright spot in a gloomy business.

Nicole shoved her pink mittens deep into her coat pockets. She’d be heartbroken if she lost the only material thing connecting her to her mother. Not quite ready to face the day, she slowly walked toward Missy’s jacket and tenderly ran her fingers down its fuzzy sleeves, releasing the scent of laundry detergent. Nicole closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. Today was going to be so much harder than she ever imagined.

Mr. Peters called to her from his office, snapping her out of her maudlin thoughts. She pushed back her shoulders and strode to the doorway so he wouldn’t have to get up. He seemed to be moving a lot slower these days. He smiled at her when she entered his office, but his normally bright blue eyes seemed dull. Mr. Peters had been drained from caring for his ailing wife. Today, he appeared even more exhausted, probably after learning about Missy’s accident from Brett. Nicole let out a long sigh. She was grateful to Brett for making that difficult call.

Across her boss’s messy desk, he handed her a manila file folder. “Here’s Mrs. Fenster’s folder.” The newly deceased. “She needs to be ready for a four o’clock wake.”

“Okay.” Nicole took the folder and hugged it to her chest. “You okay, Mr. Peters? You look tired.”

He lifted a bushy eyebrow. “My wife had a rough night last night. The nurse only comes during the day. I’ll have to hire a night nurse, too.” A deep line marred his forehead. “If I plan to sleep, that is.” He scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “And then I get a call this morning that Missy has gone missing.” He shook his head. “I can’t imagine what her family is going through right now.”

Nicole bit her lower lip. She didn’t want to imagine Mrs. Flowers’s grief.

Mr. Peters lifted his gaze and studied Nicole. “You and Missy were close, weren’t you?”

Something about the way he said were made her bristle. “Yes, we are. We became fast friends these past few months. I pray she’ll be found safe.”

Mr. Peters folded his hands in a solemn gesture. “Yes, it’s best to pray at times like these.”

Nicole traced the edge of the manila folder with her index finger. “Guess I better tend to—” she read the name on the folder’s tab written in Mr. Peters’s neat penmanship “—Mrs. Fenster.”

“Thank you.” Mr. Peters let out a heavy sigh and settled back into his leather chair. A faraway look glossed his eyes. “I hope they find Missy.”

“Me, too,” Nicole muttered on her way out of the office. She figured the sooner she got lost in her work, the sooner she could have some peace of mind. At least temporarily.

The fax machine in the small office near the top of the basement stairs hummed to life. Curious, Nicole ducked into the room where she normally did some light paperwork. Standing over the machine, she read the paper inching out of the machine. Her throat grew dry. The document was from Isaac King, the son of Abe King. Nicole held her breath while the document finished printing. She folded it and stuffed it into her purse, eager to compare Isaac’s copy of the contract with the one she had pulled from the files yesterday afternoon. She hoped she could straighten out this misunderstanding without bothering the already stressed Mr. Peters. In the meantime, she couldn’t help but wonder what Mr. Peters would do if he found both the documents wadded up in her designer knock-off purse.

She hustled down a flight of stairs leading to the basement and paused at the landing. Someone had propped open the side door, probably while carrying in a floral arrangement. Rubbing one arm briskly, she groaned and pulled the door closed. The basement was cold enough without letting in an arctic blast.

Nicole descended the rest of the stairs and pushed open the solid basement door, letting the cool air swirl around her ankles. The door slammed behind her. She shuddered. She loved helping the deceased look their best, but she never quite got used to working in the basement.

Heart pounding in her ears, she hurried to the empty steel table in the corner, spread the fax out and compared it to the original document. According to the undated document from Isaac King, his father had made prearrangements and paid for a top-of-the-line casket. The contract from the file specified a less expensive casket. Less expensive by several thousand dollars.

Her stomach sank.

Both documents had Derreck Denner’s flashy signature. Derreck was Mr. Peters’s nephew and had come on board about a year ago. Did Derreck change the document of his own accord or had Mr. King made the changes and forgotten to give the new contract to his family before he passed away? She lifted the original document to her face and studied Derreck’s signature. She was no expert, but both signatures seemed the same. She held the paper to the light. It was thin. Thin enough for someone to trace a signature.

Nicole tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and racked her brain. Did she think she was a detective now? She shook her head. Maybe it was just a matter of showing Mr. King the document on file, the document that listed a less expensive casket. She threaded her fingers through her hair. Which document was more current? She pounded down the corner of the crumpled documents.

“I should have told Mr. Peters the minute the phone call came in,” she muttered to herself.

You were trying to save him the hassle.

Now she had one royal mess on her hands. How could she bring this up to Mr. Peters without seeming as though she was interfering?

Nicole bit her bottom lip. She closed her eyes and rolled her shoulders. It’s Derreck’s signature on both contracts. She couldn’t exactly accuse Derreck of mishandling a client’s money. She had no proof. Her stomach flip-flopped. But why did she have this uneasy feeling? Was it because she had overheard Derreck trying to smooth things over with another disgruntled client a few weeks ago? Or because she had totally bungled her dealings with the King family?

Either way, she’d have to tell Mr. Peters...once she got up the nerve. Then she’d explain how she was trying to help and how she’d never overreach her job description again. There. She had a plan. She folded up the two documents and stuffed them into her purse.

Nicole pulled up a stool to her workstation and opened the deceased’s file. “Okay, Mrs. Fenster,” she spoke aloud to the empty room, a habit she had gotten into when she first started this job six months ago. “You’re going to look beautiful, just like you did in—” she picked up the photo of the woman from the file in front of her and studied the black-and-white photo of a woman in a bouffant hairstyle and pillbox hat “—1962.”

It amazed Nicole how many family members provided dated photos of the deceased, no doubt at the request of their dearly departed. She supposed everyone wanted to be remembered as they’d appeared in their prime.

Nicole decided that when she died she wouldn’t care how she looked.

A muted shuffling made her scalp prickle. She enjoyed the solitude of working alone, she just wished it wasn’t in the basement of a funeral home. Her mind tended to play tricks on her. Her gaze drifted to her purse on the steel counter.

Focus on work.

Nicole grabbed her metal makeup box from the cabinet over the sink and set about getting Mrs. Fenster ready for the four o’clock viewing. She sat on the stool and lined up the makeup on a tray.

Another sound, more distinct this time, made her pause and turn toward the basement door. A thin line of light shone around the heavy basement door before it clicked solidly closed. A blanket of goose bumps covered her skin. She set a makeup brush on the tray and squinted into the shadows.

“Who’s there?”

The shadows moved and Gene Gentry stepped into the soft light surrounding her workstation. He held a white garbage bag and wore his perpetual apologetic look. Gene was thin with a stooped posture curving his six-foot-six frame. If someone was searching under funeral home embalmer from central casting, they would have found a photo of Gene. His awkward demeanor was perfect for working with the dead, not so much for those they left behind.

“Sorry, Miss Nicole, just emptying the garbage can.”

She forced a laugh that echoed in the cavernous space. “It’s okay, Gene. Sometimes I let my imagination get the best of me when I’m down here.”

Gene fingered the white plastic of the garbage bag. “After a while, you get used to creepy.” He snapped the bag to open it and lined the garbage can. He looked up. Nicole thought she detected a hopeful expression. “Do you think you’ll stick around?”

“I plan to.” Nicole dug through her makeup kit, searching for the blue eye shadow.

“Not exactly where you expected to be working when you graduated high school, huh?” He dragged his fingers over a thinning comb-over that made him appear older than he was. She vaguely remembered him graduating a year ahead of her, or maybe behind. She didn’t exactly reminisce about her high school days. And Gene wasn’t exactly the kind of person she would have hung around with.

“I’m happy to have the job.” She smiled at him, secretly ashamed she hadn’t been a model Christian as a teen. But that was a long time ago. She had long since made peace with her past and did her best moving forward. She plucked the blue eye shadow from the bottom of her makeup kit and held it up. “I better get back to work.”

“Me, too.” Gene lowered his eyes and took a step toward the door, then turned back around. “I’m real sorry about Missy.” He cleared his throat. “I sure hope they find her.”

Nicole smiled tightly at Gene, trying to hold her emotions at bay. “Pray they find her.” Her dark thoughts threatened to smother her. Keep praying.

“One time on TV, I saw a tool you should have in your car to break the window if your car goes into the water. Did you have that tool in your car?”

Nicole shook her head. “No, I didn’t. But we can’t give up hope.” Her pulse throbbed in her ears. Hot tears burned the backs of her eyes and blurred the eye shadow palette in front of her. “Well, I really have to get Mrs. Fenster’s hair and makeup done.”

Gene’s eyebrows disappeared under his bangs. “Okay, I’ll get going then.”

“Have a good day.” She watched him slip out of the room, his posture reminiscent of a boy who had been scolded.

* * *

Nicole slipped Mrs. Fenster’s paperwork into the folder and placed it on the steel table next to her purse. It had taken her a little longer than she had anticipated to get the woman’s hair just right.

She snapped her makeup case closed and returned it to the cabinet over the sink. While at cosmetology school, Nicole had envisioned herself working in a swanky salon in the city where she’d make big tips. When she had returned to Silver Lake to help out her grandmother, visions of a job in a salon vanished. She refused to work where she’d be the subject of gossip.

Now her clients didn’t talk or give tips, unless they were of the life-lesson variety, such as “don’t eat too much fried food” and “don’t cross against the light.”

Nicole washed her hands and dried them on a piece of paper towel. She tossed the crumpled-up towel into the wastebasket and wondered if she should do the same with the conflicting documents in her purse.

Mr. King wouldn’t forget as easily.

Nicole hiked her purse straps over her shoulder. She’d grab some lunch in the break room and then do some bookkeeping. Maybe if Derreck still wasn’t around, she’d finally talk to Mr. Peters so she could put this mess behind her.

Nicole emerged from the basement and slowed at the top of the stairs at the sound of Brett’s voice. Panic swept over her, heating every inch of her skin. Had Brett come to report news of Missy? Nicole peeked around the corner and saw Brett standing in Derreck’s office doorway. So much for talking to Mr. Peters in private. She flattened against the wall so she could listen without detection.

“Do you know much about Melissa Flowers?” Brett asked.

“Sure, Missy’s been here a long time. My uncle hired her right out of high school. She always did a good job. Maybe a little too chatty when she should have been doing her job.”

Nicole envisioned Derreck, elbows propped on his desk, tapping the pads of his fingers together in an oh-so-thoughtful gesture. “But she got the cleaning done. Missy was a good employee.”

Derreck’s choice of words pinged around her brain. Missy was...

Missy is, is, is, she wanted to scream.

“We’re terribly worried about her. We’re like family at Peters Funeral Home.” Derreck’s tone oozed just the right amount of concern. The same tone he used on the deceased’s relatives, a mix of sympathy and smooth salesmanship. He seemed to be able to turn it on and off at will. “Still no sign of our Missy?”

“I’m afraid not.” Brett’s voice grew louder, as if he had turned to check the hallway. “Did Missy have any problems? Perhaps here at work?”

Nicole’s heartbeat drummed loudly in her ears. She took another step back and bumped into the hall table. The antique vase wobbled. She grabbed the vase to steady it.

Pushing her shoulders back, she strode down the hall, acting as if she hadn’t been eavesdropping. She smiled tightly at Brett and nodded toward Derreck, seated behind his large mahogany desk, fingers steepled, matching her mental image.

“Missy seemed happy. No problems,” Derreck said. “Wouldn’t you agree, Nicole?”

Nicole slowed her pace and turned toward the office, hoping her cheeks weren’t as red as they felt. No one knew about the incriminating papers she had stashed in her purse, so she didn’t need to act guilty.

“Yes.” She cleared her throat and crossed her arms, uncrossed them and crossed them again. She adjusted her stance. “Missy is a happy person. She never complains about work. She’s happy to be employed. Not only does she clean for the funeral home, but several residents in Silver Lake, including your aunt and uncle. It’s tough in this economy.”

Derreck laughed, an awkward sound considering the circumstances. “How true. Small towns were especially hard hit. But, people are always dying.” Derreck’s gaze swept across Nicole’s face. Something dark lurked in his eyes, sending a chill coursing down to her toes. Or maybe she was being overly sensitive.

“I won’t keep you any longer, Mr. Denner.” Brett rapped his fist against the door frame. “One last question. Do you know anyone who has a red car?”

Something flickered at the corners of Derreck’s eyes, but he seemed to catch himself. Or maybe she had imagined it.

“No. Why?” Derreck asked.

“They found red paint on the side of the vehicle Missy was driving. The witness claimed there were two cars on the road right before Missy drove into the lake. Perhaps this red car hit hers before she lost control.” Brett directed his next question to Nicole. “Unless you can tell me your car had previous damage.”

Nicole made an audible gasp. “No. My car didn’t have any damage. So, are you saying a car did run Missy off the road?”

“Too early to say for sure. Someone may have collided with her and then left the scene of the accident. It happens. Sometimes if someone’s drunk or on drugs, they make bad decisions.” Brett’s accusing gaze bore down on her.

“I’m sorry.” The conversation flooded Nicole with horrible memories from her youth. A pool of sweat formed between her shoulder blades.

She took a step back. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I should go.” Emotions—too many to articulate—crowded in on her. She needed to leave before she said or did something she’d regret.

“Wait, I’d like to talk to you.” Brett caught her arm. “Can we talk over lunch?”

Derreck shuffled papers on his desk, pretending to be busy.

“I’m going to grab a bite in the break room. I have a lot of work to do.”

“Come on.” Brett tipped his head toward the door. “It’ll be good to get away from work for a short break. That’s okay with you, right, Derreck?”

Derreck peered over his glasses, seemingly uninterested. “Of course. Have a good lunch.”

“Okay.” Nicole hesitated, running her palm over her purse, wondering what she should do about the discrepancies in the documents. Her gut told her not to trust Derreck.

Her gut had been wrong before.

* * *

Brett held the door of the funeral home open for Nicole and watched as she wrapped her purple scarf around her neck and let the ends dangle down the front of her coat. The snow blew sideways on a stiff wind. She tugged on a matching knit cap that gave her a very youthful appearance. It reminded Brett of the waif of a girl who used to pull into his parents’ driveway in some beat-up jalopy and beep, waiting for his younger brother, Max. Brett could never recall a time when she actually got out of the car and came to the front door.

Come to think of it, none of Max’s friends came to the door.

Nicole stuck out her lower lip. “I’ll never get used to this weather.” She reached into her pocket and tugged on her mittens.

“They say cold weather builds character,” Brett said. “I’m not sure who they are.” The coffeehouse was only two blocks away from the funeral home. “You okay to walk? Or we could take my cruiser.”

“Walking is fine.” She eyed the police cruiser parked in front of the funeral home. “I don’t want tongues wagging when they see me in that. It’s taken me eight years to straighten out my life and it would only take one spin in the police car to ruin it.”

“Let’s walk, then.”

They bowed their heads against the wind and plodded down the street. When they reached the bookstore, Nicole slowed, then gestured toward the door. “Let’s go in here, instead.” She grabbed the door handle with her bright pink mittens.

Brett followed. The bookstore owner, a balding gentleman with half-glasses perched on his nose, nodded to Brett and Nicole and went back to his coffee and reading material.

“Did you need a book?” Brett asked, uncertainty edging his tone. “I thought we’d get a sandwich at the coffeehouse.”

“This is more private. I’ve maintained a low profile since I’ve been home. I don’t want people to start talking about me now.”

“Just because you’re with me?”

“Precisely because I’m with you.” She threw up her hands and turned on her heel toward the door. “Oh, this is crazy. I’m going back to work.”

Brett grabbed her wrist and led her down an aisle of books, one side romance and the other suspense. The irony was not lost on him.

She spun around and held up a hand. The form of her mitten suggested she was pointing at him. He suppressed the urge to smile. The pointy mitten got very close to his face. She glared at him. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” Brett gestured to the plush chairs in the back corner of the bookstore, completely private barring any back-of-the-store browsers. “Have a seat.”

She arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow at him.

“Please?”

Nicole’s features softened and warmth radiated through Brett’s body. She eyed him and sat with a whoosh in her bulky winter coat. Patting the arms of the chair, she angled her head to look at him. She tugged off her mittens and unbuttoned her coat.

Brett took off his coat and tossed it on the footstool before sitting. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his thighs.

“I’m not the person you used to know.” Nicole leaned back.

Brett jerked his head back, surprised by her candor.

She pointed at him. “You think I’m responsible for Missy’s accident. Maybe we were partying and I handed over the keys to my car. That’s what you think, right? That’s why you asked me if she was under the influence. That’s why you asked my boss if Missy was a good employee.” Her voice had a desperate quality about it. “Or you’re wondering if someone had a grudge against me and ran my car off the road, but instead of hurting me, they hurt Missy.” Her eyebrow twitched as she seemed to fight back the harsh reality. Missy hadn’t simply been hurt.

More than likely, Missy had been killed.

Brett threaded his fingers. “I’m investigating Missy’s accident. That’s all.”

Nicole leaned forward. “I’ve changed. Please leave me alone.” She started to push off the arms of the chair. Brett’s hand on hers stopped her. Their gazes met and lingered.

“There was damage to your car.” He watched her face carefully. Anger flashed in her eyes and then registered concern. “Someone wanted your car to go into the lake.” He leaned in closer, nudging her knee with his. “Your car.”

Nicole leaned back and crossed her arms over her middle. “It doesn’t make any sense.” Worry settled into the corners of her eyes. “Isn’t there a way the police can track down the make and model?” A sheepish expression flickered across her face. “I see it all the time on those detective shows.”

Brett snorted and stopped short when Nicole didn’t seem amused. “That takes time. Even when we do find the information, we have to find the specific car. Part of the investigation includes finding out if the victim—or the intended victim—had any enemies.”

Nicole clutched her mittens in her hand. “You really think someone wanted to hurt me?” She let out a mirthless laugh. “I lead a pretty quiet life.”

“You didn’t always lead a quiet life.”

Nicole narrowed her gaze at him.

“What about the drug dealer you testified against after my brother died?” Brett rarely talked about his brother. It was too painful. Even now. Brett blamed himself. He should have seen his brother was still using.

Her eyes flared wide. “He’s in prison. He’ll be there for a long time.”

Brett made a mental note to check on the dealer’s current status. “What about Missy, then? Did she complain of anyone harassing her? An old boyfriend?”

Nicole flattened her hand against her throat. “No, no. I can’t see Missy having an enemy in her life. Everyone loved her.” She stilled and all the color drained from her face. She bit her lip and regarded Brett, indecision in her eyes.

“Tell me. What is it?”

“Like I said the other day, she was going to visit a boyfriend in Buffalo. The thing is, I don’t know anything about him.” Nicole scratched her cheek and her speech halted. “I think she was dating someone in Silver Lake, too.”

Excitement ramped up his pulse. “Do you know his name?”

Nicole slowly shook her head. “She said she couldn’t tell me. Something about it being too new. She didn’t want to jinx it. Silly, really.” She leaned forward and tugged off her coat and plucked at her shirt. “I think she thought I’d disapprove of this guy.”

“Any ideas?”

Nicole shrugged. “None.”

Brett ran his finger across his chin. “And you haven’t had any run-ins with anyone lately?” A whisper of regret niggled at the back of his brain. He hadn’t meant to say “lately” but it was hard not to think of his brother when it came to Nicole. She had been cast as the villain in Max’s untimely death.

Was that fair?

“No I haven’t had any run-ins.” Sounding tired, she stood and swiped her coat from the chair. “This is exactly the reason I hate living in Silver Lake. You are all still judging me.” Her eyes sparked with anger. “Do you ever wonder what you could have done to save your brother?”

Brett’s stomach bottomed out. Of course he had. Brett thought he had guided his brother back onto the right path. But Nicole had had more influence. “You were with him that night. You could have stopped him.”

She lifted her eyes to meet his. Her brows snapped together and her mouth opened, then closed as if she were about to say something, then changed her mind. “I’d give anything to change what happened that night. But I can’t. I did the only thing I could. I changed.”

Brett bit back an angry retort. His feelings were still raw when it came to his brother’s untimely death.

Nicole planted her fist on her hip. “Now that you ask, I do have enemies. You and your family.”

Her words cut to the core. “My family was devastated by Max’s death.”

Nicole drew in a deep breath and exhaled. “I don’t think your mother or father would shed any tears if I ended up in the icy lake.” Nicole’s posture slumped and she pivoted toward the door.

“My parents were destroyed when Max died. But they’re not heartless.” Brett scrubbed his hand across his face.

Nicole slowly turned around, sympathy etched on her features. Brett had been so hurt by his brother’s death, the only consideration he had given Nicole was blame.

Max had made his own mistakes. Since he was dead, Nicole was an easy target. Guilt twisted his insides.

Nicole bit her bottom lip. “I’ll never get away from my past as long as I live in Silver Lake. I wish I lived somewhere where no one judges me for the stupid mistakes of my youth.”

They locked eyes. She seemed to mentally shake her head. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

Brett stepped into her path.

“What? Do you want to remind me of something else I did wrong?” Her tone held both impatience and annoyance.

“Do you have a good relationship with Ethan’s father?” Brett found himself holding his breath, waiting for her answer. His pulse roared in his ears.

Splotches of red bloomed on her neck and cheeks. Nicole’s wide-eyed gaze darted around the bookstore. “What does my son’s father have to do with this?”

Brett never took his eyes from Nicole’s face. “A woman’s greatest enemy is often someone close to home.”

* * *

Nicole stormed out of the bookstore. The bells clacked against the glass door, jarring her already frayed nerves. The wind whipped her face as a million thoughts assaulted her brain. She hated Silver Lake.

Hated, hated it.

Sometimes an obligation—like caring for her grandmother—trumped the strongest desire. Like the desire to move away.

Away from small-town gossips.

Away from the shameful mistakes of her past.

Away from Brett Eggert.

Ethan’s father had nothing to do with this nightmare she was living. Ethan’s father was dead.

Adjusting her scarf around her neck, she picked up her pace, determined to get back to the funeral home without discussing this mess with Brett anymore. She didn’t want to answer any more questions, especially not about her son. She feared Brett had taken one look into her son’s eyes and figured out Ethan was his nephew. Now he was using the investigation into Missy’s accident to get answers.

It was none of his business. Ethan was her son. She had raised him alone for seven years. She had no plans to infect him with the poisonous venom the Eggert family would spew about her.

A throbbing started behind her eyes. She needed to quiet her mind or risk getting a migraine. She turned to prayer as she often did. Oh, dear Lord, help me figure out how to deal with all this stress. I know I haven’t always been the best person. But I’m trying. I’m trying so hard to move beyond the mistakes of my past. And please, please bring Missy home.

“Hey, wait up,” Brett hollered.

Nicole quickened her pace. She was done talking. The icy wind sucked the breath out of her.

Brett caught up with her. “Hold up.”

She suspected most people froze at his commanding tone, but she wasn’t most people. She bit back a snarky comment and forced a smile. A polite smile. The one reserved for limited interactions with the stone-throwing residents of Silver Lake, the smile that said, “I’ll be pleasant, but I’ll never like you.”

Brett guided her closer to the building, out of the harsh winds. He surveyed the street, as if he cared what other people overheard.

Or saw.

Nicole’s bubbling anger simmered with guilt over the choices she had made as a young woman. It didn’t seem to matter how much she had changed, people still disliked her.

“I have to get to work.” Nicole’s cool tone was no match for the icy blast of air. “I can’t lose this job.”

“Who’s Ethan’s father?” Brett tilted his head, his eyes taking on a warmth that made her want to confess everything. But she couldn’t. In a small town, a bad reputation clung to a person forever, like a bad hairstyle in the senior yearbook. Her son’s grandparents—Brett’s parents—might use their influence to gain access to their grandchild.

“None of your business.” Nicole couldn’t take that chance. She didn’t want the Eggerts to fill her son’s head with negative images of his mother...or worse. “And I can promise you, his father is not harassing me. So, move on with your investigation. Find Missy. Find who ran her off the road.”

“Ethan was my brother’s middle name.” Brett searched her eyes with his gaze.

Nicole stepped back and bumped her heel against the wall. “Ethan’s a popular name.”

An ache throbbed behind her temples. What if the Eggerts wanted to take Ethan from her? Mr. Eggert was an influential lawyer. He’d use terms like “unfit mother,” “unsuitable home environment,” and “in the best interest of the child” to gain custody of her son.

Gigi had tried to calm her worries. Courts always favored mothers.

Always?

The final image of her own mother pulling away from Gigi’s house had played over and over in her mind like the black moment in a Lifetime movie. Her mother had whispered in her ten-year-old daughter’s ear that she’d be back for her. That she was the most important thing in her life. That the situation was only temporary.

Drugs proved too powerful. Nicole never saw her mother again.

Nicole had stumbled into drugs just like her mother. But Nicole cleaned up her act for her son because he was the most important thing in Nicole’s life.

She blinked a few times, flipped her scarf over her shoulder and hiked up her chin. “I have a job and I’m running late.”

Nicole spun on her heel and strode toward the funeral home. Her worries pelted her like the snowflakes blowing sideways. Head bowed, she picked up her pace, focusing all her energy on envisioning Missy running the vacuum in the front foyer when Nicole returned.

Please let Missy be okay.

“Nicole!” Brett’s voice grew closer and held a hint of urgency that made her pulse spike. But she wasn’t going to stop.

She broke into a jog. Apprehension and shame pressed heavy on her lungs. Why wouldn’t this man leave her alone? She skirted around an elderly lady pushing a walker through the snowy sludge. She had to remain confident. Missy was going to be okay. God was a merciful God.

Then why can’t you forgive yourself for Max’s death?

Nicole slowed at the intersection and watched the blinking man count down five seconds. She could make it. She had to if she wanted to avoid Brett. She pulled her collar up and darted across the street. From the corner of her eye, she noticed a delivery truck bearing down on her. Tingles swept up her arms and her vision zeroed in on the safety of the sidewalk a few feet away. Her boot hit the curb. At the same time, slush sprayed the backs of her legs.

Just great. Annoyance tinged with relief made pools of sweat gather under her coat.

Nicole spun around to glare at the offending truck and she noticed Brett running toward her, the concern on his face making icy shards shoot through her veins. He wove around a compact car, slamming his hands on its hood just as it screeched to a halt, thankfully finding purchase on the plowed pavement. “What are you doing?” Nicole’s heart jackhammered. She lifted shaky palms in a show of surrender. Brett had almost gotten run over. “Fine, I stopped. I’m not going anywhere. What do you want?”

Brett’s firm gaze was fixed on something over her head. Way over her head. She was lifting her eyes to follow his gaze when Brett crashed into her, pushing her out of the way. He landed on top of her with an oomph on the hard, cold concrete. A chunk of ice smashed onto the sidewalk a foot from their tangled bodies.