Page 3 of Closer Than You Know
2
Wednesday, March 5Boyett FarmGood Hollow Road, Fayetteville, 6:00 a.m.
Vera Boyett shoved a pod into the coffee maker and pressed the Start button.
It was cold. Too damned cold for March in southern Middle Tennessee. Thirty degrees, for God’s sake. As if that wasn’t bad enough, when she peered out the window over the sink, she saw there were at least six inches of snow on the ground.
“What in the world.”
Vera shook her head. It wasn’t like it didn’t happen. There was the occasional snowstorm in March—even in April sometimes. When forecasting this event, her favorite meteorologist had provided data about just how many times it had happened in the past hundred years. She doubted the statistics would do a single thing to make folks feel better. All the schools would be closed, as well as a good many businesses.
She exhaled a big sigh, leaned a hip against the counter. Chances were, it wouldn’t last long. By tomorrow the white stuff would be nothing more than an annoying memory for those who had to drive to work in it. Didn’t really matter to Vera since she had no particular place to be this morning. A little smile toyed with her lips. That was the best part of being self-employed.
The money was enough to get her through when her services weren’t needed. She worked from home, ensuring there was no overhead for the business: the family farm was paid for, so there was no mortgage or rent. She’d also paid off her SUV when she’d cashed out her 401(k), rather than rolling all of it over. She was in a good place financially. She’d barely noticed the loss of income after resigning from her position at the Memphis Police Department.
Life was good. No stress. No unattainable expectations. No more jaded outlook.
She bit her lip. That was the part that worried her. When things were going this well ... trouble was bound to be right around the corner.
“Don’t even go there, Vee.” She had never been very good at accepting how things were at face value. She was always looking for the hidden agenda or bracing for the other shoe to drop.
She supposed that was what happened when you spent fifteen years as a cop in a city like Memphis. You never assumed anything ... not if you were smart. The one time she had, her career had crashed and burned.
She forced the memory away. Not going there for sure.
The coffee maker sputtered and stopped humming, a sign her hot liquid caffeine was ready. Putting aside the notion that life was a little too good right now, she grabbed her cup and walked to the table, then slid onto one of the stools.
This was her routine every morning. She got up, brushed her hair, and—mostly to boost her self-esteem—added a touch of makeup. Sure wasn’t to impress anyone. She dressed comfortably, in jeans and sweaters or tees—sweatshirts if it was really cold. As winter had started to show, back in December, she’d even picked up a pair of boots. But mostly she wore her sneakers. Casual attire was the norm in Fayetteville. No one expected her to show up at a crime scene or even a conference room wearing a suit or a dress with heels. Thank God. She did not miss any aspect of those days.
There was something truly relaxing about the idea of spending the rest of her life in jeans. Gone were the days of dressing for the ruthless climb up the career ladder. She had learned the hard way that the higher she climbed, the farther she had to fall.
Okay, so she hadn’t quite killed off that jaded side just yet.
Truth was, she’d fallen all the way down from the high place she had achieved in her fifteen-year career. But, in true determined-female fashion, she had picked herself up and started over. Finding a new beginning could have happened anywhere, but she’d ended up back home in small-town Fayetteville. She surveyed the big country-style kitchen of the house where she’d grown up. She’d been here for seven months now. But her career debacle wasn’t the only reason she’d landed back where she started.
The thought of all those remains found in that cave—the cave she and her sister Eve had played in as children right here on the family farm—still shook her.
“Not going there,” Vera announced. Walks down memory lane were overrated.
Keeping the past behind her was, admittedly, a work in progress. And though she might never say it out loud, being here again had been good for her soul. She’d spent more than two decades after high school graduation immersed in the insanity of big-city living, first at university and then in an intense career. She’d never once considered that she could ever be happy living in a small town again—especiallythissmall town. After high school she’d wanted only one thing: to get as far away from home as possible.
She laughed softly. Now, less than a week from turning forty, she was back here, living in her childhood home.
Forty.
Something like defeat sagged her shoulders.
“Forty.” It sounded old. Not to mention she had spotted a gray hair this morning. Since she had blond hair, it was harder to see, but it was there. Despite the old saying that plucking out one would causesix more to show up for its funeral, she had ripped that sucker out with a vengeance. Although she loved dressing comfortably and forgoing all those old makeup routines, she was not ever going to be happy with gray hair.
Down deep, where she hid the things she didn’t want to look at, the idea of forty prompted some of those old feelings of failure and unfulfillment. But a quick reminder that she did not need anyone or anything else to be happy with herself usually did the trick.
As if to challenge her assertion, the image of Gray Benton flashed in her mind.
She rolled her eyes at the dirty trick her mind liked to play. Bent was the sheriff. Yet another of the unexpected discoveries when she came home seven months ago. Bent had been Vera’s first love and one more of the many reasons she had fled this place.
So much for not taking that walk down memory lane. Frustrated with herself, Vera stood and wandered to the back door, then stared out through the panes of glass that made up the top half. So weird to see snow at all, but especially this much. The backyard was white. The trees and shrubs ... her mother’s potting shed—they were all topped in a thick blanket of white.
Depressions or dips in that solid mass snagged her attention. She frowned and pressed closer to the glass to stare at the inconsistency. Tracks, she decided. Something or someone had walked through the snow. The tracks were too large to be from a deer or a dog. She grabbed her coat from the rack next to the door and stuffed her feet into her boots.
