Chapter One
LEILA
I’m driving home from Boston after a meeting with my newspaper. They want me to write more stories like the one I just submitted—exposing crimes. I don’t know how I feel about it, considering the number of disgusting things I dug up in my research took a toll on my mental health. Knowing the inside scoop is never easy, and, depending on the crime, you don’t come out the same.
I let out an aggravated groan as I see a figure walking on the bridge that connects the old and the new part of town. With no jacket on. In December. In Maine. My butt is freezing even firmly planted on a heated seat inside of my car, hidden awayfrom the elements, and he’s just…walking, hands in the front pockets of his pants.
It’s dark, and there are not many lights around this part of town. If I hadn’t been paying attention, there’s a chance I could have hit him. Bridges are the most dangerous part of the roads around here, especially at night, in my opinion. Yet here, in this part of Maine, we like to live life on a cliff. Quite literally.
I want to drive by, I do. My intuition screams that something big might happen if I don’t. Something that irrevocably will change my life. The desire to keep my foot on the accelerator is strong. But I was born and raised in Little Hope, Maine, and we small-town folks still care for one another, even in the twenty-first century.
As I drive past him, about to slow down so I can ask if he needs help, I notice how large he is and how wide his shoulders are. We’re on the bridge. With no lights and no people. And it’s closing on midnight.
It makes me think for a second. Yes, I know pretty much everyone in our town—not personally, no, but I’ve seen or heard of everyone—a perk of living in a small town—but I don’t recognize this man. At least, not from inside my car with limited visibility. I slow down a little, hoping he’ll let me know if he needs my help. Maybe his car broke down, and he needs a lift.
But as I’m driving by, I peer at him; his face is trained on the snowy road ahead of him. He has a purpose for being here that I’m not privy to.
I slow down even more now, and he moves to the side of the road, not lifting his eyes—a silent order to stay away from him.
Well, that’s my cue, so I press the accelerator and speed up. An exaggeration, of course. I’m in Maine in December on a bridge—this speedy driver can only do thirty miles per hour tops without risking driving off this bridge right into the frigid water of our less than mighty river.
Letting out a loud sigh of relief, feeling I narrowly avoided the unseen, I glance in the rearview mirror. A big mistake.
The stranger stands on the sidewalk, his elbows resting on the rails of the bridge. I slow down again, just a bit, so I can keep watching. His head hangs lower as if he’s looking beyond the bridge.
He’s not going to find anything but a fast river that may or may not be covered in thin ice. Despite the low temperatures every winter, the river only freezes mid-December when the cold hits the hardest, so we’ve got about two good weeks before then.
I come to a near stop, and the stranger’s head falls even lower. His shoulders slump, and I pull my car over to the side, cursing my small-town upbringing. The bridge is behind me, the stranger about a hundred feet away, and I grip the steering wheel tighter, trying to decide what I should do. Instinct screams to run and talk to him, but my self-preservation slaps me across the face, warning me to not get involved.
The good prevails, so I put my white beanie on and climb out of my car, engine still running. Just in case.
A rush of cold air instantly chills my bones, and I hurry to zip my red puffy winter coat, shuddering.
The stranger hasn’t moved.
I start slowly walking toward him. When I’m about fifty feet away, I call out, “Hey.”
His head snaps toward me, and he looks around as if surprised to find himself on the bridge alone with me.You and me both, buddy.
“What are you doing here?” His voice is gruff and deep, coming from within his chest.
“I could ask the same thing,” I counter, a little playfully, trying to lighten the situation. “Aren’t you cold?”
He watches me for a few seconds. “I’m fine,” he says, turning back to the deep waters.
I take a few tentative steps before he notices my approach and turns to me again. “What are you doing?”
“Sightseeing.” I quirk a brow and start walking more confidently.
“Go home.” He turns away again.
“Are you planning to jump?”
His head turns toward me so fast I think he’s given himself whiplash.
“The fuck do you need here?”
I stop next to him. Only now do I notice how tall he is. Well, I’m five-four, and a lot of people are tall compared to me, but the top of my head only reaches his chest, and I have to look up.
