Maple Ridge
Early morning sunshinestretches across the bed and the two snoring golden bodies next to me.
I push aside all thoughts of yesterday’s conversation with Grace and get up with a bounce to my spirit. Today, I want to focus on the steps I need to take to write the novel for Anne. Based on what I’ve gleaned so far from the journals, I have a good sense of the characters and the story. I was up late last night transcribing the final journal. The ink is so faded, the writing shaky, I need to take a break from it. Working on the novel is the perfect change of pace.
Bailey’s head pokes up, and she adjusts her body to a sitting position.
“You ready for breakfast and a walk?” I ask.
Those magic words are all it takes to wake Butterscotch. The two dogs jump down from the bed. Butterscotch heads out of my bedroom. Bailey waits for me, flashing me her adorable puppy eyes that plead for me to move faster.
I laugh. “Okay, I’m coming.” I pull on my jeans and a long sleeved T-shirt. Even though it’s mid-August, the mornings in the area are cooler than I’d like for wearing shorts at this time of day.
I head to the bathroom and catch my reflection in the mirror. Half circles still darken the skin beneath my eyes, but the nightmares aren’t as frequent now, the shadows not as deep.
I go to the toilet, wash up, brush my hair and my teeth, and head downstairs. I tie the laces on my sneakers and clip the dogs’ leashes onto their collars. “Just a quick walk. We can go on a longer one after breakfast.”
I disengage the alarm system and open the door. Two words, scrawled in bright-red paint, scream out against the door’s gray-blue color. COP KILLER.
Sucking in a sharp breath, I stare at the words that weren’t on the door last night when I walked the dogs. I tentatively touch the last letter. My fingertip comes away free of wet paint.Dammit.
Loud, angry voices jerk my attention from the vandalized door to a small group of people standing on the sidewalk in front of my house. Troy painted the door a medium shade, but the color isn’t dark enough to obscure the words. It’s obvious the people glaring at me have also seen them.
I hurriedly shut the door.
Oh, God, there’s no doubting it. I’ve been outed. I don’t know who pulled the trigger that sent the dominos falling after they realized Cora’s article was about me, but it’s clear I can’t escape the truth and the lies.
“I’ll have to take you two into the backyard to do your business,” I tell Bailey and Butterscotch. “Hopefully those people don’t stay out there long.” Surely, they’ve got better things to do.
We go into the garden, which is somewhat secluded from the street. If there was ever a time to be thankful for the tall hedges skirting my garden, now would be it. But they don’t completely hide me. Pockets of bare branches from years of neglect leave me exposed. Vulnerable.
I have no idea what to do about the front door. I don’t have enough paint left to cover the lie.
Fuckers. Fuckers. Fuckers.I pace to the rhythm of the words repeating in my head.
My phone rings on the patio table, the round glass top glinting in the sunlight.
I check who’s calling. Zara. Relief rushes through me. She knows about my past life. She knowsmeand doesn’t buy into the lies and misinformation surrounding Savannah. “Hi, Zara.” My voice comes out raw and at a loss.
“How’s it going?” There’s a hesitancy in her words. Does she know about the vandalism?
“Not great.” The speed of my pacing picks up. “Someone wrote ‘cop killer’ in red paint on my front door.”
A string of muttered curses comes from Zara’s end, which under any other circumstance would be funny. “I’m so sorry, Jess. I’m at Treats because one of my employees called in sick. I overheard a group of customers discussing that you’re Savannah Townsend, and how you spent five years in a maximum-security prison.”
Wonderful. “What happened? With the discussion.” Do I want to know?
Zara doesn’t answer right away, and I get the feeling she’d rather not tell me. Guess that’s my answer right there.
“What did they say?” I push, dreading her next words but unable to let it go.
“It resulted in a heated conversation.”
“About what?” I close my eyes.
“Whether you really are innocent.” Zara’s normally smooth and smoky voice is reduced to a gravelly whisper.
“And? What was the verdict?”
