Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
“Yeah, but what exactly is he planning?” Because when Jay’s involved, mischief usually follows.
“I don’t know. He said something about popping my cherry.”
“What?” I shriek.
Logan chuckles. “We’re probably hopping across the border and going to a bar.”
“Super original.” I roll my eyes. With the border to Quebec only a half hour away, and the drinking age there eighteen, it’s a rite of passage around these parts. But it doesn’t ease my nerves, given Jay’s always bragging about all the girls he hooks up with at the bars. He’s five years older, charming, and he shares many of Logan’s physical features, which makes the two of them a lethal combo.
Logan pulls himself up to a sitting position, the ridges across his stomach flexing under his T-shirt. “And it’s too late for that anyway, right?”
I drape my arms over his shapely shoulders. Growing up on the Landrys’ thousand-acre ranch has sculpted his body far beyond his years. “He’s not gonna try to rope you into anything crazy, right?”
“Knowing Jay? Probably.” Logan sees my face fall with that frank admission. “Come on, Em. What are you worried about?”
I shrug, but Logan can read me as clearly as the print on those CD cases scattered beside us, just like I can read him. That’s what happens when you’ve known someone your whole life.
“You’ve got nothing to worry about.” He cradles my cheeks, leaning in to press his forehead against mine. “I told you already. It’ll always be you.”
A kaleidoscope of blinking blue and red lights splattered across my bedroom walls wakes me in the middle of the night. It takes a moment to cut through my bleariness, to understand what’s happening.
Those are police lights, and they’re coming from the Landrys’ next door.
A jolt of adrenaline hits me as I rush to the window where I have the perfect view of the white farmhouse and the one … two … three cruisers parked in the driveway.
And the uniformed police officers near the lit porch. My father stands among them, wearing the clothes he must have thrown on when he was dragged from bed to deal with whatever this mess is. Logan’s parents are there too, huddled in their pajamas.
With my pulse pounding in my throat, I watch as Annie Landry’s slight frame collapses in a heap.
Chapter 2
Emery
Present day, October
“If I were getting out of prison, the absolute last place I’d go is back to the town where everyone knows who I am,” Isla declares. Standing at the kitchen window in her buffalo-plaid robe, strawberry-blond hair piled in a messy bun, coffee mug poised between her palms, my sixteen-year-old daughter is the quintessential nosy neighbor.
I can’t judge too harshly, though, given I’ve joined her to gawk at the black farm truck rolling up the kilometer-long Landry driveway, its headlights a dull glow in the misty morning. Kingston is a solid seven-hour drive from Cold River without stops. Holt left before dawn yesterday to get his son, with plans to return last night. There must have been complications along the way.
“Where else is Logan supposed to go? He’s spent twenty years behind bars. He has a criminal record he’ll never escape. Who’s gonna hire him? Besides, imagine how much the world has changed.” Logan was eighteen when he went away. I remember it well. Netflix streaming didn’t exist. I had a flip phone, an iPod, and a shattered heart. “The way I see it, coming home is his only option.”
Isla shakes her head, my attempt at inspiring empathy lost on her. “Cold River is too small. It’s all anyone’s going to talk about. I’m going to be asked a billion questions at school about the cop killer next door.”
“He didn’t kill anyone. And tell them to mind their damn business,” I mutter through a sip of my coffee. She’s not wrong about the inevitable gossip, though. The days are getting shorter. Frost-tipped grass and crisp air permeate the mornings these days. In a few weeks, we’ll be living in single-digit daily high territory, which means the long, blistering cold months are around the corner. The area’s social media pages will be bustling with complaints and chatter inspired by boredom, more so than usual. With just under seven thousand people living in Cold River and the surrounding cluster of small towns, that’s a whole lot of bullshit swirling around.
“What if people are mean to the Landrys?” Isla pouts. The ranchers have been a constant in her life, plying her with apple tarts and hay rides as a young child, inviting her to roam through their lives as freely as their actual grandchildren do. This kid knows more about bison than I ever had any interest in learning in my youth. She was helping to seed the fields behind the wheel of Holt’s tractor at twelve. She works every weekend at their family-run farmer’s market.