Paranoid

by Lisa Jackson

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Crime Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

20 years ago, Rachel Gaston accidently shot and killed her brother in a teenage game that went horribly wrong.

Today, Rachel is moving on and trying to put the guilt of what happened behind her. But then she receives a text on the anniversary of her brother's death: I forgive you.

This text is the first of many, all seemingly from beyond the grave, and at the same time she is receiving midnight phone calls from a blocked number. Are these happenings malicious? Are they genuinely forgiving? Is she in danger? Or is Rachel just being paranoid?

A fast-paced psychological thriller for fans of Lisa Gardner and Karen Rose, with Lisa Jackson's trademark mix of dark secrets and stunning twists.

Release date: June 25, 2019

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 480

Sample

“Why not?” Violet Sperry poured herself another glass of wine and sank back into the thick pillows on the bed. She posed the question to her small dog, Honey, a silky Cavalier King Charles spaniel who was watching her from her doggy bed as Violet finished off the bottle. As if the dog could understand. But it was better than talking to yourself. At least she thought so. Or was it just as crazy to talk to the dog? She’d left one window open a crack, and a soft spring breeze was lifting the curtains as it swept into the room and brought with it the scent of honeysuckle, which blended with the heady aroma of the Merlot.

She swirled the glass and smiled at the glorious purple liquid before taking a satisfying sip of the oh-so-smooth wine. This would be her last glass. No matter what. She would not head downstairs and open another bottle. No, no, no. She set the empty one behind the lamp on her bedside table. She’d get rid of it—the “evidence”—tomorrow before Leonard returned.

Leonard.

Her husband of over fifteen years.

Once a slim athlete with a quick smile and thick brown hair, Leonard had been a man with a future when she’d met him, a man who was going to take on the world. He’d swept her off her feet and, really, he’d been the reason she’d moved past the trauma of the night of Luke Hollander’s death. She’d been there twenty years ago. She’d seen him die. God, it was awful. She should never have gone to that damned cannery. She’d snuck out that night just to score points with Luke Hollander. Had she really intended to tell him that she was in love with him? He would have laughed her right out of that horrid old building. She hadn’t been the only one with a major crush on Rachel Gaston’s brother, or half brother or whatever he’d been.

Water under the bridge. Or maybe under the pier where that awful dilapidated building had been built.

Thankfully, it was all a long, long time ago.

And in the interim, she’d met Leonard, the man with all of his dreams.

None of which had panned out.

Yeah, they’d moved to Seattle, where he’d been intent on becoming an artist and had even bought into an art gallery, but that endeavor with its lofty ideals, pardon the pun, had been temporary. Of course. As had her stab at being a singer for a garage band that had never made it out of back alley pubs.

It hadn’t worked out. For either of them.

After a couple of years Leonard had readily, no, almost eagerly, tossed away his dreams and moved back here to their hometown of Edgewater, where he’d taken a job with his father at the furniture store. There had been talk of him being a partner in the business, and eventually taking over Sperry’s Fine Furnishings, but so far that hadn’t panned out. His father was still in the store every day, looking over Leonard’s shoulder as he tried his best to sell end tables, lamps, and side chairs to the stingy losers who still lived here.

Another swallow of wine to dispel any hint of dissatisfaction as she settled into the pillows of her bed, the best you could buy with a “breathable” but firm mattress and a contraption to make the head or foot rise with the mere push of a button.

One of the perks of being married to Leonard Sperry, furniture salesman extraordinaire.

Shit.

She glanced at her phone, where the message from Lila was on display. Squinting, she read again: Don’t forget. Meeting for the reunion. My house. Tomorrow @ 7:30. Go Eagles!

As if.

No way was Violet attending the stupid twenty-year reunion, let alone joining the planning committee. And to talk about the high school team? Twenty years after graduation? Ugh! She took a long swallow from her glass, then deleted the message. She’d never liked Lila back then, when she was a classmate, and she liked her even less now as some kind of Edgewater social climber and community leader. As if being married to an old man of an attorney and running around doing good deeds for this tiny nothing community were important. Besides, the man she married was old as dirt, and the father of a fellow classmate. “How sick is that?” she said into her glass.

And now Lila wanted her to be a part of the reunion meeting. Which was only part of her irritation. That stupid Mercedes Jennings . . . no, her name had changed . . . She was married to Tom Pope now. Well, anyway, that stupid Mercedes Pope was a damned reporter and wanted to interview her about Luke Hollander’s death.

After twenty years. Some kind of retro piece for the local paper.

No way.

Make that no friggin’ way.

High school and all the drama, tears, and tragedy were long over, thank God, and now she was married to Leonard and had three beautiful, wonderful fur babies and . . . She glanced out the window at the dark night. God, how had her life turned into such a mess?

Honey had padded across the room and was whining at the bedside.

“Oh, you,” Violet said, her mood lifting at the sight of her happy dog. “Can’t sleep? Well, get on up here.” She patted the duvet and Honey didn’t hesitate, just hopped up quickly as if expecting Violet to change her mind. Not likely. Leonard was the one who drew the line at pets in the bed. “There you go.” She petted the dog’s coppery coat.

As Honey settled against her on the thick pillows, her small body curled against Violet, she clicked through the channels to catch a late show. Much as she hated to admit it, she didn’t sleep well when Leonard was out of town. It was stupid really, that she felt safer with him snoring beside her. Yeah, he was thirty pounds overweight and his once-lush hair had thinned to the point that he clipped what remained close to his skull. He disapproved of her affinity for wine—like, really disapproved—but Len put up with her quirks. When she told him she wasn’t interested in having children, he’d gone along with it.

Hence the dogs. Her babies. Three purebred Cavalier King Charles spaniels. Honey on the bed with her and the other two curled up in matching beds near the armoire in the corner. She tried to set her glass on the bedside table and it slipped, sloshing wine onto the bed and into the partially open drawer in her nightstand.

“No!” She freaked for a second, then decided she’d deal with the mess in the morning. It was only a couple of spots on the duvet; she’d flip it over. She’d clean up the splash in the drawer when she got up tomorrow before her husband returned. Leonard would never suspect.

She was a bit buzzy, well, make that more than a bit, but what did it matter since Leonard was out of town until tomorrow? And her bones seemed to be melting in such a lovely fashion. Closing her eyes, she was barely aware that the late show host’s monologue was over and he was interviewing his first guest, an actress with a new movie out and . . .

Honey shifted, a low growl coming from her throat.

“Shhh,” Violet rasped thickly. She was drifting off.

A sharp bark.

Violet opened an eye and glanced to the beds where her other two dogs had been sleeping. Without her glasses she had to squint. The male, black and tan coat gleaming, was staring at the door. “Che, enough!” Geez, what was wrong with him? But he wasn’t alone. From her bed, the third dog, Trix, a usually shy tricolor, was snarling, her gaze fixed on the entrance to the bedroom.

For a second, Violet felt a frisson of worry slide through her insides. What if Leonard had come back early? Crap! How could she hide her glass and the bottle and the . . . ?

Wait a sec! If Leonard was returning, the dogs wouldn’t be growling.. . . No, more likely they would be yipping excitedly, ready to leap up and greet him. And she hadn’t heard the rumble of the garage door as it rolled open.

She glanced at the clock. The glowing letters were a little blurry, but she could still make out the time.

12:47.

No, her husband wouldn’t show up this late without calling. She fumbled on the bed table for her phone and glanced at the messages. Nothing from Leonard.

Clunk.

Her heart froze.

Had she heard something?

A noise from the hallway?

But all of the dogs were in here with her.

She swallowed and muted the television. On the screen the host and his guest were laughing uproariously though the TV was silent.

Violet strained to listen over the beating of her heart.

She heard nothing.

Not a sound.

But she felt as if something were wrong. Very, very wrong.

Don’t let your nerves get the better of you.

Not a sound.

Beside her, Honey was stiff, her big eyes focused on the door.

Jesus, the damned dogs were freaking her out.

Che growled.

Trix snarled again.

This was no good. No damned good.

But probably nothing.

Had to be nothing.

Licking her lips, she tamped down her fear. The house was locked tight. She was sure of it. She’d checked the doors and windows herself. Hadn’t she? No one could get in . . . well, unless they slipped through the doggy door in the kitchen or . . . oh, crap! The outside door to the garage. It was usually bolted shut but Leonard sometimes forgot to secure it when he took out the garbage and, of course, the inside door between the house and garage was always kept unlocked.

Her pulse inched up a notch, but she fought the anxiety whispering through her.

No reason to panic.

Yet.

Licking her lips again, she slowly opened the drawer to her nightstand, found her glasses, and slipped them on, despite the fact that they were blurry from the wine. Then, she silently retrieved her pistol. For a second, she flashed back to the first time she’d held a gun. That night. Two decades earlier. But then she’d held a pellet pistol in her palm. This heavier gun was the real thing, a Smith & Wesson 9mm Shield, a semiautomatic that could do real damage. She flipped off the safety, her fingers curling over the somewhat sticky grip.

Oh. God.

Swallowing hard, trying to clear her fuzzy mind, she slipped out of the sheets. When Honey started to follow she ordered, “Stay,” under her breath, then turned her gaze onto the other two dogs, who were now standing in their beds, and hissed, “Stay!”

It’s nothing. They most likely heard the neighbors . . . or maybe a mouse . . . or something, just not an intruder. Please, God, not an intruder.

She pressed her bare feet into her slippers and started for the door, nearly stumbling and dropping the damned pistol.

Get it together.

Another bark from Che.

“Shhh!”

Scraaape.

From the other side of the door.

She should call the police.

Who cared if they found her tipsy—no, drunk—and holding a firearm? It didn’t matter that she could be imagining the whole scenario of someone breaking in.

But the dogs.

All at attention, watching the damned door.

It’s nothing. It’s nothing.

She reached for the door with her left hand, the gun in her right. Letting out her breath she twisted the knob, then swung the door inward and peered into the hallway, where a night-light gave off a weak glow, barely illuminating the stairwell.

She blinked and squinted.

Nothing.

No shadows moving.

No one lurking.

All in your mind.

Wait a second.

The door to the second bedroom seemed ajar. Surely it hadn’t been that way when she’d passed it on the way to her room.

Or had it?

The hairs on the back of her neck lifted and she slipped to the door, pushed it open slowly, heard the slight creak of the old hinges.

She took one step into the room, saw the shades half down, light from the street lamp filtering onto the guest bed. She reached for the light switch.

Bam!

The door crashed into her.

Pain exploded in her face.

The cartilage in her nose cracked.

Her glasses crunched and fell to the floor.

Blood spurted everywhere.

“Ooow!” she screamed and raised her gun.

Strong fingers grabbed her wrist and twisted.

Agony tore up her arm and her elbow felt as if it would tear apart.

She forced her fingers to squeeze.

Blam!

The pistol blasted, the sound deafening. She flinched as whoever was in the room yanked the gun from her hand and wrenched her arm so hard she was certain it was breaking. She cried out in shrill pain and struggled to get away, but her attacker forced her backward. Her feet slipped. The dogs—her babies—were barking crazily now, scratching at the bedroom door.

She was being forced backward, bare feet sliding on the carpet, her eyes a blur with the blood. “No!” she cried as her back cracked against the railing. She blinked, tried to focus, just as something was forced over her eyes. A blindfold? Oh, Jesus, was this monster going to try to take her somewhere and didn’t want her to see the area or who was attacking her?

Fear curdled in her guts. This maniac was going to rape or mutilate her and surely kill her.

She fought harder. Frantically she scraped at her face, trying to remove the mask, but it was fixed solidly. Glued to her skin.

Oh, God.

Panicked, completely blinded, she flailed at her attacker, trying to scratch, to gain some kind of purchase, but it was for naught. Still drunk, her movements imprecise, her head pounding in pain, she swung wildly and missed, turning around just as she felt her body being hoisted with an effort.

No!

A raspy voice demanded, “How does it feel to really be blind?”

What?

And then she was flying through the air, and dropping, a hand brushing the chain on the chandelier, the crystals tinkling. She knew in that split second that the marble floor of the foyer was rushing up at her.

She screamed at the top of her lungs but was silenced by the smack of the stone floor.

Bam!

She hit hard, her body slamming against the floor.

Every bone jarred, her skull cracking on impact. Her breath swooping out in a hissing rush, her teeth broken and rattling. She let out a low moan that sounded wet and tasted of the blood filling her mouth.

Oh, God.

She tried to move.

Couldn’t.

Thankfully she remained conscious only long enough to be certain almost every bone in her body had shattered.

Rachel’s eyes flew open and she found herself staring at the ceiling of her own bedroom, the only light coming from the blue glow of her digital clock.

Five thirty-seven in the damned morning.

Calm down. It was just a dream. A nightmare. The same one that destroys your sleep two or three times a week.

Dear Lord. She let out a long, shaky breath and pushed the hair from her eyes. The house was quiet. Still. Only the rumble of the furnace creating any noise, but she did hear the muted pop of the newspaper deliveryman’s old crate of a car, backfiring a street or two over.

If only she could stop this!

At least she hadn’t woken her kids, nor, it seemed, her dog. A tawny, long-haired mutt whose square face suggested boxer while the wispy hair on his legs hinted at some kind of shepherd hidden somewhere in his lineage, Reno had been a family member since the day Cade had walked out the door. Rachel had rescued the gangly pup and he’d been the glue that had held the family together during those first painful weeks and months of the family shattering. From the first night, he’d claimed the foot of the bed as his resting spot and Rachel had never found the energy to force him into his kennel downstairs. Also, there was the simple fact that she felt safer with the dog in the room with her now that Cade was gone. She no longer even entertained the idea of making Reno sleep downstairs, and besides, she figured she had more important issues to deal with, or “bigger fish to fry,” as her father had always said. He might still, but she couldn’t be certain because she didn’t talk to her dad too much these days.

Another issue to deal with.

As if she didn’t have enough. She pulled the duvet over her head and burrowed deeper into her pillow. She still could get a few more minutes of shut-eye, if she could find a way to nod off again, preferably catching up with sleep that was devoid of nightmares. If she was going to dream, why not about something happy? A vacation in the Bahamas? Christmas with her grandparents? Or hot sex with some leading man? She could think of a few she wouldn’t mind fantasizing about....

But real life butted into her attempts at sleep and after a few fitful minutes, she reached for her phone on the bedside table, knocking over half a glass of water in the process. “Crap!” Great way to start the morning. She glanced at the phone and saw the date. No wonder the nightmare had been so real. “Crap, crap, crap!”

Twenty years to the day.

It was on this very date two decades ago when she’d lied to her parents about spending the night with Lila, then, instead, had sneaked off to the old cannery.

Biggest mistake of her life.

“Deal with it,” she said and stared up at the ceiling in the dark as she had so often. Too often. There was no going back to sleep now.

Yawning, she snapped on the bedside lamp. Warm light flooded the small room, with its sloped ceilings, the bedroom she’d once shared with Cade. Her heart tugged a bit, which infuriated her. No one could piss her off like her ex.

Don’t think about him!

So what if you bought this cottage together or that your kids were born here, before the remodeling of this room, which had once been an attic? It’s over And it has been for a long time.

“Idiot,” she said aloud, then forced her thoughts back to the coming day and its significance.

If this—what would you call it? Anniversary? God, that sounded bad—but if this day wasn’t bad enough as it was, Lila had scheduled the final meeting of the high school reunion committee for this very night.

How sick was that?

When Rachel had pointed out the significance of the date and suggested they find another time, Lila’s pretty face had shadowed for a second. “I know,” she’d said, worry lines etching her forehead. “But it’s the only night that works and it’s the last weekend I’ve got available before the reunion. It’s weird, but”—she’d offered Rachel a shaky smile and a shrug—“what’re ya gonna do? It’s been a long time, Rach.” Lila had glanced away.

They’d been standing on the wide front porch of Lila’s hillside home, shadows lengthening as the sun settled in the west. Lila had swept her gaze away from Rachel and over the rooftops of the town to the cold gray waters of the Columbia River where several fishing boats were visible. “It’s hard for me, too, you know,” she’d admitted, letting her usual cheery facade slip a little.

Rachel did know. Lila, it seemed, had never gotten over Luke, and the reason had become clear later that year when she’d borne Luke’s son just before Christmas.

“But we have to move on, Rach,” Lila had said, turning back to face her friend, her blond hair catching the fading sunlight. “And if I can, then anyone can. Right?” She’d tilted her head. “Including you.”

Rachel hadn’t argued. And how could she? Lila not only had moved on, she’d moved in with and eventually married Cade’s father, a man over twice her age. All this despite bearing Luke a son, a boy he’d never had the chance to meet.

Because of you.

Because you killed your brother.

“No,” she said out loud.

In less than a month the damned reunion would be over and maybe then—oh, God, please—she could get on with her life. Today was just another day. Just. One. More. And she’d go to the meeting tonight, even if it killed her. She couldn’t let that one horrid mistake haunt her forever.

Two decades was long enough.

She glanced at the digital clock, glowing blue on the bedside stand.

Still not quite six.

She woke up about the same time every damned morning. A few minutes before her alarm was set to her favorite radio station so that she could rouse to music. Which was all a joke. Ever since she’d bought the clock, about two years earlier, the day after Cade had moved out, she’d never been awoken by the music, news or traffic reports, or even advertisements. Nope. All too often her damned nightmare brought her right to the surface and instantly awake, with or without the added audio of a car backfiring in the dawn.

She slapped off the alarm by habit, just to make sure it didn’t start playing some hit from the eighties or a news report or whatever before she got back from her run. Then she rolled out of bed and nearly stepped on Reno on her way to the window, where she peeked through the curtains to the backyard below.

Fenced.

Secure.

And all of the doors were locked and the windows latched. She knew that. She’d gone through her nightly routine before going to bed last night. She’d counted the dead bolts. Four. Front door, back door, slider, and stairwell. And the windows as well. Sixteen in all, counting the ones in the basement, which she did. Each had been fastened securely.

In the predawn stillness, the yard was dark. She scanned the perimeter, squinting through the glass, assuring herself no one was lurking outside in the bushes and trees rimming the patchy grass.

She saw no one peeking through the branches of the oversized fir, no person flattened against the side of the carport.

Get a grip.

But this was part of her morning routine.

“All clear,” she told herself with a sense of relief, then to the dog, who was already on his feet and stretching, “Ready to rock and roll?” She padded into the bathroom, where she splashed water on her face.

Glancing at the mirror, she saw her hair was its usual mess, wild reddish brown curls restrained by a band and pulled to the top of her head, but mussed to the point that several strands had escaped during her restless night. She tightened the band and frowned at her reflection.

A sudden memory slipped unbidden into her consciousness. In her mind’s eye, she traveled back a few years and she remembered standing just so in only her bra and panties in front of the wide mirror over the double sinks. A warm mist filled the bathroom and Cade, fresh from the shower, had come up behind her. Still naked he’d slipped his arms around her waist, his fingers sliding beneath the elastic of her thong, dipping low as he nuzzled her neck from behind.

“Are you serious?” she had asked on a laugh.

“What do you think?” A black eyebrow had arched—she’d seen it in the fogging mirror. Taller than she by nearly a head, his skin a darker hue than hers, his muscles defined, his features sharp beneath a beard shadow, he’d looked at her, thin lips twitching in amusement, his hazel eyes dark with passion.

Oh. Dear. God.

Now, remembering, she tingled at the thought of it.

Sex.

She missed it.

That bothered her.

Worse yet, she missed him.

Which really pissed her off and she was loath to admit it. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t allow herself to be that pathetic as to want him back. She picked up her toothbrush, squeezed paste over the bristles, and brushed her teeth with a fervor that might have scraped the enamel right off her incisors if she hadn’t caught herself. What was she doing, thinking about Cade?

“Loser,” Rachel said, her mouth frothing with toothpaste. “Cheater.” She rinsed her teeth by dipping her head under the faucet, swirling the cold water, then spitting into the sink. Standing, she looked in the mirror again and saw only her own image. Cade’s chiseled features and the memory had thankfully faded. “Good. Stay away.” Her eyebrows pulled together and she realized she was talking to her ex. Again. “Stupid!” Now, she was speaking to herself. Geez, was that any better? No wonder she still saw a shrink and had since Cade had walked out.

Or you pushed him out.

Anxiety reared its ugly head and she opened the mirrored cabinet, found her vial of Xanax on the top shelf, and twisted off the cap. She tossed a tablet into her open palm, leaving a few in the bottle, then stopped herself and counted the remaining pills. A total of five. Hadn’t there been more? Hadn’t the prescription been nearly full when she’d stopped taking them? She bit her lip. Couldn’t remember. Yes, according to the label there had been thirty prescribed and she’d taken them daily for a while, then stopped . . . but she could’ve sworn there had been at least half of the month’s prescription in the vial—more like fifteen.

Or had she been mistaken?

The last few weeks had been stressful and she’d taken one once in a while, so she must’ve gone through more than she’d thought.

Right?

No one would come up to her bathroom and steal the pills, leaving some. A thief would have taken the whole damned bottle.

Unless Harper or Dylan . . . no, no, no! Her kids would never steal meds from her. Nor would their friends. She thought of her children and their friends, all teenagers. “No.”

But she didn’t really know, did she?

There are six tablets remaining. Remember that.

She replaced the pill and recapped the plastic container, then closed the medicine cabinet and again saw her reflection, caught the worry in her eyes. The truth was that her kids were becoming strangers to her, keeping their own secrets, no longer dependent, no longer blurting out the truth when pressed.

All normal teenaged stuff.

But some of the Xanax is gone. You know it.

Unsure, she changed from the oversized T-shirt she wore as pajamas and pulled on her running gear: jog bra, long-sleeved T-shirt, and tights. Then, in stockinged feet, she hurried downstairs and paused at Harper’s bedroom door.

All was quiet.

She peeked inside. Recently painted in shades of gray, her room possessed some order if you didn’t count the controlled mess of a makeup table covered in bottles, brushes, and tubes. Her daughter lay sleeping on top of her duvet, one arm flung over the edge of her bed, her blond hair falling over her face. Earbuds in place, of course, Harper was dead to the world.

Rachel pulled the door shut, then crossed the hall to her son’s bedroom. Ignoring a DO NOT ENTER sign and a ridiculous swath of crime scene tape stretched across his door, she turned the handle and peered inside. Dylan was wound in a wrinkled pile of bedding, the top of his head all that was visible. The floor was littered with soda and vitamin water bottles, crumpled junk food wrappers, and game controllers, his space age desk covered with a variety of computers and video game equipment, all catching dust under the window.

She’d need a backhoe to clean the room if she ever decided to really clean it.

No, make that he would need the heavy equipment to do the job; it was his mess.

But Dylan was right; his room did look like a crime scene. Enough of a disaster to hide several dead bodies.

Time to change that.

She shut his door quietly, then, with Reno at her heels, double-checked to see that her flashlight and pepper spray were in her pocket, made certain the dead bolt on the front door had been thrown, then made her way through the kitchen and out the back door to the screened-in porch. She let Reno outside. While the dog nosed around the dewy yard, Rachel found her running shoes, slipped them on, and stretched. Finally, she snagged her jacket and the dog’s leash from a peg and was out the door, locking it firmly behind her and wishing the ancient security system was still working. After snapping on the dog’s leash, Rachel eyed the yard once more, noted that the gate was latched, then took off. She broke into a quick jog, Reno loping easily beside her.

The air was thick with the promise of rain, the streets were damp, and the sky was still showing a few stars in the coming dawn. But she was alone and very aware of others in the predawn light: dog walkers, paper deliverers, other joggers, people out and about. She ran through the neighborhood of post–World War II houses, homes built when the logging, saw-milling, and fishing industries were at their height. Some had been added onto over the years, some not. Unfortunately, the booming postwar economy had petered out over the ensuing years, and now Edgewater was no longer bustling and thriving but had become little more than a bedroom community for Astoria, positioned over ten miles west at the mouth of the Columbia.

Rachel’s family had been here for generations and maybe that was the reason she stayed. Now, with her current lack-of-job situation, that might change, she thought as she ducked under a low-hanging fir branch and kept her eyes on the cracked and buckled sidewalk, her peripheral vision taking in her surroundings.

At the highway that ran parallel to the river, traffic was light, so she and the dog cut across, against the light and through the back lot of a boat dealership to the bike path that ran along the Columbia’s banks. A tanker was moving upriver, its massive shape barely visible in the mist that lay on the water’s surface. Farther north, on the opposite shore, a few lights winked.

This was her favorite time of day, in those few hushed moments just before dawn, when the demons of the night shriveled out of her consciousness.

God, she was a freak.

No wonder Cade had taken up with another woman.

Cade again. “Stop it.”

Setting her jaw, she pushed herself, increasing her pace. Beside her, Reno loped along, tongue lolling, ears flapping.

Despite the cool temperature she was beginning to sweat. She stepped up her speed, the dog adjusting his pace. Within minutes she rounded a sweeping bend in the path that ran behind Abe’s all-night diner and caught sight of the Sea View cannery, or what remained of it, a moldering behemoth propped on rotting piers surrounded by a rusted and sagging fence, the same mesh barrier she’d slipped through so many years before. Her jaw tightened.

Twenty years.

And still it haunted her.

Still she ran out here to stare at