A Breath Away. Rita Herron
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peaceful feeling. At least to Violet. What was it about the crows?
Across from the park, the old-fashioned soda shop on the corner remained a perfect diversion for a hot summer afternoon. She could almost smell the cinnamon sticks old Mr. Toots kept inside to hand out to children, and see the thick, old-fashioned root beer floats he decorated with whipping cream and cherries. RC Colas and Moon Pies, along with Nehi’s, homemade fudge and boiled peanuts, had been other local favorites. Unfortunately, Violet had never been able to afford the floats or fudge, not until Darlene had used her allowance money to buy both of them treats.
Suddenly Violet spotted the old street sign leading to her father’s house. Pine Needle Drive.
She’d thought she might have forgotten the way.
But the turn seemed natural, and she found herself leaving the safety of the town square and heading down the country road. She passed the run-down trailer park in the less cared for section of Crow’s Landing where rotting clapboard houses dotted the land, and overgrown weeds, battered bicycles and cars littered the front yards.
The road was bumpy and still unpaved. Although it was too late for kids to be outside playing, she could still picture the poor children who lived here—barefoot, with hand-me-down clothes two sizes too big hanging off their underfed bodies. She had been one of them. But not anymore, she reminded herself. She was strong, independent. She owned her own shop. She had a life ahead of her.
Her headlights flashed across the fronts of houses, and she grimaced, realizing things hadn’t changed at all on Pine Needle Drive. One out of three homes had a washing machine or threadbare sofa on the sagging front porch. The old water wells remained, a testament to the fact that some of the houses lacked indoor plumbing.
And then there was her father’s place, in much worse shape than she remembered. Overgrown bushes isolated it from the others. Two windowpanes in the front had been broken, the porch steps were missing boards, and some stray animal—most likely a mangy dog—had pawed the front door, scraping the dingy white paint. A cheap orange welcome mat graced the entrance, a mocking touch, while a caned-back chair that needed fixing was turned upside down in the corner. Three old cars that looked desperate for repairs sat to the side of the porch, weeds brushing at a rusty carburetor. Her father’s unfinished projects, obviously. As if death had claimed them just as it had him.
The woods beyond echoed with loneliness. But she could almost hear her and Darlene’s childhood laughter as they’d raced among the trees, building a playhouse in the pine straw.
Violet cut the engine and balled her hands into fists in her lap. Another, much newer car was parked sideways in the front drive—the sheriff’s car.
What was Grady Monroe doing at her father’s house?
CHAPTER SIX
VIOLET TWISTED the Best Friends necklace between her fingers as she stared at the door. Should she go inside or drive to the nearest hotel and spend the night, then return tomorrow when she wouldn’t have to face Grady? But she had been running from her past all her life.
It was time to stop.
Besides, the sooner she found some answers, the sooner she could return to Savannah and move on with her life. She needed to know that her father hadn’t killed her friend.
Gathering her courage, she opened the car door and climbed out, willing her legs to steady themselves as she ascended the steps. Honeysuckle sweetened the air, floating on the breeze. But the musty odor of the tattered welcome mat seeped upward as she stepped on it and raised her fist to knock. Then she caught herself. She didn’t need to knock. This house belonged to her. Or at least it had once been her home. In another lifetime.
Footsteps rumbled inside. Grady?
She turned the knob, bracing for his reaction.
GRADY HAD BARELY TOURED the house when footsteps sounded on the front porch. He’d thought he’d heard a car a minute or two before, and had headed toward the front. Who had driven all the way out here to Baker’s place?
Someone who knew about his death? Grady’s own father, maybe…
He waited for the knock, but it never came. Instead, the doorknob turned. He slid his hand to the gun holstered by his side, then drew his weapon just in case some troubled teen or vagrant had heard about Baker’s death and decided to rob him.
The door creaked open. Faint moonlight spilled in from the front porch, silhouetting a human form. Grady inched farther into the den. The low-wattage lightbulb in the foyer showed him it was a woman. She was slight, her pale face in shadows. A tangled web of dark hair floated around slender shoulders. The rattle of her breath broke the tense silence.
“Freeze! Police!”
She threw up her hands. “Please don’t shoot.”
He stepped forward just as she looked up, and he realized the face looked vaguely familiar. Her accent was familiar, too.
Dear God. It couldn’t be.
“Grady?”
“Violet?” Tension crackled between them. She looked so…so different. Not like the homely, sad-faced, big-eyed girl who’d traipsed after him years ago.
More like a…woman. A very attractive woman.
Shit, he didn’t need this.
“Yes, it’s me.” Her lower lip trembled at the sight of his Glock pointed at her.
He lowered the gun to his side, his gaze skimming over her, cataloging her features. Yes, she had definitely changed, had grown into a beauty. Not that any one feature was perfect, but she was stunning in an indefinable kind of way. Fragile. Earthy. Natural.
She stood around five-three and was still too slender. But her once scraggly brown hair shimmered with shades of gold, accentuating a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones and a small dainty nose. Her cheeks were pale, yet a natural rose color stained full lips devoid of lipstick. She didn’t need it. She had kissable lips.
Damn, if she hadn’t developed some luscious curves, too. Grady tried not to linger on the swell of her breasts, tried to stifle the elemental response of his body. Her denim skirt hung loosely on the gentle slope of her hips, and sandals showcased bare toes. Her toenails were painted pale pink.
The whisper of her feminine scent floated to him. That smell and those damn pink toenails made his body stir, waking nerve endings that had lain dormant forever.
For God’s sake, this was Violet Baker.
He could not be attracted to her. She had been Darlene’s best friend. Her father had confessed to killing Darlene. And Violet might have known.
Besides, he’d heard the rumors about her being strange, maybe crazy.
She cleared her throat, and he realized he’d let the silence stretch way too long.
“What are you doing here, Grady?”
“I…” He halted, not wanting to admit he was searching for evidence to corroborate her father’s confession.
She seemed to read his mind, anyway. “Did you find anything?”
“No.” He secured his gun back in his holster. “But I haven’t conducted a thorough search.”
Pain flickered in those expressive eyes—the one thing about her that hadn’t changed. They were still huge and an unusual shade of blue, almost purple, the obvious reason her parents had named her Violet. And they still had the power to tug at emotions inside him just as they had when he was a scrawny kid.
He dragged his gaze away. He refused to get sucked in by emotions. He’d waited too damn long to crack this case. Besides, Violet was not a scrawny kid anymore; she was an adult who could take care of herself.
“How did you get in?” she asked.
He gestured toward the door. “It was unlocked.”