CHAPTER ONE

      WILLIAM KAUFFMAN CLUTCHED his right hand in his lap, rubbing a thumb over the tops of knuckles that still carried the scabbed gash from the latest in his line of regrets. Slouched in the driver’s seat of his rusted-out Chevy truck, he carefully examined the wound. It was the only one visible to the world.

      It wouldn’t be a long visit. Quite brisk in fact. Chinoodin Falls, Michigan, was the last place he wanted to be, but he owed it to his mother to make one last visit before hightailing it west and possibly out of the country. The thought of rescuing the 1981 Indian motorcycle rusting away in her shed, which should have passed directly to him, was highly motivating, too. If he could sell his truck for a few bucks, he could travel farther on his true father’s wheels—undetected.

      Parked along the street, with the Chevy’s engine gently idling, William eyed the illuminated windows of the greasy spoon where he’d been trapped most evenings and weekends as a child. A bland storefront with a faded green awning over the entrance, the dimly lit Pop’s Place sign hung crookedly over the front door. The sight, so long forgotten, now aroused in him a giddy fantasy of the words coming unfastened and crashing to the ground. He silently wished it to happen. If it did, perhaps he’d know in his heart that burying his ugly past spent there was somehow genuinely possible.

      As the early summer sun sank beneath the Lake Superior shoreline, casting hues of oranges and purples over the charming downtown Main Street, William grimaced at patrons shuffling through the diner’s open doors. The only thing slower than their moseying walk was their drawn-out Upper Peninsula accent, a mimic of folks from Northern Wisconsin and Minnesota. They carried on into Pop’s Place as if they hadn’t a care in the world: he despised them. His eyes darted along the storefront window, straining for a glimpse of his mother and some sign that returning to Chinoodin Falls after a twelve-year absence wasn’t the terrible mistake he feared it to be. He was an older version of the angry kid who’d taken off years ago, but as he shook out his aching right hand to turn off the ignition, he didn’t feel any wiser.

      He pulled his grease-stained baseball cap down snugly over his forehead and shoved his fists in the front pockets of his worn-out blue jeans before jutting across the street. He reminded himself that nobody in this little town knew what he had done, and they wouldn’t find out unless he was foolish enough to tell them. All he had to do was make a quick visit to appease his mother, persuade her to give him the motorcycle and then sell his truck. He’d only have to invest two to three days tops before he could be on his way. If he kept his head down and stuck to the plan, no one could stop him from escaping west.

      * * *

      ANNIE CURTIS WIPED perspiration from her brow with the top of her shoulder while carrying a tray of dinners to table four. She slid the plates to each patron with a brief nod before noticing the lone straggler sauntering through the front door.

      “Take a seat anywhere, honey,” she called, as he had seemed to miss the Seat Yourself sign. Without acknowledging her, he sidled up to the end of the counter and stood a menu in front of him, partially shielding his face from view. Annie refilled soda glasses for table three before cruising along the counter, order pad in hand.

      “What can I get you?” she asked the cracked menu cover as the stranger ducked behind it.

      “Joyce,” he said in a barely audible grumble.

      Annie frowned, cocking her head closer. “Excuse me?”

      “Send Joyce out, would ya?”

      “Joyce isn’t working the dining room tonight. You’re stuck with me. What can I get you to drink?”

      The stranger readjusted the menu and peered over the top of it, the whites of his eyes darkened by the shadow of his baseball cap.

      “I need to see Joyce now.”

      Annie hesitated, narrowing her eyes to study him. He was tall with a broad frame and a muscular build, but if she was pressed to give a detailed description to the police, she wouldn’t be able to manage more than “gray T-shirt and faded Levi blue jeans.”

      “What do you want with her?”

      The stranger dipped his head and grumbled, “It’s important.”

      Annie tapped a pen on the top of her order pad for a moment before sauntering back to the office for her boss.

      “A fellow at the end of the counter wants you,” she called. Joyce, a round woman well into retirement age, hoisted herself out of her desk chair and scurried past Annie to the dining room, trying to catch her breath along the way.

      “Miles,” Annie whispered, slipping back to the kitchen’s order window. The young cook craned his bandana-covered head to see her. “Grab me a frying pan. There’s some weirdo out there asking for Joyce.”

      “What’s he want with her?”

      “I don’t know, but he’s acting dodgy.”

      Miles raised a discerning eyebrow. “What do you wanna do?”

      “Miles,” Annie said, holding out her hand. “Come on.”

      “Annie Curtis, you’re gonna hit a guy with a frying pan?”

      “No...” she said as her subconscious protested. “Maybe.”

      Miles paused. “Seriously?”