Stranger in a Small Town

“I think we both know it’s not really about the house,” Annie said, softly but pointedly.

“Yes, it is,” Maggie said immediately, not about to let the comment or the sympathy in Annie’s voice get to her. “This is about a perfectly decent house that has no business being torn down just because something bad happened in it a long time ago. It’s been almost thirty years. It’s time for people to get over it already.”

“It’s part of living in a town where not much happens. Yesterday’s headlines stay in people’s minds a lot longer when there’s nothing new to replace them. There have only ever been two murders in this town, and they both happened in that house on the same night. It’s hard to get past that.”

Maggie recognized the tone in Annie’s voice and could practically picture her friend shuddering. “I don’t remember you being as creeped out by the house or the murders when we were kids.”

“Maybe it’s because I have kids of my own now and it’s hard not to think about that part of it. Those people had four or five kids, little ones from what I remember. Little kids who were left to wake up and find their parents butchered in the morning. Just the thought of it…” Maggie could hear Annie’s voice hitch as her words trailed off.

Maggie suppressed a shudder of her own. She had to admit, it was a chilling thought. Those poor children. She couldn’t even imagine what it must have been like for them. She wasn’t sure she wanted to.

Almost in spite of herself, she cast an uneasy glance over her shoulder, feeling the echoing emptiness of the house a little too keenly.

“But it’s more than that,” Annie continued. “Whoever killed them was never caught, you know? No one was ever punished, and nobody even knows why it happened. There’s not exactly a lot of turnover in the population around here, which means that if whoever did it is still alive, there’s a good chance that person is still living here. Who wants to be reminded that their neighbor could be a murderer?”

No one, Maggie had to admit, even if she couldn’t quite say so to Annie.

Annie’s words stayed with her long after they ended the call. From the moment she’d decided to restore the house, she’d brushed off any reference to what had happened here, because she hadn’t thought it mattered, because it shouldn’t. It had been so long ago. People should have been able to get past it.

But maybe Annie was right. Maybe no one could get past it as long as there was no real resolution. No punishment. No explanation for why such a terrible thing had happened at all.

Ignoring it and hoping it would go away may have been the wrong approach. Perhaps what she needed to do was confront it head-on.

Because reasons did matter, she thought as an uncomfortable twinge struck her. They mattered a lot.

She knew that better than anybody.

AFTER leaving the house, Sam drove straight into the heart of Fremont, looking for a restaurant or a diner. It didn’t take him long to spot one. This was a small town, and the restaurant was one of only a handful of businesses on the main street, and the only eating establishment.

There were a couple of fast-food places on the outskirts of town, by the highway, that would have been both closer and cheaper, but they wouldn’t have suited his purposes. They were too bland, anonymous, places where people didn’t linger or make conversation with one another. And it wasn’t food he was interested in.

Parking in front of the restaurant, he scanned the rest of the businesses on the street before making his way inside. There was nothing particularly noteworthy that he could see. A police station. A lawyer’s office. A grocery store. Only the library grabbed his notice. It couldn’t hurt to make a visit there the first chance he got.

Stepping into the restaurant, he saw it was more of a typical small-town diner. A counter ran almost the entire length of one wall. Booths lined two other walls, with tables and chairs arranged in the middle of the room. The place was about half-full, less than he might have expected for a Sunday afternoon.

As soon as he set foot inside, he saw most of the patrons check to see who had entered. Most of the gazes lingered.

He did his best to ignore them. There was no formal host, which seemed fitting for a place like this. Instead, a waitress strode toward him from the other end of the counter as soon as she saw him, excusing herself from the customer she’d been talking to. She was a bottle blonde in her fifties, wearing the usual waitress uniform but no name tag. Probably didn’t need one in a place like this.

“Table or booth?” she asked, already reaching for a menu from the holder at the end of the counter.

“Can I get something to go?”

“Sure thing.” She placed the menu on the counter and gave it a little pat. “Just let me know what you want.”

Sam felt what seemed like every eye in the place on him as he opened the menu. The usual small-town curiosity about a stranger, or something more than that?

He did his best to act like he hadn’t noticed their interest as he scanned the menu. Maggie hadn’t told him what she wanted, saying anything was fine with her. He didn’t care much, either. Figuring he couldn’t go wrong with a couple burgers and two orders of fries, he closed the menu and raised his head to call the waitress back.

He didn’t have to bother. He looked up to find her standing halfway down the counter, watching him like everybody else. As soon as he glanced up, she was moving again, sauntering toward him. “What can I get you?”

He told her. She didn’t bother writing down the order, taking the menu and stepping to a window behind the counter, calling it out to the cook on the other side.

Sam might have liked to try striking up a conversation with the waitress, someone who most likely knew plenty of the people in this town. She didn’t come back toward him after putting in his order, even though the menu holder was at his end of the counter. Instead, she moved away to the other end, keeping the menu in her hands, as she went back to talking to the man she’d been speaking with when he entered. She leaned close. Sam didn’t miss the glances she sent in his direction.

His nominal business completed, he leaned against the counter and scanned the room with what he hoped looked like idle curiosity. Sure enough, damn near every eye in the place was fixed on him, some doing a better job of hiding it than others. He tried not to make eye contact, even as he scoped out every face for any that seemed familiar. None did at first glance. Then again, it had been a long time. There was no telling if he had a chance of truly recognizing anyone. Even if his memory could be trusted, everyone would look thirty years older.

One of the men seated alone at a booth suddenly tossed his napkin down on the table and rose. Pulling his wallet from his back pocket, he moved to the counter a couple of feet away from Sam, placing his check on the surface. “I’m ready to settle up, Gracie.”

“Sure thing, Clay.” The waitress took his check and the twenty-dollar bill he’d laid on top of it, then moved to the register a few feet away.

Sam waited. The man had gotten up and come over to stand near him for a reason.

A few seconds later, the man turned and looked at him, his eyes scanning Sam’s face with what would have been uncomfortable thoroughness if Sam was the type who was easily unnerved.

Sam stared back, keeping a neutral expression on his face. The man looked to be in his sixties, with thinning gray hair, a paunch and a pinched expression. Something in his face made Sam think he might have been a handsome man once, although his glory days were clearly far behind him.

The man nodded at Sam, the gesture not particularly friendly. “Afternoon.”

“Afternoon,” Sam returned.

“You new in town?”

“Just got in this morning.”

After a beat, the man extended his hand. “Clay Howell.”

“John Samuels,” he returned, the name coming easier this time than it had the first.

Sam could see the man turning the name over in his mind, trying to place it, and he saw when he’d failed to. “You been to Fremont before?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“Passing through?”

“Actually I just got hired on a restoration project. An old house over on Maple.”

The man didn’t seem surprised, not that Sam expected him to be. He didn’t seem anything, simply nodding, his eyes never leaving Sam’s.

“You know two people were killed in that house.”

“So I hear.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

Sam tried to make it look like he was thinking about it. He shrugged a shoulder. “It’s sad, sure, but I hear it happened a long time ago.”

“Not long enough for some people.”

“Did you know them? The people who were killed?”

Clay Howell’s eyes narrowed, the first hint of outright anger appearing in the redness that darkened his cheeks. “I’m not sure that’s any of your business.”

He’d certainly hit a nerve there. “No offense intended.”

“Best not ask questions like that if you don’t want to cause offense,” the man spat. “You won’t make too many friends around here as it is working on that house.”

“I’m not here to make friends. Just here to do a job.”

The waitress reappeared, setting the man’s change on the counter next to him. He took a single bill, leaving the rest there and motioning for her to take it. “See you later, Gracie.”

“Later, Clay,” the waitress echoed faintly.

Shooting Sam one last glare, the man moved past him toward the door.

“Your order will be right up,” the waitress told Sam be fore heading back to the other end of the counter. From the look on her face, that couldn’t happen soon enough for her.

Sam stayed where he was, leaning casually against the counter, and turned the encounter over in his mind. Interesting. Maggie was right. People around here certainly were weird when it came to that house.

If he wasn’t mistaken, asking a simple question had just earned him an enemy, his second that day if he counted the man Maggie had pissed off by hiring him.

If that was what asking one question was going to get him, then he was more than prepared for them to be just the first of many.

Chapter Four

The graves lay in a nearly forgotten section of the cemetery. Whoever had chosen their location had likely hoped for exactly that to happen, for the two people buried in the plots and what had happened to them to be forgotten. Most of the surrounding graves were much older, the stones indicating their inhabitants had died more than a century ago. But thirty years earlier, space had been made to fit two more plots into this location where they’d be easily overlooked.

Sam supposed he should be angry, but he hardly had any room to judge. This was the first time he’d been to the cemetery. He’d done as good a job of ignoring these graves as anybody, and he didn’t even have plot placement to blame for it.

Dawn had begun to break a short time ago, the thin light of morning illuminating the layer of fog that hung over the graveyard. Somehow, being able to see the fog made it more eerie than when it had been darker. He hadn’t expected to stay this long, coming just before dawn in hopes of getting in and out unspotted, not wanting to have to explain to anyone why he was here. But it had taken him a while to find the graves, searching the more recent section of the cemetery first. And once he finally located them, walking away didn’t seem so easy to do.

He wondered who’d paid for the plain stones. The flat slabs contained only the occupants’ names and the years they’d been born and died. Nothing about their lives. Nothing about their relationship to each other. Nothing about the people who’d loved them or the sadness left in the wake of their loss.

Grief, stark and heavy, welled up from the pit of his stomach, and the back of his eyes began to burn. Words he wanted to say more than anything pushed at the back of his throat, gagging him, begging to be released.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…

But whatever remained in these graves, he couldn’t fool himself that the people who’d been buried here would hear those words. Or that forgiveness would be so easily granted.

Lost in his thoughts, he heard the crunch of tires on the road behind him too late. Not that he could have done much about it. It wasn’t like he could run. Whoever it was had already seen him, seen his truck. There was no use trying to hide.

He turned and saw that a police cruiser had pulled up behind his truck. He bit back a curse. It would be hard enough trying to come up with a plausible explanation for why he was here at this time of day for a regular person. A cop would be twice as suspicious.

A single figure stepped from behind the driver’s seat and started through the fog toward him, slowly materializing in the haze. He was a big man, maybe in his early forties. As he’d done with nearly every face he’d encountered so far, Sam tried erasing thirty years from the man before him to see how he must have looked back then. Only people like Maggie Harper, whose age automatically meant they weren’t worth considering, had been exempt.

It took him a moment to make the connection. Then it hit him, recognition setting off a chain reaction of emotion inside him. Surprise. Wonder. Brief delight. Then crushing dread.

From the look on the man’s face, he had the most reason to feel the last one.

The man came close enough that Sam could really see his face clearly, a familiar face with thirty years of wear on it. “Hey, Sam,” he said, the tone and cadence the same despite coming from a voice several octaves lower.

For a second, Sam actually considered lying, before admitting there wasn’t much of a point. Doing so would only embarrass them both. “Hey, Nate.”

Nate nodded, as though he’d needed that final confirmation. “Been a long time.”

“Yes, it has.”

“Did you really think no one would recognize you?”

“So far, you’re the only one who has.”

“That you know of.”

It was a fair point. No one else had confronted him with his identity, but that didn’t mean they didn’t know. Which raised the question of why not if they had. He’d be interested to know the answer.

“I don’t think I look much like I used to, do you?”

“No, you don’t. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“So how did you?”

Nate shrugged a shoulder. “Can’t really explain it. You’re still you, that’s all.”

“I’ll just have to hope nobody else knew me as well.”

“As well as your best friend?”

“Yeah.”

Nate shook his head and sighed. “What’s going on, Sam? Or is it John? What’s with the name?”

“I figured it was better if nobody knew it was me.” The truth of his identity would lead to all kinds of uncomfortable questions he’d rather avoid. Or maybe it was the answers that were uncomfortable, each more so than the last.

“Why?” Nate demanded with the kind of insistence Sam would have expected from a cop.

Obviously nonanswers weren’t going to get him anywhere, which was why he was better off avoiding questions in the first place. “I thought people might be more willing to open up to me if they didn’t know my connection to what happened.”

Nate snorted. “You must not have been in too many small towns in the past thirty years if you thought anyone would be more willing to talk to a stranger than a native.”

“I can’t say that I have.”

“So where have you been?”

“All over the place.” And no place at all. No place that mattered.

Nate made an impatient noise. “It’s been thirty years. Why come back now? Why after all this time?”

There was one of those uncomfortable questions, with an uncomfortable answer. He swallowed hard. “I need to know the truth. It’s time.”

“Long past time, I’d say.”

“Can’t argue with you there.”

“So what took you so long?”

“I had my reasons.”

A trace of sympathy entered Nate’s eyes, the sentiment shining past the impatience, and Sam had to look away. Nate probably thought he knew what those reasons were, but even he didn’t know the true weight of the guilt Sam had carried all these years.

He buried his hands in his pockets. “Anybody else been here?” he said as casually as he could.

Nate didn’t need clarification as to whom he meant. “Nope. You’re the first.”

It wasn’t the answer he’d expected—or wanted. He’d figured most, if not all, of the others would have been back before now, at least once in thirty years. He’d hoped Nate might know something and he realized just how hungry he was for information. But none of them had come back. Because they had busy lives, or because they wanted to forget, like he had, even if they didn’t have nearly as much reason? Either way, he probably wasn’t entitled to that information, even if Nate did have it.

Sam glanced at the man’s uniform. “I don’t remember you wanting to be a cop.”

“I didn’t. Not until that night.”

Of course. He should have known. That night had affected a lot of people besides him.

“Did you ever tell anybody what happened that night?” Nate asked.

“No.”

“I looked at the file myself a few times. Not much there.”

Sam couldn’t keep his interest off his face. “Can I see it?”

“I’m pretty sure that kind of thing’s against regulations.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Nate stared at him for a long moment before lowering his gaze and nodding tersely. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you,” he said, meaning it more than those two words could begin to express.

“I’ll leave you alone, but you might not want to stay too long. No telling who else might show up next.”

“Thanks.”

“Good to see you, Sam.”

“You, too,” he said, swallowing hard against the sudden thickness in his throat. And it was, so much so that it surprised him. As he watched Nate move away into the fog, he tried to think of a single person he’d known in the past thirty years who’d been as close of a friend to him as this man had once been. There hadn’t been, of course. He hadn’t—couldn’t—let there be, not the same way, not when he had too many secrets to keep. They’d only been boys, but boys who went everywhere together, boys who talked about everything with each other. Nate had practically been another brother. Another brother he’d turned his back on.

And now he was a man, damn near middle-aged, the same as Sam. Nate was probably married. Probably had kids and a mortgage and a thousand other things in his life Sam knew nothing about. Strange to think how little he knew about someone he’d once known as well as himself.

“Nate.”

Almost to the car, the other man stopped, then slowly looked back.

“Are you going to tell anybody who I am? That I’m not a stranger?”

Nate didn’t answer for a moment. Sam couldn’t read his expression, but he felt Nate’s gaze wash over his face, as though searching for something.

“It’s been thirty years, Sam. I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what you are.”

MAGGIE glanced at the clock on the truck’s dashboard, hop ing she’d left herself enough time to accomplish what she needed to at the library before it closed. She and John had been busy enough that she hadn’t had a chance to make the library run she’d been wanting to since her conversation with Annie yesterday. Not about to let another day pass without getting the information she wanted, she’d left John alone at the house, trusting him enough to leave him on his own for a few hours.

She’d called ahead to find out what time the library closed. From the tone of the woman on the phone, it had been a stupid question. No doubt the hours were common knowledge to the locals. The woman’s voice had seemed to convey the message that anyone who didn’t already know when the library was open wasn’t welcome to visit at any time.

After the last few weeks in Fremont, she was used to feeling unwelcome, Maggie thought. By now, the idea barely fazed her.

As she passed through the quiet streets, she took in her surroundings. Fremont wasn’t a very big town, and much of it was familiar to her. At the same time, it was odd how different the place seemed from what she remembered. She’d never felt unwelcome when she’d been here as a child. But then, she’d never really gone anywhere without one or both of her grandparents back then. Even though the townspeople may have disapproved of her grandfather’s stubborn insistence on keeping the house, he was still one of them. And as his granddaughter, she had been one of them, too.

And now she wasn’t.

It really was as simple as that. From the moment she’d made her intentions clear, people she remembered, people who clearly remembered her, had treated her far differently than they had before. Arms that had once been open were now folded shut. Backs were turned resolutely against her.

A hard lump formed in her throat. She did her best to swallow it. After everything that had happened in the past year, she’d hoped to retreat into the sheltering comfort of a place she remembered so fondly. But it appeared a person really couldn’t re-create the past.

The library was a squat one-story building toward the end of Main Street. Spotting it up ahead, Maggie pulled into a parking space in front and climbed out of her truck.

She was about to turn and head into the library when a sudden chill slid through her, raising the hair at the back of her neck. She hesitated, instantly recognizing the sensation.

She was being watched.

Without moving her head, she slowly scanned Fremont’s small downtown area. There was no one obviously in view. That just left all of the windows on the buildings lining the street. The late-afternoon sunlight shone down upon the glass, turning them into mirrors and making it impossible to see who was on the other side.

Any one of the windows could be hiding an unseen watcher.

Or all of them might be.

The sensation was so overwhelming that it was entirely too easy to believe. That every impenetrable window hid a watcher, like the entire town was staring at her, waiting for the slightest sign of weakness, wanting her to fail.

And they did. The eyes watching her weren’t just observing emotionlessly. They were angry. Hateful. She tried to convince herself she was imagining things, but couldn’t manage it. The feeling was too strong.

Pure malevolence.

Doing her best not to let her unease show, she raised her chin and squared her shoulders before slowly turning and entering the library.

Her tension didn’t ease once she was inside. A woman stood at a counter in front of the entrance. As soon as she looked up and caught sight of Maggie, her expression hardened, her frown tightening so firmly into place that it was almost impossible to believe her lips were capable of doing anything else.

It took Maggie a few seconds to recognize her. It wasn’t just the many years since Maggie had last seen her, though they were evident enough in every line and wrinkle on the woman’s face. No, it was her expression. Shelley Markham had been the librarian here when Maggie had been a child, and Maggie had never seen her look at her—or anyone else—with anything but a smile. Just another indication of Maggie’s changed status around here.

Maggie tried to force a smile of her own, something that proved a challenge to maintain the longer she met Shelley Markham’s unsmiling visage.

“Hi, Mrs. Markham. I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Maggie Harper. I used to come here—”

“I remember you,” the woman cut her off, her tone making it sound as if it wasn’t a good thing.

Maggie kept her smile as unmoving as Mrs. Markham’s heavy frown. “I’m sure you’ve heard I’m renovating my grandfather’s old house on Maple. I was hoping to look up some old newspaper articles about the Ross murders.” There was no point in trying to put it more delicately.

She never would have thought it possible, but the woman’s frown actually deepened. “Didn’t that man who works for you find what you were looking for?”