📖 Excerpt
Friday, September 2, 2022
Violet Anderson
“Mr. Callahan, I should seriously kick your ass,” I muttered, speaking to no one.
No one other than the rows and rows of books that filled the rows and rows of shelves in my small bookstore, that was.
“I mean, come on. I have stuff to do. Real stuff. Like job stuff.”
While the podcast played, I continued to run the Swiffer over the spines and tops of the books as I did every couple of days, keeping my pride and joy, a.k.a. Shelf Help, neat and tidy. Up until two months ago, I'd handled my daily chores with an audiobook to keep myself entertained because I hadn’t known what a podcast even was. Well, technically, that wasn’t true. I'd heard of podcasts but had never bothered to venture into that world due to my preference for fictional storytelling.
Boy, had I been missing out.
Now, here I was, hanging on to every word, envisioning the scenes being painted in my head by the sexy hum of that voice through my earbuds. It was the best time of day to enjoy my favorite true-crime podcast—an obsession I'd developed recently thanks to Holt Callahan, the bastard.
For weeks, I had been consuming them the same way I consumed books: raptly and without apology. I spent my afternoons taking care of menial chores since the store was mostly empty—or completely, as was the case now—while these new types of stories played, drawing me in, captivating me with their insight and revelation.
“Like I can really afford another obsession.” I shook my head and sighed, weaving my way toward the front.
The elementary school would be letting out in about an hour, which meant in an hour and a half, the store would be overrun with six- to nine-year-olds on the hunt for their next favorite read because today was “Even Swap” day. I'd dedicated the first Friday of every month to this day, which was a hit with the community. The rule was, if you brought in one book, you could hand it over and walk out with another from one of the shelves I'd dedicated to the program. Provided you were a student at Coyote Ridge Elementary. And fine, I'd made a concession or two for students in neighboring towns since word had filtered into those communities. Who was I to stop kids from reading?
It helped tremendously that I had a whole slew of young cousins whose parents were diligent about donating their gently used books to the cause.
Setting my Swiffer duster on the counter, I plucked my earbuds out. Last but not least, I needed the multipurpose cleaner so I could—
“Holy shit!” Clutching my hand to my chest, I tried to stop my heart from escaping through my ribcage. “For fucks sake, Holt. Warn a girl, would ya?”
Holt Callahan smiled. “I thought you knew I was here. That’s what the bells are for, right?”
“How would I know that?” I countered hotly, fisting my AirPods and thrusting my hand in his direction. “You scared the shit outta me.”
“Holt, man. Come on. You shouldn’t be doin’ that.”
The voice that came from behind me had me spinning, another startled scream escaping.
“Mother of dragons!” I hissed, once again clutching my chest.
“Sorry,” the man said, although the devilish smirk on his face told me he was anything but.
I frowned, tempted to blast him with my outrage, but I didn’t make a habit of dressing down customers. It wasn’t good for business, after all.
Holt cleared his throat. Or maybe that was a cough meant to cover up a laugh. “Violet Anderson, I’d like you to meet Simon Jennings. Simon, Violet.”
I cast a death ray stare in Holt’s direction. “You know this guy?”
His smile was slow and devious. “And now you do, too.”
“So you’re not a customer?” I asked Simon.
“I could be.” That devilish grin remained firmly planted.
“But not at the moment?”
A whisper of confusion—or maybe amusement—shifted through his expression. “I guess, technically, I’m not.”
“Are you an author?” I tilted my head toward Holt. “Like him?”
“Nobody’s an author like me,” Holt said with a laugh.
“No,” Simon answered.
“Okay, good.” I stabbed a finger in his direction. “Don’t sneak up on me! Ever. Understood?”
His smile returned. “Yes, ma’am. Noted for the future.”
I stared at the newcomer and realized he was holding out his hand. For some insane reason, I felt compelled to shake it lest be rude. His much bigger fingers engulfed mine, and I was surprised to find they were rougher than I had imagined they would be.
Upon first glance, I would’ve cataloged Holt’s friend the same way I did Holt Callahan, dumping him right into the preppy column. Maybe it was the perfectly messy hair, the sharp blade of his nose, or the scruff that lined his chiseled jaw. Or—more than likely—it had to do with the jeans that cost more than jeans should cost and a polo that had likely only ever been dry-cleaned.
Neither man was the type I expected to see in my small town. Most of the men around these parts wore Wranglers and Stetsons with belt buckles the size of the great state they lived in. Their boots showed years of abuse, and their beards only saw a proper shave when Cletus Johnson or his son Clive—at the barber shop next door—got their clippers after them.
I'd bet money that Simon’s haircut cost upwards of three hundred dollars, and that scruff on his jaw was maintained daily. He probably manscaped, too.
Not that I cared enough to find out. Definitely not. The best part about this guy was that he was absolutely, 100% not my type.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Simon drawled.
That silky twang directly contradicted the outer wrapping, which made Simon Jennings a conundrum wrapped in … yumminess.
Not my type of yumminess. Absolutely not. He was much too … nice to be a guy I would date. Now, if he’d eyeballed me like a tiger would raw meat, perhaps I would’ve thought so. Maybe if he said something vulgar or belched, I would swoon and think about what fast food joint I wanted to have for dinner. That was the type of guy I was drawn to. The bad boy who would undervalue me and be on his merry way when I refused to screw him after chowing down on McBurgers and fries.
Another way to look at it was, given a choice from a lineup of men, one being a billionaire philanthropist, one being a sweet schoolteacher, and one being an ex-con with no job and no prospects for one, I would undoubtedly pick the ex-con.
Not by choice, mind you. Unfortunately, it was the family curse.
Taking a deep breath and trying to compose myself, I pasted on my customer service smile. “Likewise.”
Not your type, I reminded my traitorous body, which was reacting oddly to the gleam in his blue eyes. Or were they green? Or gray? A mixture of all three? And what about his hair? It wasn’t quite brown and definitely not blond. Somewhere in between?
Nope. I didn’t care about his eyes or his hair or the dimples that formed when he smiled.
Taking my hand back, I turned to Holt. “So what brings you in? Comin’ to check out the new releases? Because I can tell you right now, an author I know didn’t release one this week despite everyone flocking in to see if he did.”
“I’m working on it. Promise.”
That was the same thing he said every time I made a comment in hopes of getting him to release his next bestseller early. I tended to lean toward romance as my genre of choice, but ever since I started reading Holt’s bestselling mystery thrillers, my eyes had been opened to a whole new world. Kinda like the podcasts.
Holt glanced at Simon. “I told you she had sass.”
Simon was grinning. “You did mention that, yes.”
I fisted my hands on my hips. “Sass or not, I’m still waitin’ on a new release, so if you’re not here for that, what are you here for?”
“I’m just showing Simon around town. He’s gonna be staying at the B&B for a little while.”
“Ah.” I did my best not to look at Simon, but my efforts to resist failed because I found myself glancing over to see that he was watching me. “Vacation?”
“More like professional curiosity,” he answered easily before walking around the large square counter where I checked customers out.
He had a nice voice to go with the nice hair and the nice eyes. Rich, smooth. Not too deep, not too high. It sounded oddly familiar, but I wasn’t sure why. I knew for a fact I'd never met the man. He was one I would’ve remembered.
Not that I was attracted to him or anything.
“What is it that you do?” Not that I cared. It was just the polite thing to ask.
Simon’s gaze shifted to Holt and a look passed between them.
“Do you not know what you do?” I asked, taunting him because something felt off.
He still didn’t answer, so I looked at Holt, cocked an eyebrow. “Your turn.”
His eyes glittered with amusement. “Simon’s the creator and host of Havoc Your Way.”
Every cell in my body froze as the words filtered through my brain.
Havoc Your Way. Only my favorite podcast hosted by the award-winning investigative journalist, with hundreds of thousands of fans waiting with bated breath for his next episode.
That Simon Jennings?
“Wha—huh?” I squeaked, my lungs failing to work as I stared at the man and tried to tie him back to my most recent obsession.
“Wow,” Holt said. “When she learned who I was, she turned her nose up.” He chuckled. “Looks like you’ve rendered her speechless.”
It wasn’t possible. No way was the Simon Jennings standing in my store. No freaking way.
“Say something,” I blurted because I needed to hear his voice again to confirm whether Holt was telling the truth. Of course, why would he lie? Then again, maybe he did. People did stupid things for stupid reasons.
Simon’s eyebrows lifted. “Me?”
“Yes.” I rolled my hand, gesturing for him to hurry up with it.
Simon’s smile caused that dimple to reappear and his blue/green/gray eyes to glitter beneath those thick eyelashes. “Is there somethin’ specific you’d like to hear?”
Aww, man. It was him. Simon, with the smooth, rich drawl and the not-quite-brown hair and the multi-shaded eyes and the sexy dimple, was standing. In. my. Store.
Once again, I was clutching my chest. “Oh my God.”
And yes, I found myself ogling him, trying to connect the man I was looking at with the voice I'd heard every day since Holt first suggested I listen to one of the top true-crime podcasts in existence. The only pictures of Simon Jennings I'd found online were those of him wearing sunglasses and a hat—sometimes a ballcap, most of the time a cowboy hat, but always a hat. I just figured that was his style.
He didn’t have a hat on now. Or sunglasses.
He looked better without them. In my opinion, anyway.
Not interested.
Exactly.
“Wait.” I peered around. “Is Archer here?”
Holt chuckled.
Simon said, “No. He’s takin’ a few days off to visit his grandmother.”
Well, that was too bad. I would’ve loved to have met Simon’s partner, the man who did the dirty work when it came to their investigations. At least, that was how Simon described him in his episodes.
Wait. I frowned. “The one in Nashville? Or Oklahoma?”
“Nashville.”
“Is she all right?”
Simon’s smile widened. “She is.”
I sighed with relief.
Simon continued. “He tries to get up there to visit every coupla months.”
What a nice thing to do.
“Ooh. Did Paige come with?” I asked, hoping Simon would nod.
More laughter from Holt.
“She stayed back in Dallas to finish laying some audio in the last episode,” he explained.
Well, that made sense. Paige Avery was the miracle worker who tied everything together and made the details come to life. Without her, I imagined the storytelling would be flat, and Simon Jennings wouldn’t be as famous as he was.
Simon looked at Holt. “Is she gonna be okay?”
I pulled myself out of my trance, scrambling for composure. I was not the sort to fangirl over anyone. Ever. And if I could meet Cheyenne Montgomery—only my favorite country singer of all time—and not fall to pieces, I could meet anyone. And I hadn’t. My introduction to Cheyenne had gone off without a hitch. Mostly. I might’ve created a cheer, complete with pompoms and high kicks, which I performed in the privacy of my bedroom back when I learned that Cheyenne was marrying my cousin Brendon, but that was a long time ago. And no one knew about that.
Hopefully.
Holt cleared his throat.
“What’s the podcast name again?” I asked, realizing both men were staring at me.
Holt laughed. “Nice try.”
Thankfully, I wasn’t the sort to blush. The heat I felt at the tips of my ears probably meant I was coming down with something.
I made a mental note to get that checked out.
* * *
Simon Jennings
I didn’t believe in love at first sight. Hell, up to this point in my life, I wasn’t sure I even believed in love.
Lust, definitely.
Desire, absolutely.
Infatuation, probably.
In my line of work, I rationalized a lot of behaviors and the emotions that drove them. When trying to get to the bottom of why someone did what they did, I didn’t merely walk a mile in their shoes to recreate the scene. I also attempted to narrow down their motivation because it was imperative in order to understand how the crime in question happened. Even if I had no frame of reference.
For instance, obsession. I'd never understood how anyone could get so wrapped up in one person that they would become consumed by a driving, passionate need. Whether to harm or worship, it never made any sense to me.
Until now.
This … whatever the hell this foreign sensation flooding my veins was, it felt like a potent combination of lust and obsession.
Which was absurd, right?
Of course it was absurd. It wasn’t like I could’ve spent the past thirty-four years never experiencing anything remotely close to an attachment to one person only to make my first trek to Coyote Ridge and get waylaid by every emotion I'd questioned.
Here.
In this quaint little bookstore.
With its not-so-quaint little bookstore owner.
Violet.
Even her name was sexy, and when I let those six letters roll around on my tongue, it caused me to think some very dirty things about the most stunningly gorgeous creature I'd ever laid eyes on.
Violet Anderson was the sort of woman you watched from across the room because you were magnetically drawn to her, even if you didn’t know why. Her aura was as vibrant as the emerald green halter top she wore, and it exuded from every pore as though charged by a light from within because her body was too small to contain it all.
Yeah, so what if I was waxing poetic about a woman I'd just met? It was merely a hazard of the job. I considered myself a good judge of people and a better-than-average journalist. Plus, I was a creator of sorts, so it made sense.
Kinda.
Though probably not since I'd sworn off women six weeks ago when I caught my girlfriend—now my ex-girlfriend—tongue-fucking some dude’s mouth in a club. It was that scene that had brought on the epiphany and opened my eyes to the long string of women I'd been wasting time with. Admittedly, I didn’t believe in the type of love that bowled you over and made you do stupid shit and think stupid thoughts, but that didn’t mean I had a level head when it came to women.
“We’ve got a few more stops to make,” Holt was saying.
Yes. More stops.
Since it would be weird to tell Holt that I'd be fine lingering in this bookstore for the rest of my life, I nodded in agreement.
“It was nice to meet you,” I told Violet, meeting her gaze.
She had the most beautiful eyes. The color of rich, melted chocolate. And now I was thinking about drizzling the stuff all over her because I wanted to know if she tasted as sweet.
“Enjoy your time in town,” she said in a tone that felt oddly like a dismissal.
“Maybe I’ll see you around.”
A brilliant smile flashed on her face. “Maybe. But probably not.”
Her sass should’ve been off-putting, but I found it as alluring as the rest of her. Then again, Holt had warned me that she was a spitfire. Said Violet had all but ignored him the first time they met, absolutely unimpressed that a #1 New York Times bestselling author had graced her store. Of course, Holt laughed when he told the story, but I had heard the underlying disbelief. After all, just about anyone who read any genre of fiction had heard of Holt Callahan.
“Challenge accepted,” I told her before following Holt toward the door.
I couldn’t help myself, so I glanced back once more before stepping outside. To my dismay, Violet wasn’t staring after me as I'd hoped.
“Was I right or what?” Holt asked.
“About?”
Holt laughed. “You, too, huh?”
“Me too what?”
“Let me tell you a little story about the Anderson sisters,” Holt said as we started toward the park.
I found Walker Park oddly endearing. It was the epitome of small-town living, with its white gazebo surrounded by flowers of various colors and species. The large wooden structure was flanked by two small fountains that glittered from a wealth of coins scattered across the bottom. Branching off from it were various walking paths dotted with small benches for relaxing. The grass that separated the downtown businesses from the bed-and-breakfast was well-maintained, as were the large trees that shot skyward, seeking sunlight.
“There are four of them,” Holt continued. “Whitney, Amanda, Violet, and Honor. Their mother, Daphne, is a Walker.”
“Am I supposed to know what that means? Like in Game of Thrones?”
“That’s a White Walker, so no, not the same.” Holt stopped and gestured toward a sign. “The Walkers are the original family that formed the roots of this town.”
Ah. Well, that explained why it was called Walker Park. It alleviated some of my concerns that the town lacked the creativity required to name it something other than the purpose it served—i.e., for walkers.
“At one point,” Holt explained, “the Walkers owned every square inch of land. When Frank Sr died, his son, Curtis, parsed it out, giving a good majority of it to the town, the rest he gave to the people leasing it from his father.”
“Did you read that right off the sign?” I joked.
Holt smirked. “Anyway, Violet’s mother, Daphne, is one of eight kids. Most of them still live here. The girls’ father, Harold, is … well, let’s just say he’s not one of the town’s favorite people. I can’t confirm it, but the rumors are that Harold married Daphne because he thought there was money to be had. Since they wed only seven days after meeting, he probably should’ve done his homework first. Or she should have.”
“Wow. Seven days.” I couldn’t fathom liking someone enough within that span of time to consider spending the rest of my life with them, much less legally sealing the deal.
“Harold and Daphne popped out a couple of the girls right off the bat, but then they separated for several years.”
“Not surprising, considering,” I mused.
“Yeah, well. Daphne clearly saw something in the guy. Almost eight and a half years passed before he planted himself in her life again. She got pregnant with Violet right away. From what I heard, he stuck around for the pregnancy. Most of it, anyway. He wasn’t at the hospital when she was born because he ran off to Shreveport with a girl he met at Moonshiners. Some people say Daphne told him to take a hike after that. Others claim he was sowing more oats and told her he’d be back as soon as he did.”
“He sounds like a shithead.”
Holt laughed. “Apt description based on the feedback. He wasn’t around much when Violet was small, but as was his MO, Harold returned a year and a half later and got Daphne pregnant again.”
I shook my head in disbelief. I didn’t understand why anyone would put up with someone like that.
“Harold was in and out of their lives. Deadbeat, too. Always coming up with an excuse for why he couldn’t pay child support. It’s my understanding that’s how Violet came to own the building that houses the bookstore. Her uncle held on to various properties to ensure those girls weren’t left destitute because of their parents’ choices.”
“That was generous of him.”
“You have no idea.” Holt chuckled. “After Honor was born, Harold attempted to do right by them. Mostly. It lasted a few years. Then he was out the door again.”
“Exactly how long’ve you lived here?” I asked my friend.
“Twenty-nine days,” Holt answered proudly.
I stopped walking. “Seriously?”
He turned to face me, nodding.
“How the hell’d you get that much information in less than a month?”
“People here like to talk.” He lowered his voice, grinning like an idiot. “A lot. Provided they aren’t talking about themselves.”
That sounded like an understatement.
“To my knowledge, Daphne and Harold are still legally married, but he’s been gone for years.”
I fell into step when Holt started walking again. “Gone as in…?”
“Not dead, no. I think he’s got a girlfriend who’s got kids.”
“His kids?”
“Don’t know. Not sure he knows. The guy’s a jackass. It doesn’t surprise me that the town rallied to help care for the girls.”
“Not everyone has a fairy-tale family,” I told Holt.
“Funny you should bring that up,” he said with a bark of laughter. “Ever read Rapunzel?”
“Not sure I’ve read it, but I get the literary reference. Girl stashed away in a tower for safekeeping. She’s trapped there with no way to get out, right?”
“Those four girls have metaphorically spent their lives trapped in that tower. Only they weren’t put there by a sorceress who wanted to keep them for herself. Their many male cousins and uncles are responsible for that, forming a protection circle around them to keep them safe. They look after them. And they don’t hesitate to intervene whenever they think someone might be getting too close.”
“Because they had a crappy father?”
“In theory, yes.”
“Someone needs to look into what these people are drinkin’,” I joked.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Sniff around her too much, and you just might find out for yourself.”
“Who said anything about sniffin’ around?” I countered, refusing to look back at the bookstore. “I’m married, and unlike good ol’ Harold, I don’t stray.”
“Married.” Holt snorted. “Saying you’re married to your work does not make you married.”
“If you believe it, it’s true. I’m here for one reason only. To dig into this wild ass tale you’re spinning and see if there’s any truth to it.”
When Holt had called me yesterday to tell me his theory about a potentially missing woman, I'd first thought the guy had lost his mind. But before the call ended, I couldn’t deny I was intrigued by the idea that a mafia family in Dallas was ultimately responsible for a series of events that had affected a family in Coyote Ridge. The mystery behind it was far too intriguing for me to pass up, so here I was, hoping to get a firsthand account of the events in question and how they could relate to an incident that happened twenty years ago.
As for Violet Anderson … well, unless the story were somehow related to her, I couldn’t imagine I'd be seeing her again.
