Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 103552 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103552 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Making a note that the small kitchen needed a thorough cleaning before Finn could use it, I got back to my to-do list. Work had always been my cure for everything that ailed. But by the time Cammie showed up, I was a ball of nerves, jumping every time the door opened. I thought once the confrontation with Matthew was over, my anxiety would dissipate. I’d done the hard thing. What was there to be nervous about?
Instead, it only got worse. I drove back to Heartstone Manor, wishing that my father hadn’t left behind a complicated will that forced me to move home if I wanted to keep my business. I loved my family—a surprise after so many years of keeping them at a distance—but I missed the days when I’d occupied the tiny living quarters above the brewery. The rooms had been tacked on as an afterthought. Drafty in the winter and hot in the summer, they were spare and small, but they’d been mine.
“I just need a good night’s sleep,” I said aloud as I drove through the iron gates to the Manor, waving at the security camera tracking my arrival. “I’ll shake off the day and start fresh tomorrow.”
I woke early, skipping breakfast to head back to the brewery, eager to take back the reins of my business. Sleep had helped, but I was still feeling off.
Pulling my car into my usual parking space at the side of the building, I sat for a second, something tugging at me. Something wasn’t right about the brewery, but I couldn’t pin down what it was. Getting out of the car, I locked the door and instead of heading to the big metal door into the brewery, I walked to the front, scanning the building for whatever had tweaked me as I’d driven in. The small parking lot was empty, as it should have been at this hour, and the pumpkin display I’d arranged was bright and festive beside the door to the taproom. The open door to the taproom.
I reached out to push it all the way open and stopped cold, my hand dropping to my side.
Cammie wouldn’t have forgotten to close and lock the door. She never did. And she and I were the only two with the keys to the new locks I’d had installed yesterday.
Which meant that no matter how much I needed to see what was waiting inside, I wasn’t going in by myself. I was headstrong, not stupid.
I pulled my phone from my pocket, scrolled through the contacts, and hit the one I was looking for.
Chapter Two
WEST
My cell phone rang as I reshuffled the stack of paperwork on my desk. I dropped the file in my hand and reached for it. Anything for an excuse to push the paperwork off a little longer.
It was a toss-up whether the incoming call was personal or business. In a small town like Sawyers Bend, it seemed like everyone had the police chief’s cell number. I glanced at the screen and paused, not expecting to see Avery Sawyer’s name on the screen.
I’d known Avery practically since her birth. She wasn’t just a citizen in my town; she was my closest friend’s younger sister, and Griffen and I had been best friends since kindergarten. Although he’d left Sawyers Bend at twenty-one and had disappeared for a while, since he’d been back, we’d been as tight as ever. He hadn’t held it against me when I’d put his brother in jail for killing their father. He hadn’t said “I told you so” when Ford came home, exonerated by an alibi that had shown up, in my opinion, a little too conveniently.
I knew Ford hadn’t killed his father. I just hadn’t been able to prove it. It wasn’t for lack of trying. Whoever had killed Prentice Sawyer had been very smart or very lucky. Probably a combination of both. I was going to find him. I wouldn’t stop looking until I did.
The phone rang a second time. I stared down at Avery’s name on the screen, not liking the twinge of concern at the sight of her name on my phone. I wouldn’t say Avery and I were friends, but we were more than friendly, and I could count on one hand the number of times she’d called me in her thirty-one years on earth.
Growing up, the eight years between us might as well have been a lifetime. On top of that, Avery Sawyer did not ask for help. Avery kept to herself and solved her own problems. She worked her ass off to get what she wanted, refusing to ride on her father’s coattails or make anything of her family name. I suspected she saw being a Sawyer as more of a burden than a blessing. If she was calling me this early on a Friday morning, something was wrong.