TRACE

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Was this a major coincidence? Or had Lady Luck just taken a piss on me? I shot forward in the passenger seat, not quite believing my own eyes. Damn. Less than four hours had passed since I’d left Gainstown Penitentiary, and who do I run into? Shannon Bradford—the last person I wanted to see.

My brother-in-law had just dashed into CVS at Main Street Plaza when I spotted her. She pulled into the lot, parking her black Volvo sedan in the opposite row, five spaces to my left.

I squinted past the salty film on the windshield and the trickle of snowflakes outside while she rescued the key ring she’d dropped. After a van blew by, spewing a wave of slush that barely missed her, she crossed the street and disappeared inside Noëlle’s Bakery. A few miles back, I’d seen her photo plastered on a fancy billboard along the interstate. Long blonde hair, eyes like liquid chocolate, and a killer smile.

Beneath her picture, the caption read: Shannon Bradford of Bradford Realty: A Name You Can Trust.

Not in this friggen life.

My heart slowly tightened into a fist, as the air got thick. I reached for the door handle and tore outside to snatch a decent breath, but it was like the world had opened up and swallowed me whole. Cars crept by. People walked this way and that. Snowflakes pelted my face. Icy wind slapped me. There was just too much going on. Damn if I didn’t feel like an alien in a foreign land.

I’d left Gainstown with only a few modest goals. Apart from hooking up with a generous lady for a few hours of mindless sex and diving into a bottle of Herradura, my biggest wish was not to be fucked with.

One look at Shannon Bradford had shot all that to hell.

An icy blast swept by in a haze of snow dust, yet I didn’t feel anything but a hot churning in the pit of my gut. No doubt about it, I was coming unglued. The trees lining the street hadn’t been this big before. Icy daggers hung from them like claws—claws that could snatch my soul back to hell. The world was closing in on me, just as it had twelve years ago…when Shannon Bradford accused me of murder.

SHANNON

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Saying goodbye—yet again—to Darien at the airport an hour ago had been bad enough, but this topped everything. Trace Dawson. Now here I was trapped in Noëlle’s buying a pecan pie I didn’t want. Why? Because he was lurking in the parking lot!

Despite the dirty windshield, I’d recognized him immediately. His shoulder-length light brown hair and hazel eyes, the chiseled shape of his jaw, and the way he always leaned to the right when he sat—everything about him was burned into my memory.

His was a name synonymous with death. A name frightened children whispered while swapping campfire stories. His legend still haunted Willow’s Corner and Temptation, West Virginia—New Dyer too for that matter. Probably would take an eternity for folks to forget it. As if they ever could.

Over a decade ago, on a hot September morning, I entered hell. In my nightmares, I could still smell the blood…could still see Trace Dawson clutching a garden spade while crouched over Mother’s corpse.

I squeezed my eyes shut as “Golden Afternoon” screeched from a TV in the back of the shop. An Alice in Wonderland song—just the perfect recipe for insanity. Fear dared me to steal another look outside. When I did, my breath froze. Now he was leaning against a car, glowering at the bakery. That sent me pacing holes into the floor.

Thinking that by the time I bought the pie, he’d be gone, I’d avoided my office, which was three doors down. But my plan had been asinine. Bradford Realty was inscribed in bold letters on the storefront glass, not to mention the six billboards that spanned the county, billboards with my picture plastered on them.

Wait a minute. What was with this sudden case of cold feet? Hadn’t I planned to contact him anyway? For two months now, I’d been preparing myself—emotionally—to face him. So what if he’d surprised me by showing up here? Willow’s Corner was smaller than a postage stamp and Temptation was just a stone’s throw away. We were bound to cross each other’s paths eventually.

With pastry box in hand, I left the bakery’s sweet warmth and slipped out into the bitter cold. On the surface, I was the paragon of poise, but inside, I was a mess. The scared little girl within begged me to run, yet the woman I strived to be demanded that I stand tall. Unfortunately, my churning stomach, racing heart, and sweaty forehead weren’t cooperating.

‘Horses sweat, men perspire, and ladies glow,’ Auntie always said. Well, whatever the case, I was sweating very unladylike bullets, and it wasn’t more than thirty-five degrees.

Like a magnet, my gaze zipped to Trace Dawson’s. He stood engulfed by snowflakes with his hands shoved inside the pockets of a navy peacoat. The white specks wafting down shone like diamonds against the dark blue wool. His collar was up, and he wore faded jeans and a stone-cold expression. Prison had transformed the easygoing boy I’d known into a dangerous-looking stranger.

Even so, I had to walk up to him, had to prove I could do this. What did I have to fear anyway? We were out in public. Too many people were around, and he’d be a fool to risk his freedom.

But as I headed over to greet him, desperation darkened his face. He was yelling. And running. In my direction. I tried to read his lips as he sprinted toward me, but fear paralyzed all thought. Nothing would move. My legs were frozen in place. He was almost a blur, he was sprinting so fast. Had I misjudged my safety? Had he come back to kill me?

TRACE

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The second the Jeep banked the corner, I hit the ground running. Yelling at her was useless since the howling wind drowned out my voice. As if I were trapped in a nightmare, I tried to reach her, tried to save her, yet my feet wouldn’t move fast enough. It felt like weights were holding them down.

To my amazement, Shannon Bradford stood in the middle of the lot like a mannequin. Her eyes were doe-wide, and she was staring at me. What was wrong with this fool woman? Didn’t she see the damn car?

Before I could catch myself, I slipped in the slushy muck and skidded headfirst into a runaway shopping cart, busting my chin on the frosty steel of its foot.

Stunned, I rose on one elbow and wheezed out a breath. The sound of squealing brakes echoed in my ears. My hands burned with cold. My chin throbbed with white-hot pain. That’s when I saw the blood—my own—melting into the snow. The drip of scarlet was slow but steady.

I shook out the fog in my brain while the wind smacked my face. Once I raised my head, I squinted across the lot, blurry-eyed, and the sight stole my breath. Shannon Bradford lay on the sidewalk. She wasn’t moving.

SHANNON

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No more than two minutes could have passed, two of the most terrifying minutes I’d ever had. The left side of my face was numb with cold. My lips and hands ached too. I couldn’t seem to make anything move.

The details came in pieces. How I’d almost been run over. How a stranger shoved me to safety just before a Jeep playing target practice could send me flying.