The rain didn't fall so much as it hung in the air, a damp curtain that pressed against Evelyn Hartley's windshield like a second skin. She had forgotten that about Willow Creek – the way the humidity made silence feel heavy.
"Mom, the GPS says turn left in two hundred feet, but there's no road."
Lily's voice was flat, the way it got when she was trying not to yawn. Thirteen years old and already good at pretending she didn't care.
Eve squinted through the streaked glass. The road, if you could call it that, was a gravel scar cutting through a tunnel of weeping willows. Their branches drooped so low they brushed the roof of the Subaru like skeletal fingers.
"This is it," Eve said. "Old Mill Road."
"It looks like a murder path."
"Lily."
"What? I read true crime. Jonah Black says the best place to hide a body is somewhere people already think is creepy."
Eve's hands tightened on the steering wheel. She didn't answer. Because the truth was, she agreed. And because the other truth was – she had hidden a body. Not here. But close. A cabin. A shovel. A night she had scrubbed from her memory until only the bones remained.
The Subaru lurched over a pothole. Lily's phone flew out of her hand and clattered onto the floor mat.
"Great. Now my screen's cracked."
"We'll get it fixed."
"With what money? You said we're broke."
Eve didn't answer that either. She was too busy watching the trees thin out, revealing the first glimpse of Willow Creek proper. The town hadn't changed in fifteen years. There was the same rusty water tower with "Home of the Fighting Badgers" painted in peeling blue letters. The same white clapboard church with the weather vane that always pointed east, no matter which way the wind blew. And there, on the corner of Maple and Third, Honeycrumb Bakery – its sign still crooked, its windows still fogged with the warmth of fresh bread.
Her stomach turned. Not from hunger.
Maeve would be inside. Maeve, who had been her best friend since second grade. Maeve, who had stopped returning her calls seven years ago without explanation. Maeve, who had sent a sympathy card when Daniel died – a generic one with a foil-stamped cross – and nothing else.
"Is that where we're staying?" Lily pointed to a two-story Victorian at the end of the street. The Montgomery House. Celeste Montgomery had turned it into a bed-and-breakfast five years back, according to Google.
"Just for a few weeks," Eve said. "Until I find a rental."
"Why can't we stay at the cabin?"
"It's not livable."
"But it's ours, right? Dad left it to you."
Eve pulled into the B&B's gravel lot and cut the engine. The rain suddenly sounded louder without the hum of the car. She turned to look at her daughter – at the dark circles under Lily's eyes, at the small scar above her left eyebrow from a seizure fall two years ago.
"The cabin has bad memories," Eve said.
Lily held her gaze. "All memories are bad, Mom. That's kind of our thing."
Before Eve could reply, the B&B's front door swung open. Celeste Montgomery stood in the frame, wearing a cream-colored cardigan and a smile that didn't reach her eyes. She was fifty-five but looked ten years younger – the kind of woman who had a standing appointment with a dermatologist in the city.
"Evelyn Hartley," Celeste called out, arms wide like she was welcoming a prodigal daughter. "We've been so worried about you."
We, Eve thought. She means herself and the ghosts.
She got out of the car. The rain immediately soaked through her jacket.
"Hi, Celeste."
Celeste's smile tightened. "You're dripping on my porch."
"Sorry."
"No matter. I'll have Noah mop it up. Come in, come in. And this must be Lily." She tilted her head, studying the girl with the same expression she might give a piece of antique furniture she was considering buying. "You have your father's chin."
Lily stepped out of the car, not bothering to close the door. "I have my mother's everything else."
Celeste's laugh was a single sharp note. "Oh, I like her. She's got spunk. That'll serve her well in a town like this."
Eve grabbed their duffel bags from the backseat. The weight of them – and everything else – pulled at her shoulders.
The B&B's lobby smelled of lemon polish and something floral that was probably trying too hard to cover up mildew. A grandfather clock ticked loudly in the corner. On the wall hung a framed photograph of the Willow Creek Founders' Day parade from 1987. Eve spotted herself in the crowd – seven years old, holding her mother's hand, wearing a yellow raincoat. Her mother had died three months later. Pancreatic cancer. Fast and mean.
"Your room is upstairs, second door on the left," Celeste said, already walking toward a small desk. "Breakfast is from seven to nine. Checkout is eleven. And Evelyn –" She paused, hand on the desk's edge. "I hope you're not here to stir up trouble."
Eve set the duffel bags down. "I'm here to bury my husband."
"He's already buried."
"Then I'm here to sign some papers and leave."
Celeste smiled again. This time it reached her eyes, but not in a good way. "That's what they all say."
The room was smaller than the photos online had suggested. A queen bed with a quilt that smelled like lavender, a dresser with a cracked mirror, and a window that faced the bakery. Through the rain-streaked glass, Eve could see the back alley behind Honeycrumb. A woman in a flour-dusted apron was dumping a bucket of water into a drain.
Maeve.
Even from three stories up and across a street, Eve recognized the slump of her shoulders. Maeve used to stand like that when they were teenagers, after her father yelled at her for coming home five minutes late. The same defeated curve.
"Mom, there's a guy staring at us from the house next door."
Eve turned. Lily was standing by the window, pointing to the Thorne mansion – the crumbling Gothic relic that had been empty since Molly Thorne disappeared eighteen years ago. But now there was a light on in the third-floor turret. And a silhouette. A man, tall, broad-shouldered, unmoving.
"That's Jonah Black," Eve said. "The writer."
"The true crime guy? He lives here?"
"He rents the mansion. He's writing a book about Molly Thorne."
Lily's eyes widened. "That's so cool. Can I meet him?"
"No."
"Why not?"
Because he asked too many questions at Daniel's funeral, Eve wanted to say. Because he looked at me like he knew something. Because when I shook his hand, his grip was cold and he said, "Your husband's accident must have been very… convenient."
Instead, she said, "He's busy. Leave him alone."
Lily rolled her eyes – a gesture she had perfected over the last two years – and flopped onto the bed. The old springs groaned.
"I'm hungry," she announced.
"There's a vending machine downstairs."
"I want real food. From the bakery. The one with the cute sign."
Eve looked out the window again. Maeve was gone. The back door to the bakery was closed. A single orange cat sat on the stoop, washing its face.
"Fine," Eve said. "But you stay in the car while I go in."
"Why?"
"Because I need to talk to Maeve alone."
"About what?"
Eve picked up her purse. Her hands were shaking. She shoved them into her pockets. "About why she stopped being my friend."
The rain had softened to a drizzle by the time they crossed the street. The bakery's bell jingled when Eve pushed the door open. The smell hit her first – cinnamon, yeast, butter, and something else. Something sour underneath. Like spoiled milk that someone was trying to mask.
Maeve was behind the counter, arranging croissants on a wire rack. She looked up.
The two women stared at each other for a long, terrible second.
Maeve had aged badly. That was Eve's first thought. Her face was gaunt, her hair – once a beautiful chestnut brown – was now streaked with gray and pulled back in a limp ponytail. There were yellow-green bruises on her forearms, the kind that come from fingers gripping too hard. And her hands. They were trembling.
"Eve." Maeve's voice cracked. "You're here."
"I'm here."
A beat. Then Maeve burst into tears. Not pretty crying – ugly, heaving sobs that made her whole body shake. She stumbled around the counter and grabbed Eve's arms. Her grip was surprisingly strong.
"I'm sorry," Maeve choked out. "I'm so sorry. I wanted to call. I wanted to explain. But Frankie – he monitors my phone. He monitors everything. He said if I talked to you, he'd –"
"He'd what?" Eve asked, though she already knew.
Maeve's eyes darted to the door. To the windows. To the ceiling, as if Frankie might be hiding in the ventilation system.
"He's been putting something in my tea," she whispered. "I don't know what. But I've been sick for two years. The doctors can't figure it out. And last week I found a bottle in his toolbox. A little brown bottle. No label."
Eve pulled her into a hug. Maeve's body was too thin. She could feel every rib.
"You need to go to the police," Eve said.
Maeve laughed – a wet, hysterical sound. "The police? The chief is Frankie's fishing buddy. And the new detective? He's too busy digging up Molly Thorne's grave to care about a baker with a nervous stomach."
Behind them, the bell jingled again.
Lily had followed them in. She was holding her phone, camera pointed at the floor, but Eve noticed the red recording light was on.
"Lily, put that away."
"No," Lily said calmly. "She needs proof, right? I'm getting proof."
Maeve looked at the girl. Something flickered in her expression – recognition, then fear.
"You have her eyes," Maeve whispered. "Daniel's eyes."
Lily lowered the phone. "My father had brown eyes."
"Not Daniel," Maeve said. "The other one."
The room went very quiet. Even the rain seemed to hold its breath.
Eve felt the floor tilt underneath her. "What other one?"
Maeve opened her mouth. Then her gaze snapped to the window. A truck had pulled into the alley – a beat-up Ford F-150 with a rusted bumper. Frankie's truck.
"You need to leave," Maeve said quickly, wiping her face with her apron. "Now. He can't see you here."
"Maeve –"
"Please. I'll explain everything. Just not today. Meet me at the willow tree tonight. Midnight. Come alone."
She pushed Eve toward the door. The bell jingled again. Eve and Lily stumbled out onto the sidewalk just as Frankie's truck door slammed.
Frankie O'Donnell was a big man – six-three, two hundred and forty pounds, with a beard that looked like it could hide small animals. He smiled when he saw Eve. It wasn't a friendly smile.
"Well, well," he said, shoving his hands into his coveralls. "The widow returns. How was the funeral?"
"It was six months ago," Eve said.
"Yeah, I know. I didn't go. Not a fan of crying." He looked at Lily. "This the kid?"
Lily stared at him without blinking. "You have flour on your collar."
Frankie glanced down. Brushed at it. "Your aunt Maeve's baking gets everywhere."
"She's not my aunt."
"Close enough." He stepped closer. The smell of motor oil and sweat rolled off him. "You know, Eve, I always thought you were too good for Daniel. And now here you are, back in our little shithole, looking for… what? Sympathy? Money?"
"Looking for a pen to sign divorce papers," Eve lied. "He left me everything, Frankie. Including the cabin. So I don't need anything from you."
Frankie's smile didn't waver, but something behind his eyes went cold. "The cabin. Right. You know, I drove by there last week. The door was open."
Eve's heart stuttered. "You're lying."
"Am I?" He pulled a key out of his pocket – an old brass key on a leather cord. "Found this on the porch. It fit the lock."
That was Daniel's key. The one she had buried with him.
Lily grabbed Eve's hand. "Mom, let's go."
Frankie laughed – a low, ugly sound. "Yeah, run along. And Eve?" He waited until she looked at him. "Whatever you think you know about this town, you don't know shit. Stay in your lane, or you'll end up like Molly Thorne. Buried where nobody'll find you."
He walked into the bakery. The door closed. The bell jingled one last time.
Eve stood there in the rain, her daughter's small hand trembling in hers, and thought: I already buried one body. I can bury another.
But she didn't say it out loud.
Some secrets, she knew, were safer when they stayed inside.
End of Chapter One