I needed to push her from my mind. I walked the other way whenever I spotted her, determined to stop being an idiot, determined to stop thinking about her because I knew reaching or pushing for someone so far above my level would eventually come with a hard, painful fall.
Stay upright, Jackson.
Flo loitered for a long moment and then left, her feet scuffing against the linoleum floor as she went. Karen Smith may’ve been the town gossip, but Flo McClure was usually the source of it. The less I said to Flo, the better. I didn’t wish to provide any additional fodder.
Surprisingly—and I wasn’t complaining— I had not been at the center of Karen Smith’s or Flo’s gossip mill these days. Sienna and Jethro’s plan to save my reputation had worked. Mostly.
Folks in town were quick to eat up the story Rae, Charlotte, and Sienna had spread around at the jam session, that I’d been off duty and doing Rae a favor, offering to help her break free from a toxic relationship.
I couldn’t believe it. This explanation for our kiss in front of the ATM made absolutely no sense. But what did I know? People apparently found the story easier to swallow than the possibility that Raquel Ezra wanted to be with me.
Most folks even felt sorry for me and had told me as much. I’d done Ms. Ezra a favor and ended up with a parade of photographers tailing me everywhere I went. With the townsfolk, I’d come out of ATM-gate smelling like a rose. A sad, inconsequential rose, but a rose nonetheless.
My work colleagues seemed more skeptical. Maybe because some of them were present when Rae had shown up with that sour cherry pie? Regardless, no one had come out and asked me what happened—in fact, most everyone had given me a wide berth—but I got the sense they knew there was more to the story.
The sheriff, meanwhile, would have none of it. And he obviously didn’t wish to discuss it. We hadn’t spoken in private since the meeting with Mike. In front of my coworkers, he’d been the same as he usually was—professional, thoughtful, respectful—but if my father had more to say, he’d kept those thoughts to himself.
My mother, on the other hand, stopped by my house in the evenings unannounced when I was working on the boat, bringing my favorite dinners and offering to do my laundry. She’d say, “Hang in there, baby.” I knew she was referring to the strained relationship between me and my father, not the paparazzi.
She’d also say, “I don’t want to pry, but if you need to talk about anything, you let me know.”
My mother had recently—within the last few years—retired from teaching elementary school, but she still volunteered as a teaching assistant three days a week. She was basically MacGyver, Martha Stewart, and Captain Marvel all rolled up into one woman. Janet James could turn dirt and a paper clip into a winning science fair project, bake ten dozen gluten-free, dairy-free cupcakes while grading assignments, making dinner, and checking in to ensure my sister and I had finished our homework, washed our hands, and eaten our vegetables—all without breaking a sweat or displaying a single crack in her outward calm.
She was basically the most competent, capable, supportive, kindhearted, no-nonsense person on the planet.
I wasn’t going to talk to her about anything, least of all the ways I’d failed to live up to my father’s expectations.
I rubbed my forehead and flipped through the file on the overdose. These were printouts of documents that existed in the online system, but Florence and the rest of the administrative staff liked their paper files for recent cases.
“Is that the overdose the Nelson family keeps calling about? Or is that the FBI file for the kidnapping?” my father’s voice asked from somewhere behind me.
My instinct was to stiffen, which I did, but I also managed to nod. “It’s the overdose. I’ll add more details.” I’d finished with the kidnapping file hours ago, but I still couldn’t get the crime-scene images out of my mind. What I needed was to go on a long, punishing run; or maybe spend ten hours working on the boat.
I’d often wished I was one of those folks who could get drunk, but drinking more than three beers just bought me a cluster headache and a world of hurt.
“I read the report you and Boone put together on that overdose. Not sure how much more detailed y’all can get.” His hand came to my shoulder, gave it a pat. “They’re not going to be happy, no matter what you say. Sometimes there are no answers that will satisfy. Best to tell the truth and move on.”
“Even so . . .” I flipped to the third page, bypassing a picture of the young woman lying on the floor of a hotel room, a crime scene photo taken before the death had been ruled an overdose.
I sensed him hover behind me while I pulled out my notepad and jotted down a few questions for Boone. We’d been thorough, but maybe there was something we could add that might lessen the Nelsons’ grief, even a little.
“I understand you wanting to do right by the Nelsons, but there’s more than enough work to do, Jackson,” my father said finally, his footfalls carrying him away. “Don’t spend too much time weeding an empty garden.”
My father’s comment about weeding empty gardens came from his father. His father—my grandfather—had been a farmer, and all his sayings seemed to revolve around dirt and plants and weather, but it also reminded me that this Saturday was my day to visit the plots.
I’d been roped into adopting plots by Ashley and her husband Drew. Ashley mentioned a year or so ago that the park rangers needed more volunteers for their adopt-a-plot program. Normal, nonscience folks like me would take time out of their schedules to collect seasonal biological information about designated areas inside the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, like when wildflowers bloomed, which kinds, how many; changes in the tree canopy; changes in the surround foliage. That kind of stuff.
Charlotte and her kids had come out with me a few times. Documenting the flora had always sparked some interesting conversations. I had four plots, two along Cooper Road Trail and two about a hundred yards from the parking lot at Cades Cove—one to the north, the other to the south. Even though less monitoring was required during June and July, I wanted to make sure I did my due diligence.
Saturday morning, after a quick breakfast and coffee, I set off for Cooper Road Trail with my notebook and pen. Once I’d finished investigating and writing down all the relevant information, I hiked the rest of the trail and did my best to enjoy the unseasonably cool summer morning, ready to turn my mind to something other than images of overdoses and violent death.
I then set off for Cades Cove, realizing once I’d parked that the day had gotten away from me. It was now just past 4:00 PM, and I’d missed lunch.
My notebook and pen in hand, I jogged toward the first plot. I thought maybe I heard someone call out my name and looked over my shoulder, but I didn’t slow. If I neglected to eat soon, I’d be in danger of a cluster headache. I needed to make quick work of it and get back home.
When I didn’t immediately notice anyone who might’ve been shouting my name, I continued toward the plot, not seeing the big man in dark sunglasses and a dark suit until I was almost on top of him.
“Hey. You. Stop,” he said, stepping in my path.
I did stop, drawing up short and frowning at the granite set of his jaw. I recognized him. This was one of Rae’s—I mean, Ms. Ezra’s—bodyguards. Which meant—