Bitterroot Lake by Alicia Beckman (i read a book .TXT) 📕

of enemies on his own. George would be coming after me, screaming bloody murder and yelling about fraud.”

“Why? He got his money. He got his grandfather’s revenge.”

That should have been enough. Unless there were ghosts haunting him, too.

Twilight in the mountains was a magical time of day, and it came on quickly. Sarah stayed on alert for whitetail and other wildlife as she drove down Mill Road. You never knew what might jump out at you in these woods.

Or anywhere else.

“Oh, Jeremy,” she said out loud. He’d been protecting her and her family, making a business deal she would have refused because of an old resentment. A valid one—Lucas had caused deep pain and had not been punished for it. And some of that was Sarah’s fault.

Grateful as she was for Jeremy’s willingness to help Connor save the business, she was furious over the deceit.

Whoa, girl. He hadn’t actually lied. He just hadn’t told her what he’d done. It wasn’t the same thing.

The irony was that she and George Hoyt were caught in similar binds, not wanting to do business with someone they resented, though any sensible person would have jumped at the opportunity.

She liked to think she was a sensible person. But here she was, holding the past in a death grip. And believing in ghosts.

At the edge of town, she made a left. If she was going to keep digging for secrets in her family’s archive, she needed reading glasses.

Did it make a difference that her grudge was grounded in more recent, personal offenses, not ancient history like George’s? Not really. If she were honest, she had to admit she was driven as much by her own guilt as by a compulsion to protect Janine.

In the shopping center lot, she parked between two white SUVs. Jeremy had been willing to navigate waters he knew she would have resisted wading into—and had done so brilliantly. Like he’d done almost everything.

Damn the man for making her miss him so much.

Inside the pharmacy, an instrumental remake of Bob Dylan’s “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” played, just loud enough to be noticeable and annoying. She paused to scan the bulletin board for “lost cat” notices. Nothing. The reading glasses were on the far wall near the nail polish. Vanity clustered with vanity? She pried a pair of tortoiseshell frames off the rack. Maybe someday she’d be one of those women who, like her mother, wore zebra stripes or red frames with blue and yellow dots, but not yet.

You’d think there would be reading material next to the display of reading glasses, but no. She scanned the nearby shelves for a box or jar with print in different sizes. Picked up a bottle of nail polish remover, then did a double take. At the end of the aisle stood the Black woman she’d seen at the Blue Spruce earlier in the week. The woman she’d seen at the wheel of the white SUV pulling away from the roadside memorial.

Now the woman was standing in Deer Park Drug, holding a helium balloon on a silver cord. A maroon and silver balloon in the shape of a football, UM emblazoned on both sides. Perfectly reasonable. And perfectly telling.

While Sarah debated how to march up and introduce herself, the woman stared straight at her. The football balloon bobbed and wove above her head.

Sarah shoved the bottle back onto the shelf and whipped off the glasses. Strode down the aisle and held out her hand.

“I don’t think we’ve met yet,” she said. “Sarah Carter. Sarah McCaskill Carter.”

“I know who you are,” the woman replied. She did not take Sarah’s hand. “Vonda Garrett.”

“Vonda Brown Garrett?” It had been twenty-five years since she’d heard Michael Brown talk about his big sister. His “little-big sister,” he’d called her, two years older but small like their mother. His height had come from their father.

A few minutes later, Sarah waited on the sidewalk while Vonda tucked the balloon in her car, also a rental, twin to Sarah’s except for the color. They walked silently to the grocery store coffee bar. Despite the tempting smells of coffee, Sarah bought two Pellegrinos and drank half of hers before Vonda had the cap twisted off her own bottle.

Now what? She set her bottle on the table and flicked a cookie crumb off the surface.

“Michael was a lovely young man,” she finally said. “Jeremy and I talked about him often, wondering what he would have become. What kind of life he would have had.”

Vonda said nothing, her deep brown eyes glistening.

“My sister and I have been wondering,” she went on, “who’s been decorating the cross. We thought it had to be someone local—a basketball fan who knew about the anniversary. But it was you, the woman from San Diego renting the place next to the lodge.”

“Yes. I got here Sunday. Misread the directions and drove down your road first. The lodge is every bit as impressive as my brother said.”

The vehicle George had seen? The lights, the presence she’d sensed watching her?

“I heard about your husband’s death,” Vonda continued. She took a drink and swallowed quickly. “My condolences. My parents never forgot the flowers your family sent to Michael’s funeral. I hope you and Jeremy understood when they asked him to stop sending Christmas cards. It was too painful.”

Because, to return to the Harry Potter metaphor that had bounced into her brain earlier, Jeremy was The Boy Who Lived, and Michael the one who died.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Vonda finished, and pressed her lips together.

Sarah reached out and covered the other woman’s hand with hers. “And I for yours.” She could feel Vonda’s fingers twitch, as if she wanted to pull her hand away. Sometimes, she’d learned over the last twenty-one days, a comforting gesture made the ache throb more. She took her hand back and picked up her mineral water.

“My parents are getting on,” Vonda said, tucking her hands in her lap. “It was only the two of us, and now that they’re in