Chapter 3
Will threw himself into his squad car, slammed the door, and dragged his fingers through his unruly curls, already wishing he could start the day over. He started down Main Street, trying to enjoy the peaceful town the way he always did, but it wasn’t happening. Normally he loved everything about Marsden, especially in the quiet of early morning. Old-fashioned Main Street with its shops and restaurants and art galleries, the people he recognized and the people he didn’t—although by this time of year, the tourists visiting the former artists’ colony were pretty much gone. Marsden saw its fair share of visitors on the weekends in autumn, as the town played host to day-tripping leaf-peepers. But there was usually nothing doing on a Thursday, not in September. He should have been able to simply enjoy watching his village get back to normal, gradually easing into the quieter pace of the off-season . . . but today didn’t feel quite right.
He wanted to put it down to Kyra’s phone call. Or the fact that Mr. D’Annunzio, the deli owner, was currently losing a war with his often-rebellious awning and swearing a blue streak Will could hear even in his car. Or maybe the fact that the second of three stoplights seemed to be taking a little longer than usual to change. But he knew the truth of it: It was all Jordan’s fault. As usual.
Everything about her set him on edge. When he’d cornered Zoë after Jordan had left, his chief had been unapologetic at pinning this ridiculous assignment on him. “You’re very . . . by the book,” she’d said. “The perfect type to keep her from, um, taking liberties. And let’s face it, who else have I got? I’m not gonna babysit her, that’s for sure. And you think I trust Rusty? Or Heather?”
Will had rolled his eyes at the mention of his fellow officers. Neither one was bad at the job, exactly, and he liked both of them just fine, but Rusty could be a little . . . too relaxed. Not good for keeping tabs on somebody like Jordan. And Heather, new to the force, was still sort of afraid of her own shadow. Jordan could easily steamroll either one. So it fell to him. Just great. Babysit Jordan Leigh . . . and it would be babysitting. Either she was going to cause trouble or, on the ridiculously remote chance she’d changed over the years, she’d quietly run out her sentence and bore him to death. He laughed to himself at the latter option. “Jordan Leigh” and “boring” were mutually exclusive.
As he sat there at the red light, watching the people on the sidewalk and waving back to those who greeted him, all he could think of was what Jordan had said earlier—the stupid comment about how he probably wandered down Main Street swinging his billy club. Mocking Marsden, as usual. Jordan had never hidden her disdain for the town, which irritated the hell out of the residents. Will had always managed to shrug it off better than his neighbors were able to. What he didn’t understand was why she kept coming back.
With a sigh, he eased his car into an open spot near the gourmet coffee shop. He suddenly felt the need for a caffeine boost before he headed for the outskirts of town to patrol the strip malls and more wide-open spaces beyond the village.
When he entered the small, cozy café, the owner waved him over from behind the dark wood counter. “You know you could come back here and pour your own cup.”
Will merely waved back and took his place at the end of the line. “I’m fine right here, Gabe. No favoritism.”
“Because you’re a cop, or because you’re my little brother?”
“Both. Besides, that’s your job—I don’t ask you to run vehicle inspection checkpoints, do I?”
“Ever think helping yourself would take the pressure off me?”
“Like you’re overwhelmed. Large. Cream, sugar. I’m not complicated.”
Will’s older brother grinned at him, turned, poured a cup, and slammed it down on the pickup counter. “Here. Get out.”
“Wow, you sure have perfected the whole ‘customer service’ thing, haven’t you?”
“Anybody got a problem with my little brother jumping the line?” Gabe called to the rest of the customers. Of course nobody objected. Not only was Gabe a giant of a man, he’d made Will jump the line for years, whether Will wanted to or not. And he never wanted to. “There you have it. Now, what did I just say, William? Out. Oh, hey,” Gabe called after him, once Will had reluctantly retrieved his coffee and turned to go. “Mom said six-thirty tomorrow night for dinner?”
Will sighed. “You know she did.”
“You can get there, right?”
“Very funny.”
And he was chased out of the café by his brother’s uproarious laughter, matched by a few customers’ chuckles, as he felt his neck get hot. Like everyone didn’t already know his living situation: an apartment over a barn . . . in his parents’ backyard.
Once he was out on the sidewalk, he’d barely taken his first sip when the cup was nearly jostled out of his grip.
“Will, honey.”
The cloud of perfume told him who had come up next to him even before he could glance to his left. “Mrs. P. Good morning.”
“Not necessarily.”
He looked past the older woman to her consignment shop, Missy’s Hits for Misses, behind her. “Did your security alarm go off again?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. It’s . . . well . . . have you heard?”
Will doubted it. Even with his connections in law enforcement, he could never keep up with how fast Missy Preston got gossip from her network. “What’s up, Mrs. P?”
A thin woman with eager eyes and limp brown hair going gray came up next to Mrs. Preston. “Jordan Leigh. She’s back.”
“Rachel!”
Ouch. Rachel Dwyer had stolen Mrs. P’s thunder. “Hey, Mrs. Dwyer. Yes, ladies, I know Jordan’s in town. That, in itself, is not a crime.”
Mrs. P stammered, “But it’s . . . it’s Jordan.”
“And?”
With a subtle curl of her fire-engine-red lip, she repeated incredulously, “Jordan!”
“Is there a problem with Jordan?”
“Huh!” she hooted, crossing her arms and rolling her eyes. “As if you didn’t know.”
“Let’s pretend I don’t. Has she caused you any problems in the past? Or recently?” Come on, she hasn’t been in town five minutes, he thought. She couldn’t have done anything offensive . . . yet. Before Mrs. P could reply, Will cut her off with a qualifier. “Anything that could be considered illegal, I mean.”
“Well . . .” Mrs. P hesitated, suddenly at a loss for words. It was obvious she wanted to pin a lot of things on Jordan but didn’t quite have the means.
Rachel took the opportunity to speak for both of them. “She says . . . things.”
“ ‘Things’?” He really didn’t have time to draw this stuff out of them, but he wanted to know the level of torch-and-pitchfork wielding he was going to have to deal with in the coming weeks.
“That . . . that . . . I should dress my age. The nerve!” Mrs. P huffed while Rachel Dwyer nodded vehemently in support. “I have more fashion sense in my little finger than . . . well, a girl her age who wears ribbed tank tops and cargo pants like some Special Forces soldier. She should have more respect!”
“She’s just plain rude,” Rachel added, nodding again.
“Being rude isn’t against the law, ladies.”
“Well, it should be,” Mrs. P said, fluffing her cloud of orange hair. “Plus she has a criminal record from way back, you know.”
“Yes,” Will said patiently. “I know. Anything she did back then was juvie stuff, though.” Ancient history. Sealed records. But that didn’t matter in Marsden; everyone remembered everyone else’s past transgressions, whether they were supposed to or not.
“Maybe she’s making a career out of adult crimes now.” Rachel tipped her chin, using it to point across the street and down the block.
Will turned in that direction and saw some people on the sidewalk, gesturing dramatically, just as his radio crackled with the words “Marsden Mercantile” and “disturbance.”
“Excuse me, Mrs. P, Mrs. Dwyer.”
It only took him a few seconds to swing his car around to go back up Main toward the market after he replied to the dispatcher; for a split second he’d considered walking, but if he had to arrest someone, he wanted his cruiser nearby.
He wasn’t willing to automatically assume any call he got from now on was going to involve Jordan, even if the town gossips did, but the figure standing just outside the market doors, hands on hips, arguing with Walter, the market’s manager, looked all too familiar. A small crowd had gathered, and almost before he’d stopped the car, Mrs. P and Rachel arrived. They sure could hotfoot it for a couple of older ladies, but he wasn’t surprised; they’d swim the Marsden River if a show like this was on the other side.
“You’re seeing things,” he heard Jordan snap as he pulled up. “Get new glasses, whydoncha?”
Good old Jordan—as warm and cuddly as a ball of steel wool. He threw the car in park and hurried to put himself between Jordan and Walter.
“Okay, let’s all calm down,” he said, all the while getting the feeling his usual placating spiel wouldn’t do a bit of good. And it didn’t.
Walter burst out, “She’s a shoplifter!”
“I didn’t take anything!” Jordan insisted.
“The magazine!”
“Ooh, like I need to steal something that isn’t even worth the two-dollar price.”
“Jordan,” Will said in a warning tone.
“Oh sure, pick on me.”
“I’m not picking on you. I just want to find out what’s going on. Walter, why don’t we all go inside and—”
“She’s not coming into this store! Who knows what’ll end up in her pockets along the way? I remember you,” he said, frowning darkly and wagging his finger at Jordan. “Always with the nail polish and the bubble gum.”
“I was twelve!”
“Once a thief, always a thief. Will, arrest her, would you please?”
Will wanted to snap at the older man not to tell him how to do his job, but instead he took a deep breath and replied, “Okay, if you don’t want to go inside, we’ll do it out here, audience and all. Walter, what’s your story? Jordan, no interrupting.”
“But—”
“No interrupting.”
“Fine.”
She crossed her arms and rolled her eyes, looking for all the world like the juvenile delinquent everyone in town thought she still was. And suddenly, despite that electronic device adorning her right ankle, a part of Will desperately wanted her to prove everyone wrong.
“Walter?” he prompted.
The whip-thin man also crossed his arms, so scrawny they looked like they were floating in the vast space of his short-sleeved dress shirt, and adjusted his tie, round glasses glinting in the morning sunlight. “Simple, Will. I caught her shoplifting.”
“I was not—”
“Jordan, what did I say? You’ll have your turn in a minute.” They both needed to keep their cool. He didn’t want to take anyone into custody. He really didn’t. “Go on, Walter.”
“She picked up this tabloid from this rack here.” He shook the magazine dramatically and indicated the display a couple of feet away from the doorway. “And—”
“Did I walk away with it? Did I?”
“You were about to!”
“You can read minds, now?”
“All right!” Will barked, louder than the both of them. When they were silent, he said, “Jordan, obviously I’m not going to be able to keep you quiet, so go ahead.”
She shot him a glare before stating, “I was going to go into the market to buy some food. But I stopped to check that magazine, because Celia’s on the cover.”
“Is she really?” Mrs. P exclaimed, stepping forward and pulling another copy off the rack. “Ooh, look at that. Doesn’t she look lovely! ‘The Small-Town Girl Who Stole Celeb Playboy Niall Crenshaw’s Heart.’ So exciting!”
As she flipped the pages to get to the story, Will caught a glimpse of the cover—a photo of Jordan’s cousin and her boyfriend, the actor who’d hosted the town’s singing competition in August. From what he’d heard, they were in California now, where he was filming his latest movie.
“Okay, see?” Jordan burst out. “Mrs. P is doing the same thing I was, and you’re not trying to get her busted for shoplifting!”
“Jordan,” Will said in his best warning tone. She stopped. It obviously took effort, but she stopped. “Walter, did you see Jordan walk away from the store with the magazine?”
“Yes!”
“How far?”
“Well, she kind of . . . turned and took a step or two . . .”
“It’s called pacing,” Jordan exclaimed. “I went that way and then came back. I was going to bring it into the store and add it to the other stuff I was going to buy. You know, like groceries? Now you can forget it. I wouldn’t set foot in your store if you gave me everything for free. I’m getting my stuff at Walmart.”
The small crowd watching the show gave a collective horrified gasp.
“What’s wrong with Walmart?” Jordan snapped, looking around at them all.
“Nothing,” Will said, “but you know everyone around here supports Main Street businesses.”
“No way I’m doing that if they’re all going to treat me like a common criminal.”
“I wonder why,” the shop owner sneered, pointing at Jordan’s ankle. “Or is that thing the newest fashion statement?”
“Screw you, dude—”
“Okay, we’re done here,” Will interrupted. “Walter, since Jordan didn’t actually leave the premises with the magazine, I can’t really bust her for shoplifting.”
“But—”
“And if you’re so worried about these things disappearing, put the racks inside. Jordan, come with me.”
“Will—!” she protested, hanging back as he took her by the elbow.
“It’s done. You’re fine. Let’s just go, all right?”
“Just . . . give me a second.”
“No violence.”
“Oh, gimme a break.” She dug in her pants pocket and came up with a few crumpled bills, which she threw Walter’s way. “Here. For all the nail polish and bubble gum from fifteen years ago. We’re square now. Happy?”
Walter most definitely did not look happy, but he did pick up the money from the sidewalk.
Will led Jordan a few steps away, gently nudging her past the townspeople still hanging around, hoping for more drama, before he turned to her, concerned. “Do you need food?”
Jordan made a scoffing noise as she hunched and unhunched her shoulders, looking for all the world as though she were trying to shake off what had just happened. “Please. You’re acting like I’m broke and homeless. I’m neither, okay? It’s just that Gran’s kitchen is totally empty. We cleared out everything when we put the house up for sale last month. I just need to stock up on some food. Too bad Walter has a long memory.”
“Do you need a ride home?”
“God, no. The sight of me in a cop car? That’s all this town needs. Besides, this piece of jewelry only chafes a little bit. I can still walk, you know.”
“If you need anything . . .”
“Stop it, Winthrop. I’m fine.”
He shook his head in amazement. Back to using dorky names in place of his real one already? Apparently she recovered quickly. “I’ll take you at your word for now. But you’re not getting rid of me that easily. Don’t forget, you’re my responsibility.”
“Yeah, yeah. Chief Zoë said so. I get it.”
“Give me your phone.”
“You’re confiscating my personal property?”
“I’m going to put my phone number in it. In case you need to call me for anything.”
“Anything?” she repeated suggestively as she pulled her phone from her pocket and handed it to him.
“Stop it,” he growled, tapping on the screen. Once he’d entered his information, he called his phone from hers to get her number, then handed the device back. “Now you’re free to go.”
She pocketed her phone again and turned away, waving over her shoulder. “Have a good day, Officer.”
“Jordan!” he called after her. When she glanced back, he paused. What did he want to say? A lot of things. Don’t antagonize the townspeople. Don’t jeopardize your legal situation. Take care of yourself. Ask for help if you need it. Don’t be so proud . . . Don’t be like your parents. Nothing that would ever pass his lips. All he said was, “Keep your nose clean, all right?”
She actually smiled a little. “Hey, you just make sure these jokers mind their own business.”
“I mean don’t give them anything to latch onto.”
“Why is it my job?”
“Because you’re the one with the criminal record.”