FIVE

LANE PAUSED ON THE VERANDA of her parents’ sprawling estate in Walton East. The black iron of the gas lamps contrasted sharply with the white siding. Blooming lobelias draped from baskets hanging off the eaves and gave the palatial home a genteel impression, but to Lane the home she grew up in was merely proof the Sullivans were a family of distinction first; gentility came later—if at all.

The smell of something sweet greeted Lane and Noah once they stepped inside the home. No one came to greet her at the door. Why would they? She wasn’t a guest; she was family. Lane swallowed. Why didn’t it feel that way?

“Gigi!” Noah squealed, running into the grand foyer.

“Noah!” Lane called after him. “Your shoes.”

Noah skidded to a stop and ran back. He plopped himself on the ground and pulled off his shoes and socks. “Now?”

“Kiss.” Lane pointed to her cheek. He obliged and sprinted down the polished hardwood hall at full speed, dinosaurs in tow. She touched her cheek, wishing she shared Noah’s enthusiasm to charge forward, fearless.

“I didn’t think you were going to show up,” Lane’s mother, Elise Sullivan, said as soon as Lane made her way into the kitchen.

“Sorry I missed the ceremony.” After Charlie left, Noah insisted he had to have a glass of apple juice, which he spilled all over his clothes and hers. By the time she cleaned themselves up and wiped the floor, the ceremony was over. Lane held up a basket filled with loaves of banana bread. Baking had become her go-to when sleep evaded her, and by the time Ms. Byrdie had opened up the shop this morning, almost two dozen loaves were cooling on racks. “I made these for everyone.”

The timer on the oven went off and her mother grabbed a pair of oven mitts and pulled out a fresh cobbler. After setting it down on the giant granite island, she tapped her finger gently against the golden crust. It looked perfect, but Lane knew it could never compare to Ms. Byrdie’s.

“Smells good,” Lane tried again.

“Go tell everyone lunch is ready.”

Lane sighed as she took in her mother. Her sable, shoulder-length hair was pulled into a low ponytail. Makeup perfectly applied. A colorful apron covered a vibrant coral blouse and white linen pants. She was the epitome of a southern debutante. And a debutante never engaged in quarreling, though they made sure to express their displeasure in other ways, verbal or not.

Inside her father’s den, Lane found her brother, Wes, reading a newspaper on the leather couch. Meagan’s son, Owen, was on the ground playing with the toy dinosaurs Noah had brought from home.

“Where’s everybody else?” Lane kissed Owen on the head. He was the spitting image of Wes, complete with thick, dark hair that curled at the top and boyish good looks.

“Dad’s in his office and Meagan’s giving Paige a bath.” Wes didn’t even look over his newspaper.

“Didn’t y’all just come from the community center?”

“Something about paint on a pinafore.” Wes shrugged.

“Well, lunch is ready.”

Wes grunted and she rolled her eyes. Her brother and Owen were probably the same age in maturity too.

“I smell fresh meat!” Lane’s father barged into the room from his adjoining office.

“Bear!” The little boys screamed and scrambled off the ground to get to their grandpa. With his arms open, he curled his hands up like claws and growled. The boys stopped short and ran screaming in the opposite direction. In two large steps, Bear swept them into his arms and began tickling them until ear-piercing hysteria ensued.

Lane loved seeing this part of her father. The child inside who readily emerged around his grandchildren. The side of him that wasn’t poised, serious, or controlling. A side absent to her when she was growing up.

“The food is getting cold,” Lane’s mother said, raising her voice to be heard over the kids. The laughing commotion ceased as though a drill sergeant had called his troops to attention.

Bear released the boys and saluted Lane’s mom. Noah and Owen did the same, which made all of them smile, even Lane. Maybe lunch wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“Lane.” The muscles in her neck tightened and her last thought instantly evaporated at the sound of her father’s voice.

Wes arched his eyebrows at Lane like when they were children and he knew she was going to get in trouble. “Come on, boys, let’s go get some lunch so we can have dessert.”

Lane turned to face her father as Wes prodded Noah and Owen into the dining room. Gone was the playfulness. She was now looking into the familiar hard lines of the father she had grown up with. He’d always been strict. Disciplined. And unapologetic about his ways. But part of her longed for her father to look at her the way he looked at her son—delighted—not the way he looked at her now.

“I’m sorry—”

“I don’t need apologies, Lane. I want compliance. Now that you are home, you and Noah are expected to attend all family events.” Her father’s stern gaze bore into her, making her feel small. “Your mother and sister worked hard on the community center and your absence was noticed.”

“I doubt anyone besides you, Mom, and Meagan noticed we weren’t there.” Lane fought for a more confident posture to look her father in the eyes, but she couldn’t. Never could.

“It. Was. Noticed.” His sharp tone vibrated around the room and into Lane’s chest, removing any hope of being able to stand up to her father. “Our family is always being watched. It’s part of the price we pay.”

Lane dropped her chin to her chest. “It’s not my debt to pay.”

“Maybe not. But the day I faced a judge on your behalf is the day you forfeited your rights to object to my direction.”

The comment found its mark and seared the truth into her heart. She had promised to do whatever her father asked—at the time. A nonnegotiable agreement she had made in a moment of weakness. But she’d had no other choice. She’d already lost Mathias, and her father was threatening to take away Noah. Her eyes stung, but she managed to nod her head. She wouldn’t engage in this battle. She would never win.

“I’m sorry I missed the dedication. It won’t happen again.”

There was a reason her father was nicknamed Bear. His reputation in the courtroom was legendary throughout Georgia and even in other parts of the US. If you wanted to argue with Judge Raymond Sullivan, you’d better be prepared and you’d better be ready to lose.

“Ray, Lane, we’re waiting,” her mother called from the dining room.

“Remember, I was there for you. My request is that you be here when our family needs you.”

Allowing her father to lead the way, Lane fell in step behind him. Since when did being there for your children become a condition to negotiate?

Meagan was already at the table, which was filled with fried chicken, potato salad, rolls, and a garden salad. It looked like a picnic lunch. A very fancy picnic lunch with linen napkins and her mother’s china. Lane found her spot next to Noah and ran her fingers through his hair—a reminder of what was at stake if her father didn’t get his way.

Paige, a five-year-old blonde version of Meagan, sat next to her. Paige gave Lane a weak smile from beneath a big pink bow holding back damp hair.

“Don’t mind her.” Meagan waved as she passed a full plate to Lane. “She’s in a bad mood because she got paint all over her dress. Old Mrs. Davis thought it would keep the kids’ attention if she gave them paint markers.”

“Let’s be thankful it happened after the dedication and photos were taken.” Lane’s mother cast a glance in her direction.

“Where’s Ian?” Lane asked, noticing the absence of Meagan’s husband.

“He’s finishing up a deal in Savannah. He’s been gone just about every night this week.”

Lane pressed her lips together. She doubted Ian would face the same reprimanding for his absence that she was getting, but had she noted a tinge of sadness in Meagan’s voice? Her sister’s face remained stoic. Meagan was the younger reflection of their mother. Dark chestnut hair coiled around her shoulders, makeup perfectly in place. Her dress, probably designer, had no wrinkles. Nothing to indicate all was not well . . . or perfect. People always commented that Meagan and their mom could be sisters. Their mom basked in the compliment—Meagan not so much.

The gilded mirror on the wall reflected how different two sisters could be. If Lane stared long enough, she’d see the small lines around her mouth and at the sides of her green eyes. Meagan’s tamed hair, styled and perfectly in place, contrasted with Lane’s long, wavy tresses tucked into a bun at the base of her neck. She didn’t wear makeup and according to Meagan needed to see someone about her eyebrows. But who had time for that?

Meagan.

Meagan had time for that. Not only was she a doting wife, member of the Junior League, part of the PTA, and mom of two kids, but she somehow made time to take care of herself. To be presentable. Staring back at her own reflection, Lane almost laughed at herself. There was no need to worry about the deputy seeing LEGOs or laundry piled up—she was all the mess necessary to warn him off.

Lane tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. What made her think the handsome deputy would give her a passing glance? After seeing Meagan and her mom, it was apparent what a good night’s sleep could do for one’s skin. Dark circles beneath her own eyes revealed long nights, but getting more rest would do nothing to erase the etchings of her past. That would take a lifetime of sleep and Lane didn’t have time for that either—or foolish thoughts about a man.

“Someone said a body was found near the Ogeechee.”

Lane swung her gaze to her brother as the muscles in her stomach contracted. Had enough time passed for the morbid news to spread through their small town already?

“Think it might be suicide.” Wes took a big bite of chicken as if finding a dead body in Walton was commonplace.

“Seriously, Wes?” Meagan asked. “In front of the kids?”

“What? It’s what I heard,” Wes said. He was already scooping a spoonful of potato salad onto his plate. “Waiting to notify next of kin.”

“Is that true?” Her mother peeked over her glass of white wine, eyes wide.

“I don’t understand what could drive a person to do that. Life can’t be that hard,” Wes said between bites.

A slap in the face couldn’t have hurt worse. Her cheeks burned. What did her brother know about life being hard?

“Wes, that’s not a discussion to have at the table. We had such a wonderful day. Let’s not spoil it any further.”

Lane’s gaze was drawn to her mother. Ever the Southern socialite, sweeping everything under the rug, pretending life was perfect. Did it eat at her like it did Lane? Or was it easier to live the lie rather than face the truth?

“It wasn’t suicide.”

Lane looked up at her father. His dark brown eyes locked on to hers.

“I was just on the phone with Sheriff Huggins and it’s not a suicide.” Her father ate a bite of potato salad. His gaze was still fixated on her.

“Are you sure?” Lane’s mother gave an off-putting laugh. “This is Walton.”

If Charlie hadn’t told her himself, Lane would be wondering the same thing, but she knew the truth. The thought of him churned an unusual desire to see him again. Why? Because he makes you feel safe—even for just a moment. He makes you feel worth protecting. That truth pierced something she’d been trying to deny since the second Charlie exited her home, leaving a tangible void in his wake.

Reminding her just how alone she was.

“So, it’s . . .” Meagan leaned forward, her eyes round. “M-u-r-d-e-r?”

“No. It’s hom-oh-cide,” Wes said around a mouthful of food. “Man, I wish I was a trial lawyer.”

“Can we please stop talking about this?” Lane was used to her brother’s indifference, but he was taking it to a whole new level. “Someone was killed, Wes. Do you get that?”

“What? It’s not like they went off and killed themselves.”

“Wes!” Her mother’s voice was sharp and snatched the attention of everyone at the table. “We will not continue this discussion any further. It is over.”

Lane pushed her plate away. “I’m not feeling that well. I think we should go.”

“We’re not finished.” Lane’s mother rose from the table. “We haven’t had dessert.”

“I’m just messing around, Lane.” Wes twirled his fork between his fingers.

“Come on, Noah. It’s time to go home.” Dessert was the last thing she wanted to stomach. She appreciated her mother’s attempt to bring order back to the meal, but it was too late. Her appetite was gone and she was done being reminded of her past.

“But, Mommy, I didn’t get any peach cobbler.”

She kissed his forehead. “We’ll get something at home.”

“You know, they say laughter is the best medicine.” But the humor in her brother’s voice from a second ago was gone. He ran a hand through his hair, letting it rest on the back of his neck. His eyes met hers. “Lane, I’m sorry.”

Lane bit down on the inside of her cheek, unable to speak. Not that it mattered even if she could. Her mother’s outburst was a clear reminder that there were some things the Sullivans did not discuss. And Lane had no answers to satisfy their questions. Why would she do what she did? Didn’t she think about what it would do to her family? She had nothing to say. No way to explain why death had seemed like an answer that day. Or how the effects of that single decision had tormented her every single day since.

Her father remained seated and continued to eat. Wes sipped his tea. Meagan kept quiet and their mother stood motionless as she stared at her own plate. No one was going to stop her.

And no one did. They were content to let her go. A lump of emotion filled her throat. As much as her dad claimed hero status for coming to her rescue, Lane knew the only person who had ever fought for her—who had truly tried to rescue her—was buried in the ground.

The mood inside the sheriff’s station was as stifling as the late-afternoon heat and the heavy revelation of Sheriff Huggins’s words still echoing in Charlie’s ear: “Jane Doe has been identified.” Amanda and Trevor had confirmed the victim as their seventeen-year-old daughter, Sydney.

The buzz of the air conditioner on full blast did little to deflect from the shared despair of the deputies around him. How many of them knew the young lady? Were they friends with her family? Did she babysit their children? Maybe living in a small town was as much a blessing as it was a curse? If they were this close to the victim, could they be close to the killer too?

Sheriff Huggins entered the station and drew the gaze of every deputy, including Charlie. He paused for a moment and looked ready to say something but stopped. He pulled out a white handkerchief and wiped his face. To remove the afternoon’s kiss of sweat or to wipe away any evidence of moisture in his gray eyes, Charlie wasn’t sure.

“The Donovans”—Sheriff Huggins cleared his throat and tucked the handkerchief into his pocket—“are expecting our best. I’m expecting your best. As the community learns the truth, I want us to be prepared. I know some of you knew Sydney and her family, so if you need some time to . . .” His voice caught. “Grief counselors will be available, but I’m hoping that once you’ve had your moment—your time—you will focus that grief into finding the person or persons responsible. That’s our job. To bring justice and some sort of peace back not only to Sydney’s family but to our town as well.”

The collective nodding of those around Charlie confirmed they were all on board. With straightened postures and sharp expressions, they were ready to put aside their emotions to focus on the case—the mission. It reminded him of the early moments with the command team before they embarked on a new operation. Their uncertainty about what may lie ahead was overruled by their focus on doing the job and doing it right. Charlie hoped the Walton deputies were ready.

“Lynch, Frost, I’d like to see you in my office.”

Deputy Frost nimbly crossed in front of Charlie. Freckles covered the bridge of the young man’s nose and matched his unruly reddish-blond hair. His uniform hung on a tall frame that his bony shoulders hadn’t quite grown into yet. Charlie noticed the extra notch cut into Frost’s gun belt. He smiled. The officer reminded him of a nerdier version of that prince in England, the younger one, trying to grow into a role that demanded respect.

“Get the door, Lynch.” Sheriff Huggins tugged on his own gun belt, which wasn’t too loose or too snug. Charlie was rather impressed by the agility the sheriff possessed for a man approaching his seventies.

When the door shut, Charlie stood with his hands clasped behind his back and his legs just wider than shoulder distance as he waited for his orders. Deputy Frost pushed up his thick black-framed glasses a second before his magnified gaze met Charlie’s. Frost straightened his shoulders and turned to face Sheriff Huggins, mimicking Charlie’s at ease position.

Sheriff Huggins sat at the edge of his desk and looked at Frost, then at Charlie. A smile pulled at his lips, but he recovered. “Have you found Sydney’s cell phone?”

“No, sir,” Charlie answered. “Deputy Wilson took a team out there this morning and they combed the area, but nothing was found.”

Disappointment flickered in Sheriff Huggins’s eyes. “Frost, I need you to go to the Donovans’ and pick up Sydney’s laptop. I want you to do a thorough search of her social media presence. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram. All of . . .” Sheriff Huggins’s bristly white eyebrows came together. “What is it, Frost?”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Frost’s thin frame tensed. “Just surprised you know about social media.”

“I’m not in the grave yet. Now, wipe that smirk off your face. You don’t see Lynch itching in his britches, do you?”

Frost shot a sideways glance at Charlie. “No, sir.”

“Someone’s daughter was killed, Frost. For Pete’s sake, she could have been in high school with your sister.”

That fact hit home and Frost straightened. “Yes, sir.”

“Lynch, were you able to get a statement from Lane Kent?”

“Yes, sir. Earlier this afternoon.”

Worry pinched Sheriff Huggins’s features. “How’s she doing?”

Charlie recognized the sheriff’s look of concern. It was the same one he wore when he held Lane in his arms near the river yesterday. Paternal. Protective. Like he knew the real reason behind the anguish Charlie had seen pooling in Lane’s green eyes.

“Lynch?”

“Sorry, sir.” Charlie needed to rein in his thoughts, which lingered on Lane. What was wrong with him? She was married—off-limits. But why hadn’t he seen any proof of her husband? He hated to admit it, but he had looked that morning in the Way Station Café. For a pair of shoes, the lingering scent of aftershave, something that said a man lived there. Sheriff Huggins cleared his throat. “She was in a bit of a rush. Had an event or something she was running late to, but I was able to get a quick statement and the memory card from her camera. Lane—Ms. Kent said she didn’t take any pictures yesterday and the ones on the card are about a week old.”

“Right. The campaign.” Sheriff Huggins folded his arms across his chest. “That’s going to make our job more challenging.”

“Campaign?”

“Lane’s father is Judge Raymond Sullivan and he’s currently the front-runner for a senate bid.” The sheriff released a sigh before moving behind his desk. “It means there are a lot more unfamiliar faces in Walton.”

Realization spread through Charlie. “Which means less chance of a stranger standing out.”

“Frost”—Sheriff Huggins pulled a business card from his desk and held it out—“I have a friend, David Padello, in the FBI out of Savannah. That’s his card. He’s agreed to help us if we need it. And we may need it.”

The FBI allowed city, county, and state officials to operate their own investigations unless called upon, but Charlie also understood the feds liked to extend their assistance to the point of overstaying their welcome. He couldn’t imagine what Walton would look like overrun by suits and sedans.

“I also want you to make copies of the memory card from Lane’s camera. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” Conviction was missing from the sheriff’s tone and expression in that last statement.

“I’m on it.” Frost hurried out of Sheriff Huggins’s office.

“Do you think Frost can handle this investigation?” Sheriff Huggins stared past Charlie. “He’s a genius when it comes to computers and technology but a little vague when it comes to common sense.”

“He seems eager.” Charlie had detected an energy buzzing through the younger deputy. Maybe that’s why Sheriff Huggins stuck him in a small room, away from the others, where he could unleash his enthusiasm to attack the case without coming off as unsympathetic.

“Tell me, Lynch, how many baby-faced Marines fresh out of boot camp are ready to face war?”

“Sir?”

“They’re all eager. Trained. Armed. And then what? They get out there and face demons they never knew existed outside of a comic book or video game.” Sheriff Huggins’s eyes went to the window in his office that faced out to the rest of the station. “All of them are about to face a battle I’m not sure they’re prepared for.”

It was true. Charlie had seen and breathed death and destruction at the hands of the enemy. Young Marines came in all oorah! only to watch a bullet take out their buddy right in front of them. Sobered them up real quick. Put purpose in their mission and faith in their soul.

“This murder is personal.”

“That’s right.” Sheriff Huggins leaned forward. “Which is exactly why I want you taking the lead. You have no ties to this town, or the people in it.”

Was that supposed to make Charlie feel better? Unattached and impartial to death? Or was that the expectation because he used to be a Marine? That he should be immune to the effects of death.

“A little separation is healthy for everyone.” Sheriff Huggins said it as though he were answering Charlie’s thoughts. “Brings perspective.”

“Is that what you’re asking for? Perspective?”

“I’m asking you to be the man I know you are. The person who I watched as a little boy see things others missed. Use those skills that made you invaluable in the Corps to help us . . . help me bring peace back to Walton.”

Charlie digested the words, allowing them to bring him back to reality. To his purpose. He was there to do a job and the sheriff was reminding him of that. “Do you believe the killer is local?”

“Agent Padello is running a search through the federal database to see if there are any similarities with the victim or the crime.” Sheriff Huggins shook his head and stared out the large window. “I don’t want to think someone here is capable of doing to Sydney what they did. No child, woman, or man should ever meet their Maker like that.”

On that, Charlie could agree. She wasn’t just a victim. She was Sydney Donovan, proverbial daughter to all who called Walton home—or so it seemed. It was up to him to find out if a killer was lurking among those mourning the young lady left to die in a swampy grave.