Crimson River (The Edens)

The drive from the station to my house was eleven minutes.

For the past eleven minutes, I’d felt like I’d forgotten something in the captain’s office.

Not just something.

My badge.

Effective today, I was no longer a deputy with the Kootenai County Sheriff’s Office. And even though I’d planned for this, eleven minutes hadn’t been long enough for this new reality to sink in.

I wasn’t a cop, not anymore.

There was a duffel bag in the back seat of my truck full of everything I’d had stuffed in my locker at work. Even though Christmas was still a few weeks away, Alec’s wife had made me a tin of holiday cookies. They were in the passenger seat.

I hauled everything out of the truck but left it on a shelf in the garage, not having the energy to deal with it right now, then headed inside the house.

The moment I walked through the door to the laundry room, Vera came rushing around the corner. Her sock-covered feet slid like ice skates across the hardwood floor. “So? How’d it go? Did you quit?”

“It went. And yes, I quit.” I sighed, setting my keys on top of the dryer.

There used to be a hook beside the door where I’d hang my keys. But when we’d arrived in Idaho six weeks ago, the hook had been missing along with a long list of other things that Tiff had taken when she’d moved out.

In the past six weeks, I hadn’t bothered to find a new hook. Or new nightstands for my bedroom. Or a coffee table in the living room.

The furniture had been mine, though apparently Tiff hadn’t cared. Vera didn’t seem to mind that there were holes where pieces of furniture should be. And I didn’t give a shit about, well . . . a lot. At least not much here in Idaho.

For the past month and a half, it had become glaringly obvious that I’d left far, far too much of myself in Montana.

With Lyla.

“Are you okay?” Vera asked.

“All good,” I lied. “You got a haircut.”

It was still long, the orange-red strands brushing against her heart, but it was six inches shorter than it had been when I’d left this morning.

“It was still scraggly.” She plucked at a lock. “It needed to go shorter.”

Which was exactly what the stylist had told her the first time we’d gone to the salon—it had taken Vera nearly a month before she’d leave the house without me, so I’d taken her to that first haircut. And despite the stylist’s advice, Vera hadn’t wanted to lose too much length.

She liked her long hair. And I think she’d feared that if there were too many changes, she’d lose herself. She’d lose the girl who’d spent those years in the wilderness with her father.

I was proud of her for going there today. For making another change.

“It looks really great.”

“Thanks.” She shrugged. “I like it.”

“Then that’s all that matters.” I toed off my boots, then I took off my winter coat, glad I had nowhere else to go today, because the roads around town were slick and covered in snow. “Maybe it’s time I got another haircut too.”

The day I’d taken Vera, I’d had mine trimmed too, but that had been weeks ago and it was getting long again. Without Lyla around to run her fingers through it, there didn’t seem like much point in letting it grow.

“We could walk to the salon tomorrow,” Vera said.

“Or you could practice driving.”

She shook her head.

Vera wasn’t ready to drive again, not yet. Without any practice in the past four years, she had a lot of relearning to do. For now, wherever she needed to go, she walked. Even so, she rarely left the house.

“On my walk back, I picked up stuff at the store to make soup. It’s ready and I set the table. Are you hungry?”

No. My stomach had been in a knot all day and would need a while to unravel. The idea of food only made the cramp worse.

But a week ago, Vera had declared that she wanted to contribute more around the house and that I needed to let her contribute more around the house. Apparently I’d been babying her. So in an effort to back off, I’d put her in charge of dinner every night.

If she’d made soup, then it was time to eat soup.

“Soup on a cold day sounds great.”

“Okay.” She stood a little taller. A tiny smile graced her mouth before she whirled around and slid-shuffled across the floor toward the kitchen.

That small smile was about as much joy as Vera showed these days. It was hard to remember what she looked like when she was actually happy. There was no laughter in her. No blinding, toothy smiles.

I missed that Vera. And I wasn’t sure how to get her back.

So I’d focused on the practicalities instead.

Turns out . . . bringing a kid back to life was a clusterfuck of paperwork and skepticism.

Most people, like Alec, had needed an in-person visit to believe our story that Vera had shown up on my doorstep six weeks ago.

After I’d called to tell him, letting him be the dry run before my meeting with the captain, Alec had rushed over and stared at Vera, speechless, for almost thirty minutes.

Other people, like my captain, had required DNA tests to prove Vera was in fact Vera.

Was it strange not to feel the weight of my badge on my belt? Yep. But fuck, I was glad I’d never have to see that asshole’s face again.

Sorting through the mess had been a nightmare, but we’d made it through. The world now knew that Vera Gallagher was alive—the local papers had plastered her photo on the front page for weeks. A few national news sources had picked up the story too.

But the story we’d spun in Quincy with Lyla’s help had held up. As expected, Vera still refused to talk about that night with her mother. Since there wasn’t a damn thing people could do to make her talk, they’d had to accept the rest of the details.

Cormac had taken Vera. They’d been living off the grid for four years. And finally, she’d left. She’d come home to a family friend. Uncle Vance.

The FBI had rushed to Idaho in hopes of finding Cormac, but also as expected, they hadn’t found him. And just like before, they’d move on to other cases. Now that I wasn’t searching for Cormac, the world would likely forget he even existed.

The media attention had dwindled, though not fast enough for my liking. Not only had they drudged up the details from that night years ago, but since I was linked to Cormac, the gas station shooting had made a resurgence too.

Thankfully, that investigation was over.

I’d been cleared of any wrongdoing, thank fuck. But the damage had already been done. The captain wanted me to keep a low profile, so he’d put me on desk work. The rumors about the family suing the department had faded—probably because they’d realized their chances of winning were slim to none. Still, he hadn’t wanted to take any chances. Hadn’t wanted to broadcast my face to the public.

Apparently, the attention I was getting with Vera was already too much.

So for the past six weeks, I’d been doing paperwork. A lot of fucking paperwork. It had just about sent me over the edge. But I’d stuck it out. For Vera.

I’d wanted to be at the station, in the department with a few resources at my disposal, until she was a full-fledged member of society.

She had her social security card reinstated. She had a driver’s license. She had a checking account and a credit card.

And since the FBI seemed to have run out of questions for her, well . . . I was thinking we were out of the woods. So today, I’d called it quits.

“Do you want milk or water?” Vera asked from the kitchen.

“Water, please,” I answered, walking through the house as a shiver rolled over my shoulders. “Is it chilly in here?”

“Not really.”

“Huh.” Maybe it was just this house.

Had it always been this cold and sterile? Yes. Even when Tiff had lived here and I hadn’t been missing furniture, this place hadn’t had much of a personality. The walls were a dull gray that seemed to suck up the light. My lack of home décor skills meant there was no artwork to bring color into the space. No toss pillows or throw blankets or house plants.

It was nothing like the warm, inviting farmhouse on the outskirts of Quincy, Montana.

Goddamn it, I missed Lyla.

I should have made her promises, even when she’d asked me not to.

All I wanted was to pick up the phone and hear her voice. Every day, I fought the urge to drive to Montana for a glimpse of her beautiful face. It killed me to think of her moving on.

But I wouldn’t tell her I was coming back, not until I knew it was true. I wouldn’t call her, drag her along, and make promises that I might not manage to keep.

Was she okay? Did she miss me a fraction of how much I missed her?

“Big spoon or little spoon?” Vera asked.

“Big. I’ll get napkins.”

With them in hand, I went to the table and took my usual seat.

Vera carried over a bowl of soup made with golden broth, carrots, noodles and chicken.

“Looks delicious.”

“I’ve never made chicken noodle soup before.”

I stirred it for a minute, letting it cool, then took that first, steaming bite. Salt filled my mouth. It was like swallowing a gulp of ocean water, but I fought a grimace and choked it down. “Yum.”

Vera took her own bite. And immediately spit it back into the bowl. “Oh my God. It’s awful.”

“It’s not.” I took another bite. Fuck, it was awful.

“I tasted it and it wasn’t salty enough, so I added some but . . .” She set her spoon aside as the corners of her mouth turned down. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. You’re a good cook. One salty soup isn’t the end of the world.”

Her chin began to tremble.

“Vera.” I covered her hand with mine as tears filled her eyes. “It’s just soup.”

“It’s not even about the soup.” She sniffled, wiping at her lashes. “The cashier at the store today asked me if I was that girl from the paper.”

Shit. “What happened?”

“I lied and told her no.”

Because otherwise, Vera would get bombarded with questions. People had no qualms about stepping past boundaries if it meant satisfying their curiosity. People were the worst.

“I’m tired of lying, Uncle Vance. I’m tired of being recognized everywhere I go.” She caught another tear. “And I miss my dad.”

“I know you do, kiddo.”

“I thought . . . I thought it would feel different being here. I thought it would feel more like home. I thought . . .” Vera trailed off and dropped her gaze to the salty soup.

“Thought what?”

“Thought I would feel them.”

Hadley and Elsie.

Maybe, if we could have visited the spot where I’d scattered their ashes, Vera would have felt that connection. But the snow was here to stay. If she wanted to visit, it would have to be this spring.

“What are we doing here?” She sniffled, drying both eyes. “You miss Lyla.”

I missed her so much it was hard to breathe.

If Vera wanted to go back to Quincy, I’d start packing tonight. But I also needed her to say the words. To choose that path for herself.

The only reason I was in Idaho was for Vera. To give her whatever life she wanted. But if we went back to Montana, that was it. There wasn’t a fucking chance I’d leave Lyla again.

“What are you saying, Vera?”

“I’m saying . . . I think we made a mistake. I think we should go back to Montana.”