Clutching her textbooks, Allison Cox rushed from her first-period American History to her French class. She slid into her desk and ignored the whispers that ceased abruptly as soon as she entered the room.
No one needed to tell her the topic of conversation. She knew. Everyone was whispering about Anson. Her friends assumed he was the one who’d burned down The Lighthouse. He wasn’t! She refused to believe he was in any way responsible for the fire. Anson wouldn’t do anything so underhanded to the Gundersons. Not only had they been good to him, he wasn’t that kind of person. He wasn’t cruel or vindictive. Allison didn’t care what anyone thought or said—she wouldn’t lose faith in Anson or the love they shared.
Turning, she glared over her shoulder at Kaci and Emily. According to her so-called friends, she was walking hand in hand with denial. Fine, they could think whatever they wanted; it had nothing to do with her. They could condemn Anson, but she wouldn’t.
The class bell rang, and she slowly turned around, ignoring the flow of gossip. Yes, Anson had disappeared right after the fire. Yes, he’d burned down the shed in the park. But she just couldn’t accept that he’d had anything to do with what had happened at The Lighthouse.
She’d convinced herself that Anson would return to Cedar Cove soon. With all her heart, she believed he’d be back by graduation. She clung to that hope, focused on the date—June fourth—and refused to doubt him.
The afternoon dragged by. Every day had since she’d seen him the night of the fire. After her last class she couldn’t get away fast enough. She hurried off the school grounds to her part-time job at her dad’s accounting firm. As she walked to the building owned by her father and his partners, she reviewed the facts as she remembered them. She did this often; she went over and over every detail she could recall. Logically, she understood why someone who didn’t know Anson might conclude that he was an arsonist. Okay, so he’d made that one mistake last fall, with the park shed. But he’d owned up to it, taken his punishment and moved on.
It’d been a week since she’d seen him—the longest week of her life. She remembered how he’d come to her that night. She’d been asleep and he’d tapped against her bedroom window, waking her. It wasn’t the first time he’d appeared in the middle of the night, only now he wouldn’t come inside. He’d explained that the only reason he was there was to tell her goodbye.
She’d argued with him, but he’d been adamant, insisting he had to leave. So many questions remained unanswered, including the issue of the missing money. Anson swore he knew nothing about that and she believed him. Mr. Gunderson was wrong to blame Anson for a crime he didn’t commit.
Worse, according to the terms of his plea agreement, the agreement Anson had made with the court after the first arson, he’d pledged to stay in school and make restitution.
But Anson hadn’t been in school the week before the fire, and Allison had been worried sick, wondering where he was and what he was doing. No one seemed to have any idea, and no one seemed to care, either. Not even his mother.
Anson had said he was leaving and wouldn’t tell her where he was going or when he’d be back. He’d kissed her goodbye and although she’d pleaded with him to stay, to talk things out, he’d disappeared into the night.
The next morning, on one of the worst days of her life, Allison’s mother, Rosie, woke her and said Sheriff Troy Davis needed to ask her a few questions. That was when she’d learned about The Lighthouse. As best she could, Allison answered the sheriff’s questions—except she didn’t tell him everything.
She couldn’t.
Not even her parents knew the full truth.
She dared not tell her dad for fear he’d lose his trust in Anson—and in her.
Allison was grateful for this job at her father’s office. Even though it was only part-time, it distracted her from her troubles for at least a few hours a day.
Her father had tried to help Anson. Allison appreciated the way he’d stepped in and stood at Anson’s side after that fire in the park. Her father had been the only one, too. Anson’s own mother had turned her back on him; Cherry Butler had as much as said that her son deserved whatever he got. Nor did she seem terribly concerned that Anson had now disappeared. According to Cherry, he’d come back when he was ready, and until then, she wasn’t wasting any time worrying about him. Allison was horrified by his mother’s attitude.
If Allison had run away, she knew her parents would never stop looking for her. And they wouldn’t ever give up on her, like Anson’s mother had on him.
But then, that was what Anson had said the night he left—that Allison was lucky. She had parents who loved her and cared about her. Anson claimed no one gave a damn about him. He was wrong. Allison cared. Her parents, too, were concerned about him, although of course their primary goal was to protect Allison.
Some kids were born lucky, Anson had told her, and she was one of them. He wasn’t. He insisted that he had to make his own luck.
As she opened the front door of Smith, Cox and Jefferson, Allison noticed that the reception area was full of clients who’d waited until the last minute to file their taxes. With only four days to go until April fifteenth, she sensed the uneasiness in the room. It was like this every year.
Mary Lou, the receptionist, returned Allison’s smile. “There’s someone to see you in the kitchen,” she said.
For a fleeting moment Allison thought it might be Anson. It couldn’t be, though. The minute he showed up, the sheriff’s office would become involved. Her father would be duty-bound to call them. Because Sheriff Davis suspected Anson would try to contact her at some point, her parents had discussed the possibility and the action they’d have to take. The matter was out of her hands and her father’s, too. Allison had no choice but to accept that.
“Who is it?” she asked.
Another smile appeared on the receptionist’s face. “You’ll just have to check it out for yourself.”
Allison was puzzled, since it wasn’t like Mary Lou to be so mysterious.
The kitchen, located behind the office, wasn’t a real kitchen—more of a lunchroom, with a microwave and a small refrigerator, plus a table and four chairs. Most days, Allison stuck her schoolbooks and purse in a cupboard there. As she walked into the room, she saw a baby carrier—complete with baby-resting on the table.
“Cecilia!” she cried, delighted beyond words. Her father’s assistant had been a good friend to Allison, a better friend than either of her parents would ever know.
Three years earlier, Zach and Rosie Cox had divorced. It had been a terrible time for their family, especially Allison. She’d rebelled, hanging out with the wrong crowd. Her grades had slipped drastically and she’d stopped caring about much of anything.
When her father offered her a part-time job, she wasn’t fooled. She’d been well aware that the only reason he was willing to hire her was to keep an eye on her after school. She’d taken the job, but she’d gone into it with a bad attitude.
Then she discovered she wouldn’t be working for her dad. He’d assigned her to assist Cecilia Randall, and the young navy wife had helped Allison understand her own behavior—what she was doing and why. Cecilia’s parents had divorced when she was ten and she understood the pain Allison was feeling. Cecilia had guided her out of the self-destructive rut into which she’d stumbled.
As soon as Cecilia saw Allison now, she opened her arms wide for a hug. “I decided Aaron could do with a day out in the sunshine,” her friend said, wrapping her arms around Allison and pulling her close. The baby was only three weeks old, so Cecilia hadn’t been out of the office long. It felt like an eternity, though, because so much had happened.
Clasping Allison’s shoulders, Cecilia leaned back and studied her. “You look…”
“Dreadful,”