TRAFFIC ALWAYS MADE Police Chief Tom Riley want to jump out of his SUV and redirect vehicles until every lane ran smoothly. Sitting still, waiting longer than he deemed necessary for his turn to exit, annoyed him. He didn’t like it, didn’t want it and even his badge could do nothing about it.
Truthfully, his little town of Sarasota Falls seldom required a vehicle to suffer through one rotation from the traffic light. Today, however, was Founder’s Day and Tom was idling in front of Sweet Sarasota, the town’s bakery, far enough back to know it would take two turns before he got to hang a left.
He had something to do, it was police-related, and he was half-tempted to engage the siren.
The town’s hundredth year. Mayor Rick Goodman had gone overboard with marketing the event, at least in Tom’s opinion, and for the last few days the town experienced a boon as family, friends and past residents made their way back, all to celebrate.
Tom hadn’t participated in the pumpkin-toss competition and he hadn’t played horseshoes, although he’d wanted to, but he had ridden the celebration train this morning—as security.
Rah, rah. It had gone a mile down the tracks, turned and ended abruptly.
Tom had also worked late last evening and had personally driven five inebriated people home from the Hoot & Holler. None had been in a police car before. All except him had found it a joyous occasion. They’d even tried to tip him. Then, he’d also changed a flat, found a lost kid and received a proposal of marriage.
He hadn’t minded the flat. He hadn’t minded finding the lost kid, who’d just taken off with a family member who’d been more than surprised because she insisted she’d informed the family of who was going where and when. But Tom had been somewhat taken aback by the marriage proposal, which came from a woman more than forty years his senior. She’d been at the front-desk area at ten last night, holding a bag of the town’s finest chocolate chip cookies and wanting to thank the police for the good job they were doing.
He’d honestly told her it was the best offer he’d had all day, but, unfortunately, he wasn’t looking for the next Mrs. Riley. What he didn’t tell her was that his heart still had a hole in the center from the ex–Mrs. Riley.
Eighty-three-year-old Helen Williams had slipped her phone number in his hand and said should he ever make it to Arizona to give her a call.
He had a gut feeling she’d been at the Hoot & Holler, too. He’d taken a cookie and thanked her. Then, he’d followed her out the door, grateful, and watched her walk one block to a small motel.
He’d finished up his paperwork and gone home, and now at four the next afternoon, he was back on duty. Man, he’d be glad when Founder’s Day festivities ended. He much preferred tourists to people he shared a history with.
At least a dozen had asked about his ex-wife.
Two hadn’t known about Max’s death. He’d given them the condensed version. Partner killed in the line of duty; when they buried Max, Tom buried himself in work. The next thing he knew his house was empty and his wife gone.
Everyone agreed it was bad.
Didn’t matter. Tom finally got the green light, turned left and twenty minutes later was on the outskirts of town, where houses were few and traffic nonexistent. Most of the people who lived out here just liked open spaces. Some, however, lived in the middle of nowhere so they’d not be observed.
Case in point: Richard Welborn, who’d been arrested not quite a year ago and had taken off before his court date, leaving his mother alone in a rental house she could barely afford. She claimed she didn’t know where Richie was. But Tom knew she got checks from Richie.
Welborn needed to own up to his responsibility for driving drunk and putting an elderly woman in the hospital. She’d been through months of physical therapy and now almost a year of pain.
Tom drove by the Welborn house a few times a month, even though Richie’s mother shot him dirty looks and the sight of the house brought back memories he’d prefer to keep at bay.
He willed Welborn to show up so he could arrest him and never have to drive to this particular address again.
This time, being out on bond wouldn’t be an option.
To Tom’s annoyance, even this fairly remote section of Sarasota Falls had traffic.
The woman in the white Chevy ahead of him had Arizona plates. Maybe a relative of Helen Williams? Even from behind he could tell the driver was under thirty, with long blond hair. Something niggled at his subconscious, but Helen—who’d been friends with Tom’s grandmother—didn’t have children, so that guess seemed unlikely. Tom gave his head a shake. During the past few days, with so many out-of-towners, he’d paid close attention, driven by the motels and through neighborhoods, keeping his town safe.
Little Miss Sunshine blocked his way and needed to either speed up or pull over. He had more things to do before he could head home, and thanks to an unexpected speeding ticket he’d given out as he headed this way, he was now running behind.
He might get even further behind because something about the woman in the car tugged at his memory: might be the hair color, the shape of her head, or a gut feeling. Something.
He needed to pull this woman over.
Problem was, she wasn’t doing anything wrong.
Tags up to date: check. Speed limit observed: check. Tom looked at the time on his dashboard. Not even five. The Hoot & Holler didn’t get rowdy until about ten or eleven most nights, so she probably hadn’t just left. Then again, Founder’s Day changed everything. His officers, all ten of them, had been working overtime.
He wondered if he was on a fool’s errand. Tom didn’t for a moment believe Welborn might return to his last address, but in the name of good police work, the importance of paperwork and the promise he’d made to a victim, Tom intended to do his job.
His