But it never happened that way. Soon enough, all our belongings, or as much as we could gather together in the time we had, were shoved into the car, and we were on our way again. Every time we left, my grandparents stood out in the front yard, their arms around each other’s waists, smiling and waving goodbye. They never looked afraid or uncertain. It was like we were simply going for a weekend away. But I always left with a rock in the pit of my stomach, wondering if that was the last time we were going to leave Sherwood.
Last time I did, it was on my own terms. I didn’t think I would ever go back. Even this morning, as I got behind the wheel of my car and started in the direction of my hometown, it didn’t feel real. But I can’t pretend it’s not now.
The green and cream-colored paint on the sign welcoming me into town looks the exact same as it did when I put it behind me eleven years ago. I’m sure it’s been touched up during that time, but the wear and cracks are in the same places, and I feel like if I look closely enough, I’ll find the thumbprint I pressed into the back corner when the edge was still damp.
Reminders of everything I left behind rise up on either side of me as my car slows to match the rhythm of life here. If I close my eyes, I can still follow the right path. I’ll end up right in the driveway, flanked by pink azalea bushes, facing the slab of concrete left in the ground after my grandfather finally took down the old above ground pool.
It looks like a postcard and sounds like the soundtrack of a vintage summer. But maybe quieter now. Less laughter. Fewer children splashing in pools and running through sprinklers. Parents whispering rather than talking over sweating glasses of iced tea.
The farther I drive into town, the more my heart aches. Some of it is for the missing children and the fear that swallowed the joy of July days. But I know more is from pain along the fault lines, from cracks that never fully healed. Some shards aren’t there anymore. They’re here. Those pieces of my broken heart are among the many things I left behind when I left Sherwood, never intending to come back.
I drive past the high school, where a graduation balloon sags helplessly from the end of the fence. I should have graduated there, walked across the stage with the classmates whose lives I drifted in and out of but managed to find space for me. Instead, a tutor accelerated me through Junior and Senior year together, so I finished a year early and graduated with an email and a brisk note of congratulations sent along with my diploma. By the time my friends here were tossing their hats in the air, I was in college. Most of my friends. Some took that leap out of childhood even before me.
I didn’t leave early enough to stop anywhere before getting to the station. By the time I pull into a parking space and walk into the bracing air conditioning of the lobby, the clock ticks onto eight.
“Exactly on time. Like always.”
The voice is somehow deeper when it’s not coming through the phone. I turn around and see the tall, dark-haired man from behind the podium at the press conference sitting in a chair in the waiting area.
“Sam,” I say.
He stands up, and as he takes a step toward me, I can see the broken pieces I left behind in his eyes.
“Emma, thank you for coming.”
Chapter Twelve
The waitress at the coffee shop on the corner looks familiar. She already has two mugs down and a stream of hot, powerful coffee filling the one in front of Sam by the time I’ve settled into place on my side of the booth. I look into her round face, tinted with pink from heat and the exertion of the morning rush. It takes a few seconds for me to realize it’s the same woman who brought me coffee and a slab of country ham on a biscuit the morning I said goodbye to Sherwood. She’s older and softer, but her smile hasn’t wavered. She still looks happy to be here, like she’s welcoming friends to her own kitchen table rather than waiting tables at a coffee shop that’s served several generations before her.
“Thank you, Molly,” Sam says.
“Absolutely, Sheriff. Will you be having your regular this morning?”
“Yes, that’ll be fine. Emma here might need a menu, though. It’s been a little while since she’s ordered breakfast here.”
It’s a hidden message, a hint to her to confirm my face is the one she thinks she’s looking at. I know it’s changed far more than hers has. While she fits in here as if she’s as much a part of the space as the checkerboard floor and smooth Formica tabletops, I’m an anomaly.
“Emma Griffin, I thought that was you,” Molly smiles. “I never thought I’d see the day when you’d come back here.”
“Stranger things have happened,” I shrug. “It’s nice to see you.”
“Nice to see you, too. Is your daddy with you?”
I draw in a breath and swallow it down with a swig of coffee. I can feel Sam’s eyes on me and know his mind is churning, wondering what I’m going to say. I flash the waitress a smile.
“I’ll have two eggs sunny-side up and a biscuit. Thank you,” I tell her.
She looks at me strangely but doesn’t let her smile fade.
“Coming right up,” she says.
Sam reaches for the tiny pitcher of cream sitting at the edge of the table and swirls it into his coffee. Two packets of sugar shake between his fingers and tumble into the mug. I know those movements like I know my own. I’ve seen them so many times before. Some right here in this shop. Many more times at other tables, in other worlds, in other lives.
“It sure is hot this summer,” he says, falling into the age-old routine of small talk.
He’s wading into the shallows before braving the deeper water. Like he fears the current that might take him.
“It always is,” I reply.
He takes a sip of his coffee and adds the third packet of sugar he might as well put in with the first two because it always follows.
“I suppose that’s true. Just feels hotter than I remember it. Maybe because I’m wearing this uniform now. It’s not exactly as breathable as when I used to wear nothing but shorts or a bathing suit in the summertime.”
Images of those days conjure in my mind before I can do anything to stop them. Some are when he was young, little more than beanpole arms and the hope of chest muscles as he ran around with his younger sisters and did his best to drain the community pool with cannonballs. That hope was fulfilled the next time I came back to Sherwood, but the smile across the pool was still all boy. His hair hung down over his eyes, and his bathing suit slung low over his hips. Later there would be a deep V of muscle there, and my fingertips traced them like I was tracing his evolution.
“Not as many chances to do that when you’re an adult,” I tell him.
He nods as if I’ve given him some sage advice, then pauses as his deep emerald eyes follow the lines of my face and settle on the pulse at the base of my throat before rising up again.
“Are you staying up at the hotel?” he asks.
The question hits me hard for some reason, and I hesitate a few seconds before shaking my head.
“Um, no. My grandparents’ house has been vacant for a couple months since the couple renting it moved out to California. I contacted the management company that’s been overseeing it and told them I’d be staying in it for a few days while I’m here. It’ll be a good chance to check it over and make sure it’s still in good condition. They send me pictures, and maintenance reports twice a year, but it hasn’t been empty for a long time, and I want to see if anything major needs to be done before somebody else moves in,” I explain.
“Have you been there yet?”
“No. I came straight to the station. I’ll go over there when we’re done here.”