Chapter One

Friday, September 2, 2022

"Mr. Callahan, I should seriously kick your ass," Violet Anderson muttered, speaking to no one.

No one other than the rows and rows of books that filled the rows and rows of shelves in her small bookstore, that was.

"I mean, come on . I have stuff to do. Real stuff. Like job stuff."

While the podcast played, Violet continued to run the Swiffer over the spines and tops of the books as she did every couple of days, keeping her pride and joy, a.k.a. Shelf Help, neat and tidy. Up until two months ago, she'd handled her daily chores with an audiobook to keep her entertained because she hadn't known what a podcast even was. Well, technically, that wasn't true. She'd heard of podcasts but had never bothered to venture into that world due to her preference for fictional storytelling.

Boy, had she been missing out.

Now, here she was, hanging on to every word, envisioning the scenes being painted in her head by the sexy hum of that voice through her earbuds. It was the best time of day to enjoy her favorite true-crime podcast—an obsession she'd developed recently thanks to Holt Callahan, the bastard.

For weeks, Violet had been consuming them the same way she consumed books: raptly and without apology. She spent her afternoons taking care of menial chores since the store was mostly empty—or completely, as was the case now—while these new types of stories played, drawing her in, captivating her with their insight and revelation.

"Like I can really afford another obsession." She shook her head and sighed, weaving her way toward the front.

The elementary school would be letting out in about an hour, which meant in an hour and a half, the store would be overrun with six- to nine-year-olds on the hunt for their next favorite read because today was "Even Swap" day. She'd dedicated the first Friday of every month to this day, which was a hit with the community. The rule was if you brought in one book, you could hand it over and walk out with another from one of the shelves she'd dedicated to the program. Provided you were a student at Coyote Ridge Elementary. And fine, she'd made a concession or two for students in neighboring towns since word had filtered into those communities. Who was she to stop kids from reading?

It helped tremendously that she had a whole slew of young cousins whose parents were diligent about donating their gently used books to the cause.

Setting her Swiffer duster on the counter, she plucked her earbuds out. Last but not least, she needed the multipurpose cleaner so she could—

"Holy shit! " Clutching her hand to her chest, Violet tried to stop her heart from escaping through her ribcage. "For fucks sake, Holt. Warn a girl, would ya?"

Holt Callahan smiled. "I thought you knew I was here. That's what the bells are for, right?"

"How would I know that?" she countered hotly, fisting her AirPods and thrusting her hand in his direction. "You scared the shit outta me."

"Holt, man. Come on. You shouldn't be doin' that."

The voice that came from behind her had Violet spinning, another startled scream escaping.

"Mother of dragons!" she hissed, once again clutching her chest.

"Sorry," the man said, although the devilish smirk on his face told her he was anything but.

Violet frowned, tempted to blast him with her outrage, but she didn't make a habit of dressing down customers. It wasn't good for business, after all.

Holt cleared his throat. Or maybe that was a cough meant to cover up a laugh. "Violet Anderson, I'd like you to meet Simon Jennings. Simon, Violet."

Violet cast a death ray stare in Holt's direction. "You know this guy?"

His smile was slow and devious. "And now you do, too."

"So you're not a customer?" she asked Simon.

"I could be." That devilish grin remained firmly planted.

"But not at the moment?"

A whisper of confusion—or maybe amusement—shifted through his expression. "I guess, technically, I'm not."

"Are you an author?" She tilted her head toward Holt. "Like him?"

"Nobody's an author like me," Holt said with a laugh.

"No," Simon answered.

"Okay, good." Violet stabbed a finger in his direction. "Don't sneak up on me! Ever. Understood?"

His smile returned. "Yes, ma'am. Noted for the future."

She stared at the newcomer and realized he was holding out his hand. For some insane reason, she felt compelled to shake it lest be rude. His much bigger fingers engulfed hers, and she was surprised to find they were rougher than she had imagined they would be.

Upon first glance, Violet would've cataloged Holt's friend the same way she did Holt Callahan, dumping him right into the preppy column. Maybe it was the perfectly messy hair, the sharp blade of his nose, or the scruff that lined his chiseled jaw. Or—more than likely—it had to do with the jeans that cost more than jeans should cost and a polo that had likely only ever been dry-cleaned.

Neither man was the type she expected to see in her small town. Most of the men around these parts wore Wranglers and Stetsons with belt buckles the size of the great state they lived in. Their boots showed years of abuse, and their beards only saw a proper shave when Cletus Johnson or his son Clive—at the barber shop next door—got their clippers after them.

She'd bet money that Simon's haircut cost upwards of three hundred dollars and that scruff on his jaw was maintained daily. He probably manscaped, too.

Not that she cared enough to find out. Definitely not. The best part about this guy was that he was absolutely, 100% not her type.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Simon drawled.

That silky twang directly contradicted the outer wrapping, which made Simon Jennings a conundrum wrapped in … yumminess.

Not her type of yumminess. Absolutely not. He was much too … nice to be a guy she would date. Now, if he'd eyeballed her like a tiger would raw meat, perhaps she would've thought so. Maybe if he said something vulgar or belched, she would swoon and think about what fast food joint she wanted to have for dinner. That was the type of guy she was drawn to. The bad boy who would undervalue her and be on his merry way when she refused to screw him after chowing down on McBurgers and fries.

Another way to look at it was, given a choice from a lineup of men, one being a billionaire philanthropist, one being a sweet schoolteacher, and one being an ex-con with no job and no prospects for one, she would undoubtedly pick the ex-con.

Not by choice, mind you. Unfortunately, it was the family curse.

Taking a deep breath and trying to compose herself, Violet pasted on her customer service smile. "Likewise."

Not your type, she reminded her traitorous body, which was reacting oddly to the gleam in his blue eyes. Or were they green? Or gray A mixture of all three? And what about his hair? It wasn't quite brown and definitely not blond. Somewhere in between?

Nope. She didn't care about his eyes or his hair or the dimples that formed when he smiled.

Taking her hand back, Violet turned to Holt. "So what brings you in? Comin' to check out the new releases? Because I can tell you right now, an author I know didn't release one this week despite everyone flocking in to see if he did."

"I'm working on it. Promise."

That was the same thing he said every time she made a comment in hopes of getting him to release his next bestseller early. She tended to lean toward romance as her genre of choice but ever since she started reading Holt's bestselling mystery thrillers, her eyes had been opened to a whole new world. Kinda like the podcasts.

Holt glanced at Simon. "I told you she had sass."

Simon was grinning. "You did mention that, yes."

Violet fisted her hands on her hips. "Sass or not, I'm still waitin' on a new release, so if you're not here for that, what are you here for?"

"I'm just showing Simon around town. He's gonna be staying at the B and B for a little while."

"Ah." She did her best not to look at Simon, but her efforts to resist failed because she found herself glancing over to see he was watching her. "Vacation?"

"More like professional curiosity," he answered easily before walking around the large square counter where she checked customers out.

He had a nice voice to go with the nice hair and the nice eyes. Rich, smooth. Not too deep, not too high. It sounded oddly familiar, but she wasn't sure why. Violet knew for a fact she'd never met the man. He was one she would've remembered.

Not that she was attracted to him or anything.

"What is it that you do?" Not that she cared. It was just the polite thing to ask.

Simon's gaze shifted to Holt and a look passed between them.

"Do you not know what you do?" she asked, taunting him because something felt off.

He still didn't answer, so she looked at Holt, cocked an eyebrow. "Your turn."

His eyes glittered with amusement. "Simon's the creator and host of Havoc Your Way ."

Every cell in her body froze as the words filtered through her brain.

Havoc Your Way . Only her favorite podcast hosted by the award-winning investigative journalist with hundreds of thousands of fans waiting with bated breath for his next episode.

That Simon Jennings?

"Wha—huh?" she squeaked, her lungs failing to work as she stared at the man and tried to tie him back to her most recent obsession.

"Wow," Holt said. "When she learned who I was, she turned her nose up." He chuckled. "Looks like you've rendered her speechless."

It wasn't possible. No way was the Simon Jennings standing in her store. No freaking way.

"Say something," she blurted because she needed to hear his voice again to confirm whether Holt was telling the truth. Of course, why would he lie? Then again, maybe he did. People did stupid things for stupid reasons.

Simon's eyebrows lifted. "Me?"

"Yes." She rolled her hand, gesturing for him to hurry up with it.

Simon's smile caused that dimple to reappear and his blue/green/gray eyes to glitter beneath those thick eyelashes. "Is there somethin' specific you'd like to hear?"

Aww, man. It was him. Simon with the smooth, rich drawl and the not-quite-brown hair and the multi-shaded eyes and the sexy dimple, was standing. In. Her. Store.

Once again, she was clutching her chest. "Oh my God."

And yes, she found herself ogling him, trying to connect the man she was looking at with the voice she'd heard every day since Holt first suggested she listen to one of the top true-crime podcasts in existence. The only pictures of Simon Jennings she'd found online were those of him wearing sunglasses and a hat—sometimes a ballcap, most of the time a cowboy hat, but always a hat. She just figured that was his style.

He didn't have a hat on now. Or sunglasses.

He looked better without them. In her opinion, anyway.

Not interested .

Exactly.

"Wait." Violet peered around. "Is Archer here?"

Holt chuckled.

Simon said, "No. He's takin' a few days off to visit his grandmother."

Well, that was too bad. Violet would've loved to have met Simon's partner, the man who did the dirty work when it came to their investigations. At least, that was how Simon described him in his episodes.

Wait. Violet frowned. "The one in Nashville? Or Oklahoma?"

"Nashville."

"Is she all right?"

Simon's smile widened. "She is."

Violet sighed with relief.

Simon continued. "He tries to get up there to visit every coupla months."

What a nice thing to do.

"Ooh. Did Paige come with?" she asked, hoping Simon would nod.

More laughter from Holt.

"She stayed back in Dallas to finish laying some audio in the last episode," he explained.

Well, that made sense. Paige Avery was the miracle worker who tied everything together and made the details come to life. Without her, she imagined the storytelling would be flat, and Simon Jennings wouldn't be as famous as he was.

Simon looked at Holt. "Is she gonna be okay?"

Violet pulled herself out of her trance, scrambling for composure. She was not the sort to fangirl over anyone. Ever. And if she could meet Cheyenne Montgomery—only her favorite country singer of all time—and not fall to pieces, she could meet anyone. And she hadn't. Her introduction to Cheyenne had gone off without a hitch. Mostly. She might've created a cheer, complete with pompoms and high kicks, which she performed in the privacy of her bedroom back when she learned that Cheyenne was marrying her cousin Brendon, but that was a long time ago. And no one knew about that.

Hopefully.

Holt cleared his throat.

"What's the podcast name again?" Violet asked, realizing both men were staring at her.

Holt laughed. "Nice try."

Thankfully, she wasn't the sort to blush. The heat she felt at the tips of her ears probably meant she was coming down with something.

She made a mental note to get that checked out.

·····

Simon Jennings didn't believe in love at first sight. Hell, up to this point in his life, he wasn't sure he even believed in love.

Lust, definitely.

Desire, absolutely.

Infatuation, probably.

In his line of work, he rationalized a lot of behaviors and the emotions that drove them. When trying to get to the bottom of why someone did what they did, he didn't merely walk a mile in their shoes to recreate the scene. He also attempted to narrow down their motivation because it was imperative in order to understand how the crime in question happened. Even if he had no frame of reference.

For instance, obsession. He'd never understood how anyone could get so wrapped up in one person that they would become consumed by a driving, passionate need. Whether to harm or worship, it never made any sense to him.

Until now.

This … whatever the hell this foreign sensation flooding his veins was, it felt like a potent combination of lust and obsession.

Which was absurd, right?

Of course it was absurd. It wasn't like he could've spent the past thirty-four years never experiencing anything remotely close to an attachment to one person only to make his first trek to Coyote Ridge and get waylaid by every emotion he'd questioned.

Here.

In this quaint little bookstore.

With its not-so-quaint little bookstore owner.

Violet.

Even her name was sexy, and when he let those six letters roll around on his tongue, it caused him to think some very dirty things about the most stunningly gorgeous creature he'd ever laid eyes on.

Violet Anderson was the sort of woman you watched from across the room because you were magnetically drawn to her, even if you didn't know why. Her aura was as vibrant as the emerald green halter top she wore, and it exuded from every pore as though charged by a light from within because her body was too small to contain it all.

Yeah, so what if he was waxing poetic about a woman he'd just met? It was merely a hazard of the job. Simon considered himself a good judge of people and a better-than-average journalist. Plus, he was a creator of sorts, so it made sense.

Kinda.

Though probably not since he'd sworn off women six weeks ago when he caught his girlfriend—now his ex -girlfriend—tongue-fucking some dude's mouth in a club. It was that scene that had brought on the epiphany and opened his eyes to the long string of women he'd been wasting time with. Admittedly, he didn't believe in the type of love that bowled you over and made you do stupid shit and think stupid thoughts, but that didn't mean he had a level head when it came to women.

"We've got a few more stops to make," Holt was saying.

Yes. More stops.

Since it would be weird to tell Holt that he'd be fine lingering in this bookstore for the rest of his life, Simon nodded in agreement.

"It was nice to meet you," he told Violet, meeting her gaze.

She had the most beautiful eyes. The color of rich, melted chocolate. And now he was thinking about drizzling the stuff all over her because he wanted to know if she tasted as sweet.

"Enjoy your time in town," she said in a tone that felt oddly like a dismissal.

"Maybe I'll see you around."

A brilliant smile flashed on her face. "Maybe. But probably not."

Her sass should've been off-putting, but Simon found it as alluring as the rest of her. Then again, Holt had warned him that she was a spitfire. Said Violet had all but ignored him the first time they met, absolutely unimpressed that a #1 New York Times bestselling author had graced her store. Of course, Holt laughed when he told the story, but Simon had heard the underlying disbelief. After all, just about anyone who read any genre of fiction had heard of Holt Callahan.

"Challenge accepted," Simon told her before following Holt toward the door.

He couldn't help himself, so he glanced back once more before stepping outside. To his dismay, Violet wasn't staring after him as he'd hoped.

"Was I right or what?" Holt asked.

"About?"

Holt laughed. "You, too, huh?"

"Me too what?"

"Let me tell you a little story about the Anderson sisters," Holt said as they started toward the park.

Simon found Walker Park oddly endearing. It was the epitome of small-town living, with its large white gazebo surrounded by flowers of various colors and species. The large wooden structure was flanked by two small fountains that glittered from a wealth of coins scattered across the bottom. Branching off from it were various walking paths dotted with small benches for relaxing. The grass that separated the downtown businesses from the bed and breakfast was well maintained, as were the large trees that shot skyward, seeking sunlight.

"There are four of them," Holt continued. "Whitney, Amanda, Violet, and Honor. Their mother, Daphne, is a Walker."

"Am I supposed to know what that means? Like in Game of Thrones ?"

"That's a White Walker, so no, not the same." Holt stopped and gestured toward a sign. "The Walkers are the original family that formed the roots of this town."

Ah. Well, that explained why it was called Walker Park. It alleviated some of his concern that the town lacked the creativity required to name it something other than the purpose it served—i.e., for walkers.

"At one point," Holt explained, "the Walkers owned every square inch of land. When Frank Sr died, his son, Curtis, parsed it out, giving a good majority of it to the town, the rest he gave to the people leasing it from his father."

"Did you read that right off the sign?" Simon joked.

Holt smirked. "Anyway, Violet's mother, Daphne, is one of eight kids. Most of them still live here. The girls' father, Harold, is … well, let's just say he's not one of the town's favorite people. I can't confirm it, but the rumors are that Harold married Daphne because he thought there was money to be had. Since they wed only seven days after meeting, he probably should've done his homework first. Or she should have."

"Wow. Seven days." Simon couldn't fathom liking someone enough within that span of time to consider spending the rest of his life with them, much less legally sealing the deal.

"Harold and Daphne popped out a couple of the girls right off the bat, but then they separated for several years."

"Not surprising, considering," Simon mused.

"Yeah, well. Daphne clearly saw something in the guy. Almost eight and a half years passed before he planted himself in her life again. She got pregnant with Violet right away. From what I heard, he stuck around for the pregnancy. Most of it, anyway. He wasn't at the hospital when she was born because he ran off to Shreveport with a girl he met at Moonshiners. Some people say Daphne told him to take a hike after that. Others claim he was sowing more oats and told her he'd be back as soon as he did."

"He sounds like a shithead."

Holt laughed. "Apt description based on the feedback. He wasn't around much when Violet was small, but as was his MO, Harold returned a year and a half later and got Daphne pregnant again."

Simon shook his head in disbelief. He didn't understand why anyone would put up with someone like that.

"Harold was in and out of their lives. Deadbeat, too. Always coming up with an excuse for why he couldn't pay child support. It's my understanding that's how Violet came to own the building that houses the bookstore. Her uncle held on to various properties to ensure those girls weren't left destitute because of their parents' choices."

"That was generous of him."

"You have no idea." Holt chuckled. "After Honor was born, Harold attempted to do right by them. Mostly. It lasted a few years. Then he was out the door again."

"Exactly how long've you lived here?" Simon asked his friend.

"Twenty-nine days," Holt answered proudly.

Simon stopped walking. "Seriously?"

Holt turned to face him, nodding.

"How the hell'd you get that much information in less than a month?"

"People here like to talk." He lowered his voice, grinning like an idiot. "A lot. Provided they aren't talking about themselves."

That sounded like an understatement.

"To my knowledge, Daphne and Harold are still legally married, but he's been gone for years."

Simon fell into step when Holt started walking again. "Gone as in…?"

"Not dead, no. I think he's got a girlfriend who's got kids."

"His kids?"

"Don't know. Not sure he knows. The guy's a jackass. It doesn't surprise me that the town rallied to help care for the girls."

"Not everyone has a fairy-tale family," Simon told Holt.

"Funny you should bring that up," Holt said with a bark of laughter. "Ever read Rapunzel ?"

"Not sure I've read it, but I get the literary reference. Girl stashed away in a tower for safekeeping. She's trapped there with no way to get out, right?"

"Those four girls have metaphorically spent their lives trapped in that tower. Only they weren't put there by a sorceress who wanted to keep them for herself. Their many male cousins and uncles are responsible for that, forming a protection circle around them to keep them safe. They look after them. And they don't hesitate to intervene whenever they think someone might be getting too close."

"Because they had a crappy father?"

"In theory, yes."

"Someone needs to look into what these people are drinkin'," Simon joked.

"Don't say I didn't warn you. Sniff around her too much, and you just might find out for yourself."

"Who said anything about sniffin' around?" he countered, refusing to look back at the bookstore. "I'm married, and unlike good ol' Harold, I don't stray."

"Married." Holt snorted. "Saying you're married to your work does not make you married."

"If you believe it, it's true. I'm here for one reason only. To dig into this wild ass tale you're spinning and see if there's any truth to it."

When Holt had called him yesterday to tell him his theory about a potentially missing woman, he'd first thought the guy had lost his mind. But before the call ended, Simon couldn't deny he was intrigued by the idea that a mafia family in Dallas was ultimately responsible for a series of events that had affected a family in Coyote Ridge. The mystery behind it was far too intriguing for him to pass up, so here he was, hoping to get a firsthand account of the events in question and how they could relate to an incident that happened twenty years ago.

As for Violet Anderson … well, unless the story somehow related to her, he couldn't imagine he'd be seeing her again.