Beth Andrews - In This Town

Walker wasn’t most people.

Taylor read the report, his expression darkening, the first sign of emotion he’d shown since being told his professional life was under scrutiny.

Sullivan crossed over to him. “What is it?”

He handed the paperwork to her. Walker had to give her credit, she didn’t give anything away. No shock crossed her face.

No guilt.

“How did you get a hold of this?” Taylor asked, his voice gruff. Demanding. “This report should’ve been sent directly to me.”

“Considering the accusations against you and Captain Sullivan,” Pomeroy said, “I thought it best to have it sent to my office first. And, due to the findings of those reports, the district attorney’s office, along with the state attorney general, think it’d be best if the investigation into Dale York’s death was handled by someone outside the Mystic Point police department.”

“That’s right,” Walker said, in response to the way Taylor’s mouth flattened, the horror in Sullivan’s eyes. He grinned. “I’m taking over.”

* * *

FUNNY TO THINK that once upon a time, Tori Mott had actually believed in fairy tales. Oh, not the ones about glass slippers or mermaids who longed to be human. And don’t even try to tell her that when a beautiful girl shows up at the house of seven miniature men all they want from her is to cook and clean while she sings to a bunch of woodland animals.

Please. Men, no matter their height, all wanted the same thing and there was nothing G-rated about it.

She also never bought into the idea that some handsome prince would ride up and carry her off, far from a mundane life of endless toil. No, Tori used to believe something much more dangerous, much more insidious than poisoned apples and ravenous, transvestite wolves who liked girls in red hoods.

She’d actually bought into the idea that she could escape her small hometown, could go somewhere far away from the rumors, the envy and resentment and, worst of all, the pity she’d lived with her entire life. That she could make her dreams, all her big plans, come true. And that finally, she’d achieve the greatest lie of them all.

A happy ending.

Talk about delusional, Tori thought as she wove her way between tables in the Ludlow Street Café’s dining room. Nothing like life coming along and giving some poor fool dreamer a sharp smack upside the head to knock some much needed sense into her. Getting pregnant at eighteen did that for her. Made her realize that sure, sometimes dreams did come true.

Just not for her.

So she’d stopped wishing and hoping for spectacular and had settled for average. Which had turned out to be a good life.

If good didn’t quite live up to the expectations she’d built for her future when she’d been a teenager, she had no one to blame but herself.

“Here you go,” she said to Mr. Jeffries as she set his usual breakfast—two eggs over easy, white toast and three slices of bacon—in front of him. “Can I get you anything else?”

“More coffee when you get a chance, dear,” he said, smiling at her as innocently as a baby.

The smile, combined with the fact that he looked like a harmless grandfather with his round cheeks, ill-advised comb-over and a seemingly endless supply of blindingly bright bow ties, hid that he was a groper.

Tori wouldn’t have minded if he’d been a better tipper. Or if he had roaming hands with some of the other above-legal-age waitresses at the café. But nope. She, and only she, was lucky enough to get what he deemed a love tap—but was actually more of a hopeful squeeze.

So when she caught sight of his age-spotted hand heading her way, she neatly sidestepped. “No problem. I’ll be back in a second with that coffee,” she said, making sure to sound pleasant and courteous.

Then, because for all his faults, Mr. Jeffries was a regular customer and only a minor nuisance, she amped up the usual amount of wiggle to her hips as she walked away. Just to give him something to look at.

Young, old or in between, men all liked to look. But only she decided who got to touch.

She grabbed the coffeepot and refilled Mr. Jeffries’s cup, leaving another handful of creamers at his table since he always pocketed several before he went home. Half the café’s tables and booths were filled, voices and the occasional laugh mixing with the sounds of silverware scraping plates, of dishes being cleared. The air smelled of strong coffee, toasted bread, bacon and deep fried potatoes, the odors clinging to her hair, the tiny particles of grease permeating her clothes, her skin. By the end of her nine-hour shift, she’d smell like a walking, talking French fry.

The joys of working in the food industry. Smelly clothes, greasy hair and tired, aching feet. But it was the only thing she’d ever known, as she’d been waiting tables here for the past fifteen years. Fifteen years. Literally half her life.

She wasn’t sure whether to be proud she’d stuck with something for so long…

Or depressed as hell.

She exhaled heavily as if she could blow away the tension that question caused. No sense being either. This was her job, her life.

But…God…what if? What if something more, something different was possible?

The thought, the mere idea of leaving Mystic Point, of finally going after the life she’d always wanted, was exhilarating. Empowering.

Scary as hell.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, snapping her out of the crazy fantasy of ever leaving Mystic Point. The back door to the café opened and Nora Sullivan stepped into the narrow hallway as Tori checked her phone. Great. Layne was calling. Again. She glanced at Nora.

Stuck between her sisters. The curse of being the middle child.

She clicked Ignore©on her phone and faced Nora. “Well, hello there, stranger,” Tori said, her own black skirt feeling too short, too tight compared to her sister’s orange dress, the hem of which skimmed just above Nora’s knees. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

If Nora noted the censure in Tori’s tone, the light accusation, it didn’t show in her easy smile or blue eyes.

When had her baby sister become so adept at camouflaging her feelings? Or maybe Tori had just lost her ability to read her? Neither thought sat well.

“Good morning,” Nora said cheerfully, as if they’d last seen each other yesterday instead of two weeks ago. As if nothing was wrong.

Tori knew better.

She tossed the old grounds from the coffeepot into the garbage. “It’s a little early to be so chipper. Even for you.”

That was Nora’s thing. Being bright and sunny and optimistic. Hey, whatever got her gears grinding, but honestly, just the thought of being that freaking merry all the time gave Tori a headache.

“Did Layne get a hold of you?” Nora asked, smoothing a hand over her blond hair.

God forbid even a single strand try to escape the tight twist she insisted was professional-looking but was really an affront to stylish hairstyles everywhere.

“She wants us to meet her at the station.”

“I know, she told me. Three times.”

Waving at someone in the dining room, Nora scrunched up her nose. “She called me twice and sent four text messages. She’s nothing if not persistent.”

“Yeah, persistent. Demanding. Bossy. Annoying—my personal favorite. And for the love of God, don’t do that thing with your nose,” Tori continued, adding fresh grounds to the pot. “You look like a rabid bunny ready to tear the heads off innocent children.”

“Please, I’m adorable and you know it.”

“True. But the problem is that you know it. Layne and I shouldn’t have told you you were pretty so often when you were little. We created a monster.”

Nora waved that away. “You created a self-assured, confident, independent woman, but that’s neither here nor there,” she said, sounding like the attorney she was. “What is here and there is that we need to get going or we’ll be late. You can ride with me and Griffin.”