Redemption At Hawk's Landing. Rita Herron

Harrison wanted to gulp down his whiskey, he forced himself to eat instead. He still had work to do.

      “How did Granger die?” Dexter asked as he forked up a bite of roast.

      Harrison studied his family, searching for any sign that one of them already knew the truth. Emotions strained everyone’s faces, as if just mentioning Granger’s name stirred up the horrid memories of the night Chrissy disappeared.

      His mother had been near hysterical when she and his father arrived home from their party and discovered Brayden and Chrissy weren’t home.

      Harrison had felt sick to his stomach—it was his fault they’d sneaked out. His fault they’d been at the bluff because they’d followed him.

      Brayden had raced in on his bike with his ankle swollen, ready to fuss at Chrissy for not sending help, then realized she hadn’t made it back to their house. Fear had ignited tempers, and a lot of screaming and yelling had ensued.

      His parents had frantically called Chrissy’s best friends but both of them had been home in bed and hadn’t seen or talked to Chrissy.

      His mother dropped her fork with a clatter. “What aren’t you telling us, Harrison?”

      His brothers stopped chewing and stared at him as if they, too, realized there was more to the story. Damn.

      Harrison took another swig of his whiskey. “Granger didn’t die of natural causes.”

      “What?” His mother gasped.

      His brothers gave him questioning looks. “What’s going on?” Dexter asked.

      Harrison swallowed hard. “He was murdered.”

      His mother clamped her teeth over her bottom lip, then lifted her glass of wine. “Well, he got what he deserved.”

      Harrison agreed with her. But he still had to find out who killed the man. A silent prayer formed on his lips that his family had nothing to do with it.

      * * *

      HONEY SLIPPED INTO a booth, hoping to avoid attention. A teenager wearing tattered jeans and a denim shirt appeared, an order pad in her hands. Black square glasses framed a thin, pale face. A sadness radiated from the girl as if she had problems bigger than a teenager should.

      Honey felt a kinship with her. At fifteen she’d worked at the Dairy Barn to make money so she could leave town. Did this girl have problems like she’d had? Did she have any family who cared about her?

      Had Cora hired her because she wanted to help?

      “What can I get you?”

      Her name tag read Sonya. “A turkey sandwich and a bowl of that vegetable soup.”

      “Sure. What do you want to drink?”

      Wine would be nice but the diner didn’t serve it. “Just water. Oh, and a cup of coffee. Decaf, please.” She didn’t need caffeine to keep her awake tonight. It would be hard enough to sleep in her father’s house anyway.

      The girl nodded then made her way to the counter and dropped off Honey’s order. She returned a minute later with the coffee and water.

      Honey stirred sugar into her mug then sipped it, her gaze scanning the room. Two older couples sat having coffee and pie while a group of teens chowed on burgers and fries at a table near the door.

      Three gray-haired women were huddled around a table beside her sipping tea.

      “Did you hear that Waylon Granger died at the bluff?” the curly-haired woman with glasses said.

      The other two women’s faces expressed surprise.

      The thin lady in a blue knit pantsuit leaned over the table, eyes wide. “Really?”

      The curly-haired woman clinked her spoon on her teacup. “He sure did. My grandson was up there and found him. Waylon fell over that ridge.”

      The third lady clacked her teeth. “Wonder what he was doing up there?”

      “Probably drunk,” the thin lady said.

      “He was always drunk,” the curly-haired one whispered. “Such a sorry excuse for a man.”

      The third lady pushed her pie plate away, the pie half-eaten. “You know the Hawks always thought he killed their little girl, Chrissy?”

      Honey averted her face so she didn’t have to look at the women, but their voices reached her anyway.

      “I heard that, too,” the curly-haired one said. “He did have a temper.”

      “He sure did. I always felt sorry for that girl of his. No wonder she left town.”

      “I thought she left because she was pregnant.”

      “Could have been.”

      Honey sank down in the booth, hoping no one recognized her.

      “I figured the Hawks ran her off,” the woman continued. “I heard Ava saying that Granger’s girl was white trash.”

      “If you ask me, Ava shouldn’t have been pointing a finger.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “Well, the night their little girl went missing, the Hawks were at a party for the mayor.” She paused dramatically. “Steven accused Ava of having an affair.”

      The other women gasped. “What?”

      “No.”

      “They were talking about Chrissy, too. Made me think that she wasn’t Steven’s baby.”

      “What did Ava say?”

      “I don’t know. They left in a huff.”

      Honey tensed. She despised gossip because she’d borne the brunt of it.

      But what if the Hawks’ marriage hadn’t been perfect like everyone thought? What if Ava Hawk had had an affair?

      What if Chrissy wasn’t Steven Hawk’s child?

       Chapter Six

      Honey’s head reeled. Harrison’s father had left the family and town a few months after the investigation into Chrissy’s disappearance went cold.

      Rumors surfaced then that he had something to do with his daughter’s disappearance. Others whispered that he’d left because the tragedy of losing his daughter had broken his heart.

      She drummed her fingers on the table. Now she wondered—had he left because his wife had cheated on him?

      The waitress appeared with her soup and sandwich, and Honey thanked her, then dug in. She hadn’t realized she was so hungry but hadn’t eaten since breakfast and was starved.

      The women stood, gathering their purses and hats, and Honey sank lower in the booth, angling her face away from them in case they recognized her. The woman in the blue knit pantsuit paused and peered at her, but Honey looked down at her phone to avoid eye contact.

      The bell on the door tinkled as it opened and they left, then a tall woman with sharp features entered, a big guy with an awkward gait beside her holding her hand. One of his eyes looked blurry, his mouth twitched and he made an odd, high-pitched sound.

      “Let’s sit in that booth, Elden,” the woman said.

      Honey straightened. Elden?

      She’d known him. Elden Lynch was three years older than she was and mentally challenged. She’d felt sorry for him because the kids at school made fun of him. Worse, some of the parents had been afraid of him and had warned their children away from him. Not that he was mean or violent.

      In fact, he was sweet and childlike and just wanted to make friends.