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  One

  Then

  * * *

  From: Emilia Bonacci

  To: Emilia Bonacci

  Subject: So excited!

  * * *

  Dear Emilia,

  * * *

  I know it’s strange writing emails to myself, but the most amazing thing happened today, and I know I’ll want to remember this day forever.

  * * *

  I met a boy…

  “The house is over ninety years old and needs some fixin’, but it stands strong as ever and could be worse.”

  Emilia Bonacci stood before the rag-tag rural cottage and wrapped her arms around her ribcage, the unfamiliar older man speaking from her left. His faded delivery van stood parked just behind her, her faded red Pinto next to that. All she really knew of him was his name, Frank Cooper, and that he and his wife owned the grocery store in town.

  The cottage’s ancient, banged-up exterior pulled at the tension surrounding her heart. So much for agreeing to rent a place sight-unseen, but what choice did she have?

  Despite the bad omen, the Minnesotan countryside, with its sprawling gold-green and sun-drenched hills, offered redemption. But even that redemption wasn’t so clear-cut.

  No. Unlike any normal person, the quaint spring scene didn’t lend her total comfort. The added solitude here offered equal parts privacy with the potential for her uninterrupted and violent death.

  That’s only if he finds me. He might not find me.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and sucked in a breath. No one in Harlow knew her story. She had to control her fear, or this man beside her would guess something was wrong.

  She opened her eyes and looked for a positive. The cottage’s timber walls housed sizable windows with cornflower-blue shutters. Perfect. Simple. Sweet. Small panes of glass sat between those shutters, a grid of squares, some stained in a mix of joyful jewel tones. The wheat and grass plains as a sparkling spring backdrop didn’t hurt.

  She cleared her throat, her voice rusty from days of having nothing but her own company. “I can work with this.”

  A lie. She’d rarely held a hammer, much less repaired a house. At 5’4” with an oft-reported “prim” demeanor, she couldn’t blame Frank for his dubious sidelong stare.

  Still, her heart danced with a glint of excitement for the first time since leaving Los Angeles. Maybe her new life wouldn’t be so bad. Living in an apartment had never suited her, and the cottage reminded her of the rickety house she’d grown up in long before her family’s “good fortune” ruined everything.

  “I wouldn’t go fallin’ in love just yet.” Frank trudged up the tapered dirt path, his heavy work boots crunching gravel. “The last tenants didn’t treat her good, so the inside’s not so great.”

  Her stomach sank. Love or not, she’d already paid her rental deposit and invested too much into staying in Harlow. This cottage was her only option.

  She padded behind Frank, not inclined to make waves, like the good little woman she’d been raised to be. Being invisible could be a literal lifesaver.

  A cool gust swept over the hill, pushing dark brown curls from her eyes. The sun beat on her cheekbones just a fraction too strong, and the cottage in its ramshackle state added to the discomfort. This was the second last place in the world she wanted to sleep tonight, and she would have loved to mumble a peeved, “Fuck my life,” but even swearing wasn’t in her MO.

  So, double “fuck my life.”

  In reality, all she did was groan under her breath and make her way up the veranda steps, where Frank held the front door open and allowed her in first. An eyeful of a rough-and-tumble hallway greeted her, and dust particles caught the light ahead while white powdery debris coated worn floorboards. Meanwhile, the wall’s yellowed plaster bore a gray tinge that made her poker-straight spine slump.

  “Ya, I figure they didn’t know how to unblock a chimney.” Frank’s voice had her turning toward him, the man rubbing the back of his neck, his lips pinched on one side. “Smoke marks on damn near everything. I fixed the blockage, but the place still needs a good clean.”

  She snapped her shoulders back again and lightened her expression. “There’s a fireplace?”

  The apartment hadn’t had one of those. Besides, Frank here didn’t need to feel any worse about this place than he already seemed to.

  “Right this way.” He led her through a door to the right, into a cozy living room—messy but still inviting. “So, I saw from the I.D. you supplied that you’re from LA. What made you choose little ol’ Harlow?”

  She made a show of inspecting the room, of running her fingertips over the dark wood mantle, her fingers collecting gray, chalky residue—all an attempt to distract herself, and Frank, with her room-gazing. First thing, she would open some windows and let some fresh air in. Well, after she found the bathroom and did something about her dusty fingers.

  Does this house even have running water?

  My pale pink and white wardrobe wouldn’t do so well in a place like this.

  Oh, shut it! None of this will change the fact there wasn’t enough time to take all the money I needed or cover my tracks all that well.

  She dropped her hand to her side. Sticking to the truth would mean less chance of getting caught in lies. Maybe she could take advantage of these new people knowing stuff about her. Besides, she had her burner phone and would use nothing but cash to get by, and Harlow itself seemed safe enough…

  “I just looked at a map and liked the name Harlow.” She gave Frank what she hoped was a playful, casual shrug. Oh, she hated lying. “And I figured, ‘Why not?’”

  Why not, indeed. Minnesota was the home of Prince, a musical genius who’d been her happy place for as long as she could remember. That was a positive, right?

  Why, oh why, did all the good artists die young?

  Then there was Betty White, or at least her character, Rose Nylund from the 90s sitcom, The Golden Girls. Emilia had grown up watching the reruns, and Rose was downright adorable with her outlandish stories about St. Olaf, Minnesota.

  That said, Emilia’s first and only love had once lived here too. He’d insisted Minnesota had its charms. The relationship had ended in a literal bloody mess, though she couldn’t exactly hold that disaster against the state.

  Fargo. Yes, that had Minnesota written all over it too. She’d always liked Fargo. The detective lady in that movie seemed nice. Maybe she’d meet more nice people like that here, minus Fargo’s murders and extortion, of course. With all she’d been through, she really did need more “nice” and less “murder and extortion.”

  She blinked up at Frank, with his pale blue eyes and weathered, narrow face, who seemed to take the dragging silence as his cue to instigate a guided tour. There weren’t that many rooms, but he skipped all the glossy talk in favor of pointing out what needed repair. For such a small place, the list grew and grew, and his blunt honesty added weight to her already burdened shoulders.

  The last room was the kitchen, and it turned out to be the worst. Lopsided cabinets barely clung to life on the right wall, the puke-green color somehow competing with the garish, chipped laminate counters in an outdated shade of blinding tangerine.

  The whole scene screamed desperation, as in, only a desperate person would choose to live here. Someone with limited funds and nowhere else to go. Someone like her. Desperate and broke. Lucky for Frank.

  Though, lucky for her too, maybe. At least, Anthony would never ever expect to find her here. I
n a remote town, and a house so… so one rung above dilapidated. All because in nine years of marriage, he didn’t know her well enough to understand that, unlike him, her happiness didn’t rely on lavish surroundings. He’d probably already scoured her credit card bills for charges to the Hotel Bel-Air.

  Or maybe he’s already in jail?

  Even that wishful thought didn’t stop her from glancing over her shoulder since defeat and trauma did not fade so easily. Maybe never. Besides, even if Anthony was locked up, she couldn’t be confident he wouldn’t send someone else to find her.

  Frank returned to rubbing his neck. “You should know, I’ve called in a favor with a friend. He’ll swing by and start work on this kitchen right away. Maureen and I, we don’t expect you to go knockin’ things together yourself, and now that we have a renter, we consider the upgrade an investment.”

  Her first instinct was to jump up and down out of pure gratitude, but then a different, more sobering thought crept in. The fewer people who saw her, the better, so maybe she was best to try to throw this helpful man off.

  She tore her gaze from Frank, certain he already read her impending lie. “I can handle this all on my own. I’m quite handy, you know. And the mess, it will keep me busy while I figure out what to do with myself in this town.”

  Her face heated, and her limbs lost strength. Again, lying didn’t come easy, and the list of things she could do—mopping, scrubbing, maybe painting—didn’t compare to the much longer list of things she couldn’t manage. Ripping out non-functional cabinets, for one…

  Frank swatted his hand in a dismissive gesture. “We’ll hear none of that now. People round these parts like to help just about anyone who needs it, and lady, you need it. Call it ‘Minnesota nice’ if you wanna, but Harlow folk love to poke around in each other’s business, especially new people, so you best get used to the locals invitin’ themselves over.”

  Her mouth fell open, and she readied to insist on privacy, but her words seized at the crunch of tires outside. The louder-than-normal engine noises indicated a larger vehicle; one parked close to the back door attached to the kitchen.

  She startled at the slam of a car door, her gaze hitting Frank, his brow now etched in deep quizzical lines.

  Had Anthony found her so soon? He did own an SUV.

  She wanted to move but couldn’t. The thud of boots over the back veranda made the old boards creak, and her heart thundered so hard it seemed to reverberate against her ribs, triggering a heavy wave of nausea. At the same time, her skin stung all over as if her baby pink sleeves were made of sandpaper and not luxury cotton.

  A large silhouette crossed the kitchen window. Frank turned toward the back door, his hand reaching for the handle.

  She cleared her throat, but Frank didn’t seem to hear. “I. Umm. Need to go.”

  He cracked the door open, giving her a glimpse of the fly screen just behind. She mumbled something about washing her hands in the bathroom and spun away.

  “Emilia?”

  Whoever the male voice belonged to, she hadn’t seen him, but he’d seen her. Or maybe her slow escape wasn’t so much to blame as her being thoughtless enough to speak. Either way, this man recognized her, and she didn’t know how.

  An eerie silence filled the room, daring her to turn and look at him. An ancient memory trickled in like water through a crack in a stone, and a bigger part of her didn’t need to turn to know who this was.

  Not Anthony. No. Someone even more unlikely.

  And though she should have been relieved, with all her heart, she still wanted to escape.

  Two

  Emilia squeezed her eyes shut, still too boneless with shock to move. The energy around her shifted, and her body wobbled back and forth, threatening to introduce her to the floor.

  She sucked in a breath and vowed to treat this moment like ripping off a plaster, unpleasant but necessary. While her back remained to the room, she ached for an ability to teleport out of this nerve-shredding situation.

  I could run again. I’ve already done that once this week.

  No, she really couldn’t, no matter how much she wanted to. She’d exhausted her funds running that first time. The least she could do now was dig out her courage and face her uninvited guest. She’d spent years faking pleasantness and could do it again.

  She forced her eyes open and turned from the ugly olive-green wall ahead, shuffling her feet slowly beneath her. Harsh morning light poured from the open back door and stung her eyes; that light caused her to squint. All she could make out of her visitor was the silhouette of a long torso and strong-looking calves, a pair of weighty work boots, and…

  The tradesman.

  No, he’s more than that. So much more.

  He’d only said one word. Her name. It sailed upon his warm, rumbling tone and still somehow ricocheted within her brain, refusing to leave.

  He took a small sidestep, the sun no longer obscuring her view. That view ripped at her heart and brought about a genuine pain. One that flowed from her chest and into her back, before a sharp shockwave shot through her muscles and burrowed that pain into her bones.

  Oh yes, she recognized him. And recognition had her fearing her heart might fall out altogether and land with a bloody splat on the already disgusting wood floor.

  Useless blasted heart. When have you done me any good?

  Certainly never when it came to this man.

  His pale green eyes, so familiar—as if ten years hadn’t passed—they darkened to a deep chartreuse, his full lips tightening into a perfect frown. The ex who’d once lived in Minnesota. He still lived in Minnesota. Or at least, he’d moved back. Why?

  Her pain intensified, prodding the idea that maybe she already knew why. His conflicted glower burned holes through her, seeming to confirm her theory; and still, nothing stopped his name from falling from her lips. “Blaine?”

  Blaine. Despite the hard tug at her heart, it felt good to say his name. Maybe because she’d been forbidden from speaking it for over a decade. But saying his name, even just thinking it, should have been the last thing she wanted.

  He was the beginning and end of her teenage rebellion. Nothing less than the end of her freedom as an adult… before her adulthood had even started.

  Maybe I’m seeing ghosts. No. Not ghosts. Demons! Ghosts or demons would be better than this.

  Not that there’d ever been anything bad about him. No, the complete opposite. Though his presence now proved once again that hell had, and still did, exist.

  “Emilia.”

  Her name fell from his mouth, another full and unwavering statement, like he didn’t need to bother posing her identity as a question. Like whatever glance he’d had of her earlier provided enough proof.

  Like he’d never forgotten.

  Of course not. He’s etched on my soul forever, and maybe I’m etched on his…

  That thought alone stole her next breath from her lungs. So, she did the one thing most likely to spare her from collapsing. She ran. Literally ran. Though not in a true straight line, which meant she cracked a shoulder into the vomit-colored door frame, the thing exacting revenge for her earlier thoughts on its ugliness.

  Pain shot through her shoulder and down her back, but none of that mattered. She kept running until she reached the bathroom Frank had shown her minutes before.

  She snapped the locks shut and sank to the cold tile floor in an attempt to catch her breath.

  “You are to stay away from that Irish boy. I won’t hear the name ‘Blaine’ in this house ever again. Do you understand?”

  Her head ached from a rush of adrenaline, her father’s voice haunting her.

  His thick Italian accent rang in her ears as if he’d spoken those words just yesterday. Stupid girl. She should have listened. Should have played by the rules and played her part. The great Vittorio Bonacci had designs for her life, and far be it from her to stray from that plan.

  Still, even as she’d done as her dad decreed, time and a wedding
hadn’t faded anything. Blaine Callaghan remained the old flame she couldn’t extinguish.

  Her tiny bathroom lights blinked, almost like they protested at having to do their job, but that blinking gave enough distraction to snap her from her tailspin of thoughts.

  She couldn’t stay curled on the floor forever. Besides, she’d caused enough of a scene already. Frank waited for her in the kitchen, and she had a new reputation to build. Coming across as flighty and irrational wouldn’t do.

  She gathered the energy to hook her hand to the bathroom counter and pull herself up. Her earlier vow to forget the past lay in tatters, but that didn’t mean she had to fall apart. At least, not outwardly, anyway.

  The mirror above the sink revealed a pitiful reflection, one that made her tummy churn anew. She’d been living in her car for the last few days, so she shouldn’t have expected much. But her high bun lay in a frazzled mess, and loose curls stuck to her clammy forehead. Her left cheek was smeared in black dust from the fireplace. Worst still, the front of her light-colored outfit had somehow collected wayward soot, and she straight-up looked like a maimed creature from a C-grade zombie movie.

  She took a steadying breath, pushed aside her overwhelming desire to cower on the floor again, and turned the tap on so she could run her shaking fingers beneath the cold flow.

  She’d go out there and face the two men, and she’d do it with the confidence befitting a normal twenty-eight-year-old woman. One who hadn’t hightailed it minutes earlier. One stronger than the scared shadow of a woman who’d left LA.

  Her entire life thus far was a blur of numb acceptance that the men around her could dictate her destiny. Again, stupid girl. Maybe she’d had no other choice, but she couldn’t afford to be that girl any longer.

  She splashed handfuls of cold water over her face, removing the black marks while willing her nerves to settle. No towels hung in here yet, so she ran her sleeve over her wet skin, the classless gesture so far from her days as a big-city socialite.