“He’s a police detective. We only came back here because of the girls that have gone missing in the area.” He looks annoyed when he adds, “He’s good at solving murder cases and shit.”

  A trickling cold spreads over my face, sending painful chills down my back. More than one girl from Mankato is missing? Was my mom right about Shannon? Has she been murdered?

  “What girls?” I whisper.

  “My old man isn’t supposed to talk about details of his cases with me, but I overheard him mention some names in a conversation with someone on the phone—Shannon Bentzen and Rebecca something or other. He’s out now with the cops, leading a search party.” He glances up at the sky, tapping his chin. “Wait…I know the other last name because it was the same as one of those slasher movie guys that kills everyone.” He takes another drag of the strange cigarette. “Not Krueger…not Voorhees…” He glances back at me, his eyes wide as smoke curls out from his nostrils. “I know! It was Myers! You know, like Michael!”

  A massive sob lodges in my throat. “Becky Myers?”

  “Yep, that’s it.” He notices the tears in my eyes and frowns. “Oh shit. You know her?”

  When my stomach folds over itself the same way it does when I get the flu, I scramble to my feet. My legs don’t feel strong enough to hold me up when I stand. “I have to go,” I tell him, turning away right as fat tears freely flow down my face.

  Who would want to hurt someone as innocent as Becky? I’ve never heard her say a mean thing to anyone, even to defend herself. Could she really be dead? Everyone knows her dad is mean, but would he kill his own daughter?

  J.R.’s sandaled feet crunch on the sticks behind me as I wrestle my bike away from the tree. “Hold on, Jackie.” He touches the back of my arm, waiting for me to turn back to him. “Are you okay?”

  Swiping my arm over my wet face, I close my eyes and slowly shake my head. “Becky’s my friend.”

  His warm fingers encircle my wrist. “I shouldn’t have said that thing about my old man and murder cases. Just because they can’t find her doesn’t mean she’s dead. Sometimes missing kids like her are found and brought back home. Maybe she just ran away.”

  My stomach hurts too much to say anything in reply.

  “Why don’t I go with you?” he offers, his voice gentle. “I’ll stand on the pedals and you can ride behind me on the seat. I give my little cousin a ride that way all the time. I promise it’s safe—you just have to hold onto me, and tell me where to turn.”

  I allow the new boy with eyes the color of warm hickory to guide me onto the seat of my bike and wrap my arms around his waist when he climbs on in front of me.

  As I direct him to my house, the little knots in my stomach keep churning over and over. What if he’s wrong, and Becky is dead?

  2

  STERLING - 2018

  Sweat pricks across my hairline as I sit upright, sucking in a sharp breath and taking in my surroundings. Where the hell am I? A second ago I was alongside the blonde little girl in a meadow, inhaling the scent of freshly cut grass. Now I’m in a nondescript bedroom, surrounded by moving boxes and the strong odor of disinfectant. Tiny little chunks of raw cauliflower stick to my thigh when I scoot to the end of the bed and glance out the little window across from me. A freaking real-life deer stares back at me from the thick of a meadow, chomping on a mouthful of grass with a bored look, like I’m interrupting its meal.

  Everything clicks into place—it’s my first morning in my new home in southern Minnesota. I’d stayed up late into the night, snacking on a veggie tray from a nearby gas station while researching everything I may possibly need to know about the picturesque community. An empty container of ranch dip by my feet serves as more evidence of my nocturnal activities.

  It still sometimes baffles me that I actually moved over a thousand miles to the idyllic city with a river running through its downtown. But after seven years of counseling at a juvenile shelter in Los Angeles and enduring a handful of years with a man who could never be taken for his word, I was desperate for a drastic change. Then one day, my phone dinged with an open position in a county child services department within the southern Minnesota city. I realized I had failed to specify in my search that I was seeking openings in social work in California, but it ended up being a happy accident. A chance for a new start. For the first time in my life, I’ve made a substantial decision akin to free-falling from an airplane, and it feels amazing.

  A mere day after I’d landed the job, I’d purchased the Craftsman-style house sight unseen with the trust fund my parents had started when I was a newborn. When I first set foot inside my new home yesterday afternoon, I was a little taken aback to discover it was a serious fixer-upper. Yet I quickly felt a thrill with the idea of flipping it on my own. The one-bedroom with a gabled roof, rustic wood framing, open floor plan, and a tiny front porch is a stark contrast to the massively cold mansions I’d known as a kid and the bland apartment I’d shared with Stefan. The house’s bones have the potential to become a Pinterest-worthy masterpiece.

  I nearly jump out of my skin when my cell phone chirps with the generic ringtone I haven’t bothered to change since I brought it home from the wireless store in the midst of leaving California. My mother’s youthful face—one that has netted hundreds of millions for various production studios over the years—beams back at me from the screen in a selfie she’d sent me last Christmas. Inheriting her genes, even though it means I’m still sometimes carded at 32, was akin to winning the lottery. We share the same lightly tinted skin, raven hair, and bright green eyes the shade of ripe watermelons. I also tend to embrace her untamed spirit and occasional anxiety—both of which she displays most when she’s preparing to shoot a new movie, like the action-comedy that started production last week.

  My above-average height, broad shoulders, and narrow nose came from my father—a former college basketball player who garnered the attention of every girl on campus before my mother stole his heart. Their superior genes mashed together created an extraordinarily average daughter who enjoys observing movies and sports from afar.

  Stretching one arm to the ceiling, I answer in a sleepy voice. “Hey, Mom.”

  “Sterling? Are you alright?” From the crispness of her words, I sense she’s one heartbeat away from hopping on the next flight here from Los Angeles. “Why can’t I FaceTime you?”

  “They’re coming to install the internet today. And I’m fine. I just didn’t sleep the best last night,” I admit as I stumble into the kitchen. “You know, change of timezone and everything.”

  There’s no chance in hell I’m disclosing the details of my latest dream. Although the same little girl has visited me in my sleep ever since I was 3-years-old, something about this dream felt more…tangible. When I was little, my father wrote the girl off as an imaginary friend created by an over-active mind. My mother—a fan of new-age nuances—was certain there was something more sinister involved. If she were to learn I’ve had hundreds of dreams about the same girl in the past several decades, I’m certain she’d force me to move back home and mentor under my aunt Constantine, her best friend who’s a renowned psychic to the stars.

  My mother releases an overly dramatic sigh. “I’m so sorry this new film’s schedule didn’t allow for me to help you settle into your new place.”

  “I already told you it was no big deal.” I’m secretly grateful she wasn’t able to make the trip. Had she been here, she would’ve come unglued with the house’s subpar condition. When I was 9, she completely remodeled our newly constructed home after a mere six months because my aunt Constantine thought it was omitting bad vibes when Mom was turned down for a coveted role. “It’s not like I owned any furniture after my breakup with Stefan, and that company you hired was great. They had everything put away before dinner.”

  Okay, so that last part was a fabrication. I had let the movers load everything inside the house and set the newly purchased mattress in the bedroom, then told them I wanted to unpack the boxes on my own. It was weird enough letting a bunch of strangers pack all of my belongings in the first place. I couldn’t stand around and watch a bunch of sweaty men rifle through my things a second time. I dig inside a few open boxes marked “KITCHEN,” searching for the coffee maker.

  The brisk click of my mother’s tongue amplifies through my phone. “If you hadn’t left L.A. to move halfway across the country, I could’ve stopped by with a calming cup of tea and my decorator. I’m sure your new pad could use some serious feng shui.”

  Once I locate everything needed to make coffee, I plug in the maker to the only outlet in sight. “You’d be too busy to stop by even if I still lived there,” I say while nestling a filter in place.

  “That’s not fair.”

  “It’s the truth,” I say, attempting to keep my tone light, “and you know it.”

  It was the same reason my father had divorced her when I was in junior high, right after she’d filmed her fifth blockbuster. I’ve never held any ill-will against her for not being around, mostly because I never knew any better, but my father claimed it was too lonely of a life. I suppose I would’ve felt the same way if it hadn’t been for my live-in nanny, or the close friendships I forged with other actors’ kids in private school. I know she loves me, even if she loves her career more, and that has always been enough.

  I flip on the faucet to fill the carafe, wincing when the pipes moan and groan before spewing out brown-tinted water. Maybe the remodel of this place can’t wait very long, I think to myself.

  A shrill ring followed by the shouting of voices amplifies through the phone.

  My mom sighs loudly. “Babe, I have to go. The director’s calling for me.”

  “I’ll FaceTime you when I’m more settled,” I promise. “Love you.”

  “Love you more, Sterling-bug! Feel free to use the black AmEx card for anything you need!”

  When the call ends, I shake my head and laugh. If she had her way, she’d replace everything in the house right down to the studs. Now that I’m over fifteen hundred miles from the glitz and glamour of Hollywood, I’ve finally attained a calming sense of normalcy. Even though I opted out of premiere parties and any other events that involved celebrities when I was a kid, the life of a famous actress tended to follow my mother everywhere we went. I’m lucky my father convinced her to guard me from the spotlight throughout my entire life, allowing me to live an otherwise normal lifestyle. Let’s just say I’m no stranger to wigs and oversized sunglasses.

  A brisk knock falls on my front door, followed by the piercing voice of my realtor. “Yoo-hoo, Sterling! Are you up?”

  “Like anyone could sleep through that,” I mutter, shuffling toward the door. When my heel scrapes across a loose board, I wince. When I swept the house the day before, I’d already noted the worn state of the heavy oak panels. Along with new pipes and more electrical outlets in the kitchen, I add flooring to my mental list of required improvements.

  Swinging open the heavy front door, I smile wearily at my new acquaintance. In a pale blue pants suit, matte heels, golden blond hair expertly coifed around her face, and tasteful gold jewelry hanging from her earlobes and neck, Carol Bratsch embodies the modern business woman with perfection. She’s petite enough to fit in my pocket, but has the energy of a linebacker. During our first video call several months back, she promptly informed me that she only sleeps four hours every night due to a high-demand job, a workaholic husband, and two active children. I’m beginning to wonder if she makes up for it by snorting cocaine.

  “Hi, Carol. What brings you by so early?”

  “I just wanted to see for myself that you got settled in and aren’t having any problems.” Her sky-blue eyes behind dramatically dark lashes widen on the retro MTV t-shirt I’d altered to hang off one shoulder. “If that’s what you wear to bed at night, it’s no wonder you’re still single…even if you are nearly as pretty as your mom.”

  As she barges in past me, I roll my eyes and let out a silent groan. She’s the only one in the city who knows my mother is the world-famous April Marie, only because my mom had to sign off on the financing. Although I’ve asked Carol repeatedly to keep the fact to herself, her flippant reference makes me doubt she’ll honor my secret.

  She spins around in the center of my living room, frowning at the piles of boxes. “Looks like you still have a ton of unpacking to do, girlfriend. I don’t understand why you sent those movers home when your momma hired them to do everything.”

  “I’m not going to settle in all the way until I have a few things fixed,” I decide, dusting my toe against the loose board I’d tripped over. “Do you know any good contractors?”

  “I most certainly do,” she replies, wiggling her eyebrows. “There just happens to be a handsome bachelor a few blocks down from here who specializes in repairing old houses like this one. I heard he’s looking for work, too. I can give Theo a call…ask him to swing by.” She leans in closer, bathing me in her strong floral perfume. “If I weren’t married, I’d ask him to swing by my place.”

  Even though I’m not totally convinced she still wouldn’t consider the idea despite her commitment, I laugh because I think that’s the reaction she was going for. “I don’t care what he looks like as long as he does good work.”

  Her cherry red lips quirk with a grin. “You say that now, but wait until you meet him.”

  I only have to wait a handful of hours before deciding Carol wasn’t being facetious when she’d described Theo Davies as handsome. Exceptionally tall and impressively muscular, his presence becomes commanding the moment he steps inside my small home wearing a faded gray t-shirt advertising a craft beer, worn blue jeans, and scuffed leather work boots. He somehow pulls off shaggy hair and a scraggly beard without looking homeless. His features are strong and nearly perfectly symmetrical except for a slight dip in the bridge of his nose and a jagged scar nestled inside one of his thick eyebrows. With the exception of his thick fingers covered in calluses, he would look at home on a stage with a rock band.

  As his dark eyes jump around the room, scrutinizing every square inch, they never fully land in my direction. I’m kind of glad, because my body is reacting to him in ways I haven’t felt since I was a hormonal teenager with a crush on the son of a famous rockstar who went to my school.

  As he tucks his chin-length, mocha hair behind one ear, I realize he’s the type my mother would fall for in a heartbeat. He’s much closer to her 52 years, too. I can literally picture them acting out a scene together, his arms wound around her as they engage in a dramatic kiss. It’s a good thing he still isn’t looking my way when I shiver from the visual.

  “This place is one step away from being bulldozed,” he informs me in a gruff tenor. “Looked at buying it myself…figured it needed too much work to bother.”

  Carol failed to mention Mr. Handsome’s personality leaves a lot to be desired. Crossing my arms under my chest, I let out an irritated sigh. “If you aren’t interested—”

  “I’m interested,” he says, finally meeting my gaze. “It has a lot of potential.” His eyes are notably sad…haunted. I can’t help wondering what made him that way. A surge of guilt zips through my gut for judging him so quickly. Years ago, I promised myself that I would treat everyone with equal compassion because every single person in the universe is battling something bigger than them. It became my mantra after working with countless homeless teenagers.

  Something monumental passes between us, reflected in the shift of his dark eyes. With the thud of my pulse against my throat, I almost wonder if my aunt Constantine may be onto something when she talks about soul connections. My chest buzzes with relief when he tears his gaze away once again. “But you need to understand upfront it’s gonna cost you a pretty penny, Miss…”

  “It’s Sterling,” I say, injecting as much kindness into my tone as possible.

  “What kind of name is that?” he says with a snort.

  “The kind picked out by an incredibly eccentric mother.” I throw him a genuine smile. “Write me up a quote. Then we’ll talk.”

  He nods once. “I can do that.” His eyes travel down to my left hand still resting beneath my breasts. “You single?”

  Despite my initial reservations about him, something flutters deep inside my belly when I hold his dark stare. I haven’t dated since my last disaster of a relationship, and I can’t say I wouldn’t be interested in starting something with someone a little older. But only if I found a way to break through his stony exterior.

  “You looking to hook up?” I spar with a slight grin.

  A dark blush spreads over his cheeks as he shifts his weight and inspects his right thumb like he just developed a hangnail. “Just wondering how someone as young as you could afford a project this big.”

  “I sell a lot of drugs,” I reply in a matter-of-fact tone.

  His eyes snap back onto mine. “You serious?”

  Letting out a lighthearted laugh, I shake my head. “Not at all. I’m a social worker. I start with Blue Earth County Human Services in a couple of days. I know it’s not a glamorous job, but—” I clamp down on my tongue, stopping myself from saying any more. He doesn’t need to know my mother’s filthy rich and gets off on sharing her wealth with her only child. “Is someone as old as you able to keep up with a project this big, or do we need to schedule around afternoon naps and shuffleboard tournaments?”

  Now he’s looking at me like I’m unhinged. “I’d need a hefty deposit, and weekly payments.”

  “Include those numbers in your quote. If you know anything about plumbing, you can add that cost in too. The kitchen sink could use a little…something. Possibly an exorcism.”

  I’m admittedly disappointed when my attempt at humor doesn’t even crack his serious expression. His arms swing idly at his sides as he steps past me and starts for the kitchen. “I’ll get started on that quote after you show me everything you wanna fix.”