Home to Whiskey Creek

Or maybe he was being sincere. Maybe Adelaide was just in a terrible mood.

“Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

“You bet. Your coffee’s the best in town.”

“Better than Black Gold down the street?” she asked in surprise.

“As good,” he hedged.

Now Adelaide knew he was full of shit. Gran’s coffee wasn’t one of her better offerings; it was basic and cheap because she couldn’t tell the difference.

“Then I’d like to speak with Adelaide, if possible,” Stacy was saying.

“Of course. I’ll tell her so she can get dressed.”

Her grandmother’s walker thumped as she moved down the wooden hallway and stopped at her door. She didn’t bother to knock. She didn’t see the point in giving Adelaide any privacy. Adelaide would always be her little girl; it didn’t matter if she was three or thirty.

“Addy?” she said, poking her head in. “Chief Stacy’s here. He’d like a word with you.”

Static electricity made strands of her hair stand up when she set her pillow aside. “I heard. I’m coming.”

“You have a few minutes while I get him some coffee.”

A few minutes? She’d barely be able to dress and comb her hair. Knowing she must look like she’d been dragged behind a horse, she swallowed a sigh. “Be right there.”

Clomp. Shuffle. Clomp. Shuffle. The noise from Gran and her walker receded as Adelaide kicked off the covers and sat up. She expected a headache. She’d had a whopper of one last night. But her head seemed to be the only part of her body that didn’t hurt.

Thank God for small favors.

She dressed in a pair of jeans and an orange tee, gingerly avoiding all the bandages Noah had applied, as well as the memory of his sure, gentle hands applying them. Then she went into the bathroom, brushed her teeth and pulled her hair back before making her way into the living room.

Chief Stacy was sitting in her grandmother’s antique rocker, looking quite comfortable with a steaming cup of coffee and a slice of cinnamon-walnut cake. Maybe Gran’s coffee wasn’t anything special, but her baked goods were out of this world. Of course, her recipes were also “old school,” meaning there was enough fat, sugar and cholesterol in each serving to bring on a heart attack. Adelaide had long wanted to introduce a few new, interesting and organic options, at least on the meal side of the menu.

She thought she still might try to do that.

If they hung on to the restaurant long enough...

“Well, hello, Addy.” Setting his plate and cup on the side table, Chief Stacy got up to greet her, but it was awkward. She couldn’t tell if he intended to hug her or shake her hand. He’d been a regular officer when she lived in town, a position slightly less prominent than the one he held now, but she’d known him. He’d eaten at Just Like Mom’s once a week or so; she’d often served him.

She offered her hand to let him know what she preferred, and he acted as if that was the most he’d expected.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he said.

She conjured up a pleasant expression as they shook. “So am I.”

Once she sat down, he sobered in apparent concern. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“Sure. Although there isn’t a lot to tell.”

He returned to his seat but didn’t pick up his cake or coffee. He took out a pad and pen. Whiskey Creek was pretty uneventful. A true abduction would be the case of a lifetime for a backwoods cop like Stacy—could make or break his career.

Too bad she wasn’t about to give him anything that might help him solve the crime. Even if, as a victim, she could be completely honest about what she knew and remembered, Adelaide wouldn’t pit him against a very wily kidnapper. He seemed long on confidence but short on experience. As far as she could remember, the most he’d ever had to find was a runaway horse or dog. A big day for a cop in Whiskey Creek was handling security for the annual Fourth of July parade or the Victorian Days festival every Christmas.

“Just start from the beginning,” he said.

Lacing her fingers together, she stared down at the fingernails she’d broken. “Before I went to bed, I opened the door in my bedroom—”

“The one that leads out to the street?”

“To the porch. Yes.”

“Because...”

“I needed some fresh air.”

He raised his eyebrows. “It’s fall,” he said.

Not wanting to blame Gran for her heavy hand with the thermostat, she glossed over that. “My room hasn’t been used much since I left. It was sort of...stuffy.”

“So you opened the door to air it out.”

“Yes. There was the screen door, of course, which was locked.”

“A screen provides little protection....”

As if she didn’t feel foolish enough. “I wasn’t too worried about protection. Not here at home.” It wasn’t until she’d disobeyed her grandmother, back in high school, and ventured to the mine that she’d gotten into trouble. And pointing out that she should feel secure in a town he was supposed to keep safe shifted the blame back on to him.

“Nothing like this has ever happened before,” he told her, backpedaling.

“Which is why I didn’t worry about it. But someone, a—a man, cut the screen, dragged me from my bed and drove me up to the old mine.”

“The Jepson mine, where Cody Rackham was killed?”

The fear that, at long last, she’d be implicated in Cody’s death, tied her stomach in knots. But she’d expected the immediate association. They’d had their tragedies in Whiskey Creek—when Dylan Amos’s father got into a bar fight and stabbed his opponent and when Phoenix Fuller used her mother’s Buick to run down her rival, to name two—but the popular, wealthy and handsome Rackham family had always generated a great deal of interest. “Where Cody...died. Yes,” she said.

“Did your abductor...” The way Stacy lowered his voice and shot a warning glance at Gran told Adelaide what he was about to ask.

She jumped in to save him the effort of formulating the rest of the question. “He didn’t rape me, no.”

His chest rose as if her answer allowed him to draw a deep breath for the first time since he’d arrived. He even left his pad and pen in his lap and reclaimed his coffee and cake. “I’m happy to hear that.” He took a big bite, then paused to give her a searching look. “You’d tell me if he did,” he said while chewing. “I realize there’s a certain...stigma that goes with that word, with the act itself, but I can’t help you if you’re not honest with me.”

Her mouth was so dry she could hardly speak. “He didn’t rape me.” But she could clearly remember the time before, when he had....

“So you were awakened in your bed and then what? Let’s go over it detail by detail.”

She cleared her throat. “He whispered that he’d hurt me and Gran if I screamed. Then he tied my hands, blindfolded me and forced me to walk out to his truck or SUV.”

“You’re sure it was a truck or SUV.”