Center Stage: Magnolia Steele Mystery #1 by Denise Grover Swank Page B
Authors: Denise Grover Swank
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wall. I was hyperventilating, and if I didn’t get my breathing under control, I would pass out. Leaning my forearms on the shower wall, I took slow, steady breaths.
“You’re okay, Magnolia,” I whispered. “You’re okay.”
It was the mantra that had gotten me through those first two years in New York. I’d repeated it over and over and over—first out loud and then in my head—until I actually started to believe it.
Except I wasn’t so sure that was true. Not now that I’d come back to Franklin. What if whatever had scared me away was still a threat?
A part of me had always known this—that I hadn’t blacked out in the woods that night. Something so terrifying had happened to me that my mind had locked it away to protect me. But my last memories were of Blake, which convinced me even more that he had done something horrible. Why couldn’t I remember?
A sob built up in my chest, bursting loose as I looked down at my leg and my finger traced the scar on my upper thigh. A backward C with a slash through it. It was from that night. I’d always told myself I’d simply cut my leg on the brush in the woods.
Now I wondered where it had really come from.
I took a deep breath and forced my sobs to subside. Crying wouldn’t solve a damn thing. I needed to look at what I knew.
Something bad had happened to me the night of my graduation party, and Blake was to blame.
He’d sent me the anonymous text.
He knew I was back in town. What did he think I was going to do?
I hurried to finish my shower, then put on a long T-shirt and hurried down to the basement, my hair still wet and dripping down my back. Since the main floor was dark except for a dim lamp in the entryway, I figured Momma had gone to bed. Just as I’d hoped.
Sure enough, the padlocked box was tucked behind the green plastic Christmas tree. I breathed a sigh of relief, grateful that my mother was a creature of habit who hated change. The combination was still the same, and the squeaky lid suggested the box had not been opened in a while. I pulled out the familiar wadded brown hand towel and carefully unwrapped it from my dad’s Glock. A quick examination showed me it wasn’t loaded, but the package of cartridges at the bottom of the box would take care of that.
I rewrapped the gun and the ammo in the towel, then closed up the box. With any luck, I’d be able to return the gun before my mother ever missed it. In fact she’d probably forgotten it was there.
Once I reached the main floor, I went straight to the front door, making sure the deadbolt was in place. But what had I been thinking? My mother was a careful woman. She was the one who’d insisted on the steel-reinforced doors in the first place.
I placed my hand on the metal, letting the chill seep into my palm. I’d trusted this door with my life when I was a kid. I hoped I could trust it now.
I spun around to go upstairs, but my mother was at the top of the steps, watching me with her eagle eyes. I angled the hand with the towel behind my back, hoping the movement had been subtle enough to evade her.
“No one’s gotten past that door in the thirty-two years I’ve lived here, Magnolia. That’s not gonna change tonight.”
I sucked in a breath, prepared to tiptoe around the questions I suspected were coming, but she simply returned to her room and shut the door behind her.
I hurried upstairs and slipped into my own room. After locking my door behind me, I plopped on the bed and loaded the gun, just like my father had taught me to do six months before his disappearance.
“I hope to God you’ll never need this, Maggie Mae, but if you do . . .” His voice had broken then, but he’d forced a smile. “It’s important you know how to use it.”
He’d taken me to the gun range—without my mother’s knowledge—telling me it would be our special secret. I’d begged to go with him before, but Momma had always dug in her feet and said no, so he had no reason to worry. I
“You’re okay, Magnolia,” I whispered. “You’re okay.”
It was the mantra that had gotten me through those first two years in New York. I’d repeated it over and over and over—first out loud and then in my head—until I actually started to believe it.
Except I wasn’t so sure that was true. Not now that I’d come back to Franklin. What if whatever had scared me away was still a threat?
A part of me had always known this—that I hadn’t blacked out in the woods that night. Something so terrifying had happened to me that my mind had locked it away to protect me. But my last memories were of Blake, which convinced me even more that he had done something horrible. Why couldn’t I remember?
A sob built up in my chest, bursting loose as I looked down at my leg and my finger traced the scar on my upper thigh. A backward C with a slash through it. It was from that night. I’d always told myself I’d simply cut my leg on the brush in the woods.
Now I wondered where it had really come from.
I took a deep breath and forced my sobs to subside. Crying wouldn’t solve a damn thing. I needed to look at what I knew.
Something bad had happened to me the night of my graduation party, and Blake was to blame.
He’d sent me the anonymous text.
He knew I was back in town. What did he think I was going to do?
I hurried to finish my shower, then put on a long T-shirt and hurried down to the basement, my hair still wet and dripping down my back. Since the main floor was dark except for a dim lamp in the entryway, I figured Momma had gone to bed. Just as I’d hoped.
Sure enough, the padlocked box was tucked behind the green plastic Christmas tree. I breathed a sigh of relief, grateful that my mother was a creature of habit who hated change. The combination was still the same, and the squeaky lid suggested the box had not been opened in a while. I pulled out the familiar wadded brown hand towel and carefully unwrapped it from my dad’s Glock. A quick examination showed me it wasn’t loaded, but the package of cartridges at the bottom of the box would take care of that.
I rewrapped the gun and the ammo in the towel, then closed up the box. With any luck, I’d be able to return the gun before my mother ever missed it. In fact she’d probably forgotten it was there.
Once I reached the main floor, I went straight to the front door, making sure the deadbolt was in place. But what had I been thinking? My mother was a careful woman. She was the one who’d insisted on the steel-reinforced doors in the first place.
I placed my hand on the metal, letting the chill seep into my palm. I’d trusted this door with my life when I was a kid. I hoped I could trust it now.
I spun around to go upstairs, but my mother was at the top of the steps, watching me with her eagle eyes. I angled the hand with the towel behind my back, hoping the movement had been subtle enough to evade her.
“No one’s gotten past that door in the thirty-two years I’ve lived here, Magnolia. That’s not gonna change tonight.”
I sucked in a breath, prepared to tiptoe around the questions I suspected were coming, but she simply returned to her room and shut the door behind her.
I hurried upstairs and slipped into my own room. After locking my door behind me, I plopped on the bed and loaded the gun, just like my father had taught me to do six months before his disappearance.
“I hope to God you’ll never need this, Maggie Mae, but if you do . . .” His voice had broken then, but he’d forced a smile. “It’s important you know how to use it.”
He’d taken me to the gun range—without my mother’s knowledge—telling me it would be our special secret. I’d begged to go with him before, but Momma had always dug in her feet and said no, so he had no reason to worry. I
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