In the Waning Light by Loreth Anne White Page B

gust, and trees bowed and swished. Bits of debris bombed down. Mist swirled around the house. A chill trickled down Meg’s spine. She told herself this was ridiculous. She bent down and grasped the padlock firmly. It was cold, wet in her hand. She inserted the key, turned. Nothing. She jiggled it, tried again. It remained unyielding, encrusted with rust. She cursed and tried several other keys just to be sure she had the right one. Nothing worked. Rain beat down harder. She rammed the first key in again, frustration thrumming through her as she wrenched it. Nothing. Did she have some oil in her truck? She glanced up, then her heart kicked as a sheriff’s cruiser slowed in front of her house, tires crackling on the wet street. The window rolled down.
    “Well, well, if it isn’t the famous Meg Brogan, our local resident done good, how in the hell are you, girl?”
    She pushed damp hair back off her face, came forward to better see inside the cruiser.
    “ Dave, is that you?”
    The door swung open. The deputy stepped out, unfolding to his full and impressive height in his tan uniform. He positioned his sheriff’s Stetson against the rain, and a smile cut into his face. It lit his warm brown eyes. Dave Kovacs was a massive echo of his father, Ike—sans the handlebar mustache. It was like staring at someone who’d stepped straight through a hole in time. Meg couldn’t help but return his smile with a genuine rush of pleasure and a sense of relief just to have company right now.
    “I could have sworn you were your dad for a moment. How are you? They haven’t made you county sheriff yet?”
    He gave her a kiss on the cheek, and she caught a whiff of Old Spice. An old-fashioned, conservative kinda guy—he even smelled like his dad.
    “All the better for seeing you, Megan.” His thumbs hooked into his duty belt and his attention went to the graffiti-covered house. “Nope, not yet. Just the chief deputy. But I’ve put my hat into the ring this time around.”
    “Good for you. So . . . you were just driving by? Or did you come to give me a warning about the eyesore here?” She jerked her head toward the house.
    He smiled. “Yeah. It’s a problem all round, vandals. Getting more and more of this with the vacant holiday homes, down on the beach especially. I heard you were back. Thought I’d come by.”
    She frowned, trying to read his eyes hidden by the shadow of his brim.
    “I heard you’re doing a book. On Sherry,” he added.
    “Ah,” she said. “News travels fast.”
    “Not every day we get news like that in Shelter Bay. Here, let me help you with that lock.” He took the keys from her and went up to the gate. He inserted the key, jiggled it a bit, then turned it firmly, his fingers stronger than hers. The padlock popped open. He dragged the chain through the gate, creaked it open wide and held the keys out to her.
    Her cheeks went hot as she took them from him. “You make me feel like a girl.”
    He regarded her in silence, an inscrutable look entering his features. Her smile slowly faded. “What is it, Dave?”
    “It’s not a wise idea. The book.”
    “Why not?”
    He gave a snort, glanced at the forest. “That old business cut the town apart. Messed up my dad. My mom . . . All of us.” He turned and his eyes bored suddenly into her. “What’s the point? Ty Mack’s dead. Your dad—mom—are gone.”
    Her jaw tightened. She held his gaze in silence for several beats. Water dripped off the brim of his hat. Wind sighed again through the trees and brushed over her face, like a touch. A warning. Again, she felt Sherry.
    “I need the truth, Dave.” And it struck her right there. This really was more now. Not just a retelling. Not just interviews. Her mother had believed something deeper had happened, that her father might have been set up. And every minute more that Meg was in town, the sense that there was something urgent locked inside her memories intensified. Whatever it was had been