LANE SCRUBBED THE OAK MANTEL with enough force that if she didn’t stop, she’d rub straight through the polished stain. An entire day had passed and her thoughts were still stained with memories of Charlie. His words, their kiss, her dismissal. She threw the rag into the bucket and sucked in a sob. Putting her hand to her mouth, she peeked over at Noah. He was perched at one of the tables in the Way Station Café playing with the dinosaur Charlie had given him. It wasn’t until the wee hours of the morning that the waves of tears soaking her pillow finally eased. Accepting the heartbreaking reality that she had pushed Charlie away wasn’t going to be easy.

She grabbed a broom and started sweeping. It was Monday and they hadn’t found Miguel, at least that was the rumor, and she still hadn’t spoken to Charlie. Of course, if rumors were to be believed, he was probably busy trying to find the one person everyone in town could easily agree was capable of murder. So, early this morning she called Ms. Byrdie and told her the Way Station Café wouldn’t be open today. It needed to be cleaned. And Lane wanted to avoid . . . everyone.

At least until her appointment with Dr. Wong. She’d been rescheduling for the last two weeks, but her bottle of pills was close to empty and the nightmares that began after losing Mathias had returned and meant she couldn’t avoid the psych doctor any longer. He’d ask about her parents and she’d tell him they weren’t interested. He’d ask about anything new in her life and . . . Lane swallowed against the lump thick in her throat.

Lane had been foolish to believe she could forget who she was. She didn’t need to wear a scarlet letter to remind her of her guilt, but maybe if she had, Charlie would’ve known to avoid her and Lane wouldn’t be turning her café upside down in a cleaning frenzy to ease the pain.

Not worthy.

Flawed.

Mistake.

The words played in cadence with every sweep of the broom across the wood floor. Her phone buzzed and she saw Charlie’s number. She ignored the call and continued to sweep. What if Charlie was right about Miguel? That thought haunted her. If she was wrong about Miguel she could be wrong about Charlie too.

Thunk!

The bristles of the broom hit something leaning against the wall and sent it crashing forward. A frame. Lane picked up the painting and recognized it as one of the auction items. A sunset—or maybe it was a sunrise—with gentle hues of peach and pink blossoming from the lavender and deep violet of night as the sun emerged.