Lane blinked back the memory of Charlie kissing her. The way he smelled and the touch of his lips against hers. She said the moment was a mistake—wanted to believe it—but her heart wouldn’t let her. Noah slipping out of the house unattended was a stark reminder that her purpose was making sure Noah was safe. Protected. It was the only reason she was still alive.

Meagan inhaled sharply and dabbed beneath her eyes with the tips of her fingers, trying to keep her eye makeup from running. “You know how much I love Noah. I just don’t know what I would’ve done if something had happened to him—”

“But nothing happened to him.” Lane squeezed Meagan’s hand. “And I’d sorta like to forget the night ever happened.”

“Ha. Me too.” Meagan sniffled. “Well, not all of it. We did raise a lot of money at the auction. And I’m more than a little curious what you and Mr. Deputy were doing out in the woods—”

“Speaking of auction. Ian forgot a piece.” Lane hurried to the table where the painting was. “I think this should’ve been in the auction.”

“Oh, yeah.” Meagan looked at it. “I think it’s the one we didn’t know where it came from or who donated it. Maybe we’ll just donate it to the Benedict House. I can take it by there this afternoon when I get the measurements for the ribbon-cutting ceremony.”

Lane’s cell phone rang again. Probably Charlie. He’d been trying to call her since Saturday night, but she didn’t answer—couldn’t. She wasn’t sure how much longer she’d be able to avoid him though. He did live in the house right behind her and it was a small town . . . but how could she face him when she couldn’t trust her heart not to give her away? Lane wanted the hope back that he instilled. She wanted to be gathered in his embrace. She wanted to hear his voice speak life into her soul . . . but she also wanted him to be happy. He deserved a woman who could make him happy. What could Lane bring to him besides grief? It was better this way, and she’d just keep telling herself that until the lie became the truth.

Lane pulled the phone from her pocket and checked the ID. It wasn’t Charlie. It was Dottie, Harley’s wife. “Hello?”

“Honey, thank God you answered. I’m about fit to have my britches tied. Have you seen Miguel?”

Lane froze. “No. Why?”

“They think he killed that little girl. The deputy—the good-looking one—he came by this morning to talk to Harley.” Dottie’s voice was breathless, panicked. “Honey, they’re getting a warrant out for his arrest.”

Lane rubbed her forehead, catching her sister’s concerned gaze. “I-I just can’t believe it’s Miguel.”