That technicality was hanging by an increasingly thinning thread.

Julia screwed up her face in thought. “Not really. There was a girl last year, but she didn’t stick around very long. And there was a guy the year before that, but the same thing. Didn’t stick around. They keep to themselves, but I don’t blame them. People around here aren’t very open-minded.” She leaned even closer, lowering her voice. “When Satin Novelties opened, people literally stood outside with picket signs. Like they thought we were corrupting the town or something.”

She was easy to talk to and quick to laugh. No matter what topic we switched to, she never skipped a beat and I never heard a negative word from her mouth about anybody. It felt like hardly any time had passed as we finished our food.

“Here’s my number,” she said, handing me a folded sticky note. “If you ever want to hang out or grab breakfast, shoot me a text. I’m not really into jogging, but I love a good hike. We should go together sometime.”

I was still smiling as I took my plate and cup back inside, dropping it off at the counter before I left. Julia seemed like a genuinely kind person, not like she was simply putting on an act or trying to get on my good side. When she asked questions, she acted sincerely interested. It still stunned me that the whole reason she knew the boys was because she’d managed to get on Lucas’s good side.

I hadn’t even realized how desperately I’d needed this. Just some time to decompress, and genuine conversations with women who weren’t eager to stab me in the back the second they got the chance.

I’d only just made it out the door to head home when I ran smack into someone coming in the opposite direction.

“Oh! Excuse me, sir, sorry,” I apologized hurriedly to the man I’d bumped into, edging around him on the sidewalk. But then I lifted my eyes, looking at him for the first time, and a flood of ice-cold fear washed through my veins.

He was in his fifties, at least. Tall and skinny, a tattered t-shirt and jeans hung loosely from his frame. His hair was grown out, streaked with gray, shiny with grease. His hollow cheekbones and dark eyes were far too familiar.

It was Reagan Reed. Manson’s father.

I stuttered for a moment, my mouth gaping at him, before I hurriedly tried to turn away. But he grabbed my arm, yanking me back toward him so hard that I gasped. His hold was like a vice, and I could smell alcohol and cigarettes on his breath.

But as quickly as he grabbed me, he let go.