He nodded. “I’ll call you when I hear something from Teddy or have something to show you.”

Hearing the bell’s off-key clang, Lara turned to see a petite chestnut-haired woman making a beeline toward Gaston. Recognizing her as Marla Archer—the recent ex-wife of police chief Ben Archer—Lara stepped out of the way as the woman approached Gaston and gave him a kiss on each cheek. Marla Archer quickly shifted her gaze to Lara as though she were a potted plant that was in the way.

“Hello,” she said brightly. “So sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

“This is Lara Barnes,” said Gaston.

“Oh,” said Marla in that tone. Her eyes softened. It was the look of pity that Lara was used to by now.

“Well,” said Lara, giving a final nod to Gaston. “Call me when you find out something, Gaston.”

“That’s quite a painting,” said Marla, pushing her shoulder-length hair out of the way to get a closer look at it.

“It needs a new frame,” said Gaston. “But we’re taking care of that.”

As Lara turned the knob, she heard Marla exclaim, “That’s gorgeous.” Lara turned to see that Gaston was holding up a frame with one of her recent photographs, the painting now forgotten. Marla was one of only two photographers in Kerrigan Falls. That Marla had taken her high school graduation portrait and still didn’t recall her until Gaston’s prompting didn’t exactly make Lara feel memorable. Over the years, she’d been introduced to Marla several times, but it seemed the woman didn’t recall her until the connection with Todd was made. It was tough when the only thing you were known for was not getting married. But her mother was right. Lara came from a long line of strong women. She would weather this. Thinking about the painting, Lara realized she really would like to see it hanging in her dining room.

As she shut the door behind her, she wondered what she would do if she found out the painting was valuable.

Chapter 7

Only in the quiet of the night, when Lara worked alone at the radio station, did she feel she’d learned the rhythms and creaks of the place, the music of old boards and rusted nails giving way. It was only then that she felt it was truly hers. After the sale, and at the urging of her father, she’d stopped doing the overnight shift to focus on the business side of things—which had sorely needed her attention—but she liked to do the occasional night and overnight shifts. Now her day was a constant stream of spreadsheets and advertising numbers, so she liked to get behind the booth and remember why she loved this station. Tonight she was filling in for the seven-to-ten shift.