Kincaid finished up with the coffee and gave him a beauty-queen smile. “Your forehead wrinkle is showing again, Ashton Isaacs.”

“I’m full of deep thoughts, Kincaid Breslin.”

She handed him two mugs. “Call me KC.”

“KC,” he said, trying to prove to himself that he could say the old nickname without a wave of nostalgia, of feeling. He mostly succeeded.

But the glimmer of a memory was a clear warning that he needed to tread carefully. Thank God he was only going to be here for a little while. The sooner he could get out of here, the better.

He couldn’t let Kincaid or this town in again, not even a little. That woman and this place were dangerous. Memories were dangerous.

He would not get swallowed up. Once upon a time, he had truly been just her friend. He could do it again. Because she was right about one thing. She was an amazing friend.

And of all the things he needed right now, he could use that more than anything.

Maybe she could, too.

Eight

Then—2002

Kincaid tripped over an exposed root in her front yard and nearly fell as she tried to get to the door without anyone seeing her. Two buttons on her shirt had been ripped off, and she held it closed with trembling fingers, fighting to keep her tears at bay. Her heart was still pounding hard against her ribs. She just needed to get inside without her mom seeing her, take a hot shower, and get under her covers so she could forget this stupid night had ever happened.

She pulled her foot free of the root and made her way to the cracked sidewalk in front of her house. But in her rush to get to the door, she hadn’t noticed there was a vehicle on the other side of her mom’s banged-up Toyota. A shiny, black expensive car. She didn’t know the makes of cars enough to know the brand, but she knew what it meant. Her mother had brought home another guy—probably married. The rent was probably due. Her mom could always get some guy to help out “just a little” once she took him home.

Kincaid’s stomach turned over when she got close to the front door and heard her mom laughing that laugh that was meant to entice, not because anything was funny. No way. Kincaid could not face that shit tonight. She wanted to sit down on the porch and cry. In frustration. In anger. In embarrassment.

But that wouldn’t do her any good. She’d still be able to hear her mom and her date. And if she snuck in the back door, it would only be worse. If her mom didn’t realize she was there, Kincaid would end up hearing more than laughing. The walls in the house were thin. She glanced down at the haggard state of her outfit. She was in no shape to go traipsing through the neighborhood, especially at this hour, but suddenly she knew exactly where she needed to be, the one place she could go.