Cole closed the phone and left it on the table. He was thinking about Lily when his regular cell phone vibrated. The number was unfamiliar, and the message began with an apology.
This is Lily. Marcus at the gas station gave me your number. I know the sheriff came to see you. I'm sorry. You don't understand how dangerous his family can be.
Cole read it twice before answering.
I met him. You don't owe me an apology. Are you somewhere safe tonight?
Her reply came several minutes later.
I'm home. I locked the door. Brandon has called fourteen times.
Keep the messages, Cole typed. You don't need to answer him because I say so or because he does. If you're in immediate danger, seek emergency help. Is there someone you trust who can be with you?
There was a longer pause. Then:
My sister is in Billings. She doesn't know. I haven't told anybody everything.
You can tell her when you're ready, Cole wrote. You deserve to have people who know what's happening.
He stared at the screen, aware of how easy it would be to write a promise that sounded strong and meant nothing. He could not guarantee Brandon would disappear. He could not guarantee the sheriff would suddenly enforce the law fairly. He could not guarantee that the people of Cedar Hollow, freshly shocked by one ugly incident, would have the endurance to stay involved after the story became inconvenient.
So he sent something smaller and more honest.
I'll be at the diner tomorrow. If you want to talk, I'll listen. If you don't, I'll still be there.
A minute later, Lily answered with two words.
Thank you.
Cole set the phone down. Through the kitchen window, the lights of Cedar Hollow lay scattered beneath the hills, quiet and apparently harmless. He knew there were people sleeping peacefully inside those houses, and people lying awake listening for vehicles outside. The town looked the same from a distance. That was the trouble with looking from a distance.
Lily read Cole's last message three times before she put her phone facedown on the kitchen table. Her apartment was quiet except for the refrigerator's uneven hum and the sound of a truck changing gears on the road below. The curtains were closed. The deadbolt was turned. She had checked it twice, not because she thought checking could prevent everything, but because there were very few things in her life she still felt entitled to control.
Brandon had called fourteen times and sent seven messages. The first asked why she was ignoring him. The next accused her of humiliating him. Later came promises that he loved her, that he had been under pressure, that people did not understand them. The most recent said that if she told anyone he had hurt her, she would regret making him look bad. Lily saved each message. Then she added the time to the notebook hidden inside her mother's old cookbook.