Broken Beginnings: A High Heat Small Town Romance Suspense (Citrus Cove Book 1)

Present Day

IT WAS ONLY the end of April, but the heat had already settled over the Hill Country in a sticky, unwelcome blanket. Everything from the grass to the trees seemed to have wilted from the fury of the sun, ugly and soon to be dead. I peeled my thighs off the leather as I gunned it down the road, trying to focus on anything other than what I was running from.

Why am I doing this again? I’d asked myself that question a million times on the long drive from Baltimore to Austin. It’s just that the answer was one I didn’t want to think about.

The road dipped and curved, inching me closer to the one place in the world I’d sworn I’d never crawl back to. Miles of fences and farmland passed me, dotted by the occasional house or windmill or a scatter of cattle.

It wasn’t long until the views became ensconced by trees, the hills growing curvier. The heat might have been early, but bluebonnets still lined the sides of the road, their deep blue a mirror of the open sky. It had been a long time since I’d seen those flowers, and I wasn’t entirely sure that I’d missed them.

At least I was rolling into this hellhole in style. I patted the dash of my Corvette, going well over the speed limit. In this part of Texas, if a cop stopped me, it would be to admire the car.

It’d been twelve years since I graduated and moved on from Citrus Cove, leaving everything I’d ever known behind. My grandmother, my sister, the small-town mindset that I’d fought damn hard to beat, and the sting of all the bad memories.

Welcome to Citrus Cove. Population 2,877.

Well, 2,877 plus me.

I passed the quaint sign and sighed. As strange as it was, I felt like I was coming home.

Tears stung my eyes again. I was tired of crying, though. My teeth dug into my bottom lip, the pain grounding me in the present.

This place had fought me. It shoved down who I truly was over and over. From the bullies I’d gone to school with to the scowling church ladies, it nearly drained me. Hate was stronger than love, especially when it was backed by self-righteous, close-minded people.

I was no longer the little girl I’d been when I lived here. I grew up and found myself. Writing was something that I’d always excelled at in school, and it came in handy as an adult. I wrote travel articles for a well-known international magazine—a dream job that took me to Venice, Paris, Hong Kong, Sydney, Rio de Janeiro, and more. I made a career doing something I truly loved, and it didn’t hurt that I made more money than I could have ever dreamed of.

After experiencing the world, Citrus Cove was just a forgotten, washed up, dot on the map.From NôvelDrama.Org.

And yet here I was.

Running back to a place I hated.

A place that I swore I’d never come back to again.

My stomach grumbled and I glanced over at my passenger seat. A pile of granola bar wrappers sat there. I was hungry for something other than oats and fig jam, and hoped that maybe I’d be gracing my grandmother’s doorstep in time for dinner.

It had been too long since I’d seen Honey. Another stab of guilt, one that I was too numb to truly feel at the moment.

Being a travel writer gave me every excuse to never come back. It was easy to skip Christmas when you were in another time zone on the other side of the world, and even easier to placate any grumbles with gifts. Honey, bless her, loved it when I sent her magnets for the fridge.

For over ten years, I was free from this town and its hate.

I shouldn’t have come back.

But where else was I supposed to go?

After everything I’d been through the last three weeks, I needed to hold my grandmother and sister.

The Bently Girls. That’s what Sarah and I had always been called. Those Bently Girls are nothing but trouble. Those Bently Girls are a curse. I heard their grandmother took them Bently Girls in because no one else in the family wanted them. 

Now, Sarah was married to some man I vaguely remembered from high school. She wasn’t a Bently Girl anymore, hadn’t been for a long time, and was the mother to twin boys that I only knew through pictures.

She was a stranger now, but it was easier that way. All I could do was hope that maybe we could patch some things up. I’d at least like to meet my nephews…

I chewed my bottom lip as I slowed to crawl down Main Street. The sun set, casting a golden glow over the sleepy southern town. Citrus Cove had changed, but only bits here and there. Some new shops, fresh paint on old ones, new light poles. As an adult, I could see more now. The community, the connection, the way the people who lived here banded together during hard times.

Well, if you were one of them. If you weren’t, then you were shit out of luck.

“I’m an adult,” I reminded myself. “I’m in control. No one can take that from me.” That had become my mantra, even if it felt like bullshit.

Here in Citrus Cove, there was no crazy killer. There were no dead neighbors. And god, did I hope there would be no more nightmares.

Maybe it was the fact that I couldn’t stop thinking about the blood on my hands, the way she died slowly in my arms. I needed Citrus Cove and its safe, quaint, quiet ways. No matter how hard I tried to hide it, my roots were still here, drenched in the sweet tea and bible verses I’d purged from my mind.

My phone buzzed in the passenger seat, text messages coming in. I already knew it was Emma checking up on me and my twenty-three-hour drive from Baltimore to this small town south of Austin. She was one hell of a friend. Ready to pack everything and leave her luxurious lifestyle for boots and sunscreen just to support me.

Coming out of downtown, I took a right and then a left. Twelve years, but driving to my Honey’s was still an autopilot motion. Honey. When my sister and I lived with her, we’d started calling her Honey, and it stuck. It was ironic, considering her spine was made of steel and her temper sharper than barbed wire. But her patience and strength in raising us after my mother passed was something I’d never forget. Even if the three of us bumped heads. Even if she called me every holiday and berated me for not being home.

I also knew, even if I felt nervous about it, that I’d be welcomed home. I forced another deep breath as I eased down the street, my heart hammering as I pulled into the drive. I felt sick to my stomach being here. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I should have just stayed at Emma’s. 

Honey’s pale yellow pickup sat in front of me. She’d owned that thing since the ’70s, and it ran like a 2023 Chevy.

One breath. Two breaths. Three.

I was already here. There was no point turning back now. I turned off the engine and reached for my phone. As I’d guessed, Emma had texted me.

Emma: I know you’re driving but let me know when you make it. Should be any minute now. 

Emma: Yes. I’ve been keeping count. 

Emma: Donnie misses you already. 

A picture of her hairless dog with his tongue sticking out popped up, and I grinned. He wore a Tiffany-blue collar covered in crystals.

Me: I made it. I’ll keep you posted. Still don’t know if I’m even staying here tonight.

Emma: If they’re unfriendly, just grab a hotel room. You don’t need extra stress right now babes. If it doesn’t work out, we can fly to Paris for the month. 

She was right, as usual. She was always right.

I opened the car door and stepped out, my legs feeling like Jell-O. Lights on inside the house gleamed through the closed curtains. It was a small house with a whitewashed porch, an oak tree that stretched high above. My eyes scaled up to where some branches had been cut, keeping them away from the roof.

Someone was taking care of her. I was grateful for that, at least.

I stood frozen for a few moments. Just staring. Remembering. Doing my best to make my body stop trembling.

If I stayed out here like this too long, one of the neighbors would see me. The gossip would already start.

That spurred me forward. I walked to the porch and climbed up the front steps. Heat crept up my spine, my stomach rolling.

I hit the doorbell and waited.

Within a few seconds, I heard the shuffle of her footsteps. The front door flew open, and my grandma stood in front of me.

Our gazes locked, ice blue on deep brown.

“Honey.”

There was something in the silence between us, a bridge that fell over the gap time created. I felt everything—all my worries, fears, pain—all of it in that moment. I’d missed her so damn much and hadn’t realized it until now.

It was the final straw. I broke. The floodgates opened.

“Oh, dear heavens,” she whispered.

She pushed the screen door open, but I was already crying. Her arms wrapped around me, and I sank into her, feeling everything in me snap.

Her scent was an immediate comfort. I held on to her, even as she pulled me inside and shut the front door. At seventy, she was still stronger than a damn ox.

“I’m sorry,” I sobbed. I leaned against her, feeling myself drowning. Falling. The murder flashed before my eyes, along with all the sharp words that I’d been harboring for so long. It was a lethal mixture, the kind that made me want to curl up and hide.

But she wouldn’t let me do that. Honey would make me get up. She’d make me stand.

Another reason I needed to come home.

I couldn’t let myself go right now. I needed the people in my life to force me up, even if I didn’t feel like I could do it.

“Sweetie, I don’t know what’s happened, but you’re home now,” she said. She gripped my cheeks, making me look at her. Through the blur of my tears, I noted that her hair was bright silver, brighter than before. She was wearing a bright pink nightdress, her reading glasses hanging around her neck. “How long are you here for?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered.

“Your room is almost how you left it,” Honey said. “Some things are in storage, but you’ll be right at home. Have you eaten dinner yet? You’re thinner than a sheet.”

She didn’t mean those words maliciously. They were simply a fact. When I’d left, I’d taken nothing with me. I’d eaten a box of granola bars on my drive down. As for the comment on my weight, I’d damn near forgotten how common they were in the South. If it was anyone but my grandma, I would have gone off, but I didn’t have the energy.

“My weight is fine. But I haven’t had dinner, no,” I said, wiping my tears. I felt hollow. “I drove straight through from Baltimore.”

She shook her head, clearly concerned. “I’m going to make you some leftovers, and we’re gonna sit so you can tell me what’s happened.”

* * *

I sat in her picturesque kitchen, taking everything in. She’d redecorated, which was unsurprising. Growing up with Honey, she’d redecorated at least once a year. All the place mats were checkered yellow, a vase of flowers at the center of the table. Magnets that I’d sent peppered the fridge, along with a few photos of Sarah’s boys.

She put down a plate of grilled chicken, vegetables, and a soft roll. Then a small plate with a slice of apple pie in front of me, and for a moment, all my worries melted away.

“I won’t fight ya if you eat your dessert first.”

I grinned because that was exactly what I was going to do.

“Got these apples from the Harlow farm,” she said, clearly pleased. Her chair creaked as she sat down, settling in as I took my first bite. “One of those boys cut me a deal.”

I doubted they were actually boys anymore. I fought the glare, not wanting to signal just how much hate I harbored for my old high school bully. It didn’t hurt the way it used to, but I would never forget that bastard.

I had bigger things to think about than the past. Tina, my boss, had been very gracious with me since the murder. And in all technicality, I could turn this trip into a ‘work’ one if I wrote an article about Citrus Cove. I wasn’t going to worry about any of that right now though.

It was one day at a time.

Another patch of silence settled between us. Honey scrutinized me as I kept eating.

“So, Haley Marie Bently,” she said. I stiffened at the use of my full name. “What brings you back to Citrus Cove? I know you don’t like it here. You got me worried. You didn’t even call before coming. I could have been going with Mr. Johnson.”

“Honey,” I hissed, scandalized. Despite the horror of what I was about to tell her, my mouth fell open. “What do you mean, Mr. Johnson?”

She arched a gray brow, her bright blue eyes twinkling with amusement. “I’m old, not dead. I’ve got needs. So does he since his wife passed away last year. We drink sweet tea and get naked sometimes.”

“Honey!” I wheezed.

She reached out and patted my hand the same way she had the first time she’d given me the birds and the bees conversation. Her smile lit up the room, but then I felt the dark clouds return.

She knew me.

She knew I wouldn’t have come if I wasn’t hurting.

Her hand squeezed mine, encouraging the truth from me like she always had. When I was ten and stole a newspaper by accident and then tried to burn it to hide the evidence (catching a tree on fire), she squeezed my hand like this. When I’d come home with a shiner and a bruised rib because I’d picked a fight with one of the McConoville kids, she’d done this too.

I leaned back in my chair. The story was on autopilot at this point. I’d lost track of how many times I’d told it to the police and Emma and my boss and the landlord and gods knew who else.

“Three weeks ago, I was leaving my apartment when I heard a scream. I went down the hall to a door that was partially cracked. I opened it right as a man slit a woman’s throat. He was wearing a mask. He ran at me, attempted to stab me. I moved out of the way, but the knife still got my arm. It’s mostly healed now, so don’t worry. It was evening so other people were coming home from work. Someone shouted and startled him. He ran off, leaving me with the woman as she died. I held her as she took her last breath. She’d clearly been tortured. All right down the hall from me.”

The sweetness of the pie with the words coming out of my mouth didn’t feel right.

I’d watched the light leave her eyes. And I’d wondered—how long had she been suffering right down the hall from me? I should have realized something was wrong. I didn’t know her, but I’d returned misplaced mail to her before. I’d passed her coming and going on my adventures.

Elizabeth Jacobson from apartment 1208 was dead. It wasn’t my fault, but I’d been living with guilt every day since. Hating myself because I could have potentially stopped that man, or I could have paid more attention. I could have helped her.

I’d untied the ropes around her wrists and closed her eyes. After I was able to come out of the initial shock, I called 911, and everything from the rest of the night was a blur. All of the questions. The police. Someone prying her from my arms. Her blood covering me. Emma picking me up. Her shoving me into the shower, throwing out my ruined clothes, and making me eat. Tina calling me, concerned and then giving me time off. The landlord offering to give me a month free if I kept quiet about what happened.

I hadn’t slept well the last three weeks bunking on Emma’s couch. Finally, yesterday, I got up and decided that I had to get out.

There were some things about that night that I hadn’t told anyone, not even the police. Running was the only way to escape.

Honey’s eyes glistened, and she gave a slight nod. The scent of warm apple pie and honeysuckle filled the kitchen, accompanied by the leftovers of grilled chicken and mashed potatoes she’d made me eat before dessert.

I’d missed her, I realized. The revelation was just another wound. It hurt, but at least it hurt in a better way than all the other stuff haunting me.

“You can stay as long as you want. You’re always welcome in my home. You know that, sweetheart.”

And that was just like her. She wasn’t going to push for more right now. She wouldn’t ask me a million questions. She wouldn’t question why I hadn’t called her three weeks ago or why I’d just followed the wild whim of showing up on her doorstep.

“I thought you’d be mad at me,” I whispered. “And I wasn’t sure about Sarah… I haven’t spoken to her in a long time.”

“I can’t speak for her,” my grandmother said tightly. I frowned. What happened between them? “I’m not mad at you, just incredibly disappointed.” Her tone became kinder, although still firm. “But for other reasons, sweet child. Reasons that are neither here nor there right now. What matters is that you’re home. What happened to you was awful, but it’s over now. It’s time to heal. You’re safe.”

Safe.

“Now, eat the rest of your dinner too. A piece of pie isn’t a full meal.”

I snorted, but didn’t argue. I could feel the weight of everything rolling through me, but then it lifted. I breathed out, my shoulders relaxing for the first time in a month.

That was why I had come home to Citrus Cove.

I was safer here than anywhere else in the world.