When Snow Falls (Whiskey Creek #2)(62)
Author: Brenda Novak

“I don’t blame you. But Presley might return. We wouldn’t want to miss her. I’m not sure she’s in a state to handle what needs to be done now that your mother’s passed.”

Although she blinked rapidly, he saw no tears. “Okay.”

“I’ll find Presley and bring her home,” he said. “Then we can hear what happened and decide what to do.”

“So I wait here.”

“That’s it. That’s all you can do.”

When he stepped outside, soft flakes of snow fell to the earth. With no wind to buffet them, they lighted gently on his face and coat. A few got caught in his lashes. It didn’t snow that often in Whiskey Creek, so it always felt remarkable when it did. He stared up at the sky. “It’s snowing,” he murmured.

Cheyenne didn’t sound pleased when she responded. “Figures.”

* * *

As soon as Dylan left, the house fell silent. Cheyenne stood at the window, watching his glowing tail lights as he drove toward Carl’s. Then there was nothing to see but the black night with the white flakes drifting peacefully to earth.

She rubbed her arms, trying to compensate for the terrible chill that had invaded the house. She’d never felt so alone. Or maybe she had. When she was ten, her mother had left her on the corner of a busy street, holding a sign that said Hungry. Mom Out of Work. Although she was standing in an area teeming with people—it had been at the biggest mall in Walnut Creek—she’d never felt so isolated. She’d nearly jumped out of her skin when a man grabbed her wrist to put a few quarters in her palm. And she’d been utterly humiliated by the narrow glances of the less compassionate.

Ironically, they’d had a right to feel so skeptical. Her mother hadn’t bought food with that money. She’d purchased a bottle of vodka and drunk herself into a stupor, then passed out in their car while she and Presley rummaged for food in a McDonald’s Dumpster.

Cringing at the memory, she turned away from the window. “You’re gone,” she said to Anita, even though she knew Anita was no longer there to hear. It felt so strange, so surreal that her mother wouldn’t be calling out in a few minutes. Anita would never be able to manipulate her again—with guilt or the desire for love or the natural optimism that had kept Cheyenne hoping her mother would change.

Nor would Anita be able to reveal where Cheyenne was born. She’d taken her secret, if there was one, to the grave.

Moving back into the kitchen, she glanced at the calendar. December 22. No, it was after midnight—well after midnight. It was the twenty-third. That was the date that would appear on Anita’s death certificate. Within a week or two, her mother would be buried in the same cemetery as Mary, where Anita had once forced Cheyenne to wait out a long, anxious night tied to a tree.

That seemed ironic, in a macabre way, but Anita had made Cheyenne promise not to have her cremated. She’d always been afraid of fire, said she couldn’t abide the thought of it even in death.

Cheyenne wished that coping with the details of the funeral and burial would be all she had to worry about over the next few days. She didn’t mind missing Christmas. Living without the holiday cheer she’d come to expect since moving to Whiskey Creek seemed minor. It was her sister she worried about.

Did Presley kill Anita? What would happen to her if she had?

Cheyenne couldn’t imagine a punishment worse than the toll of Presley’s own conscience. Presley, for all her confusion and dependence on drugs, loved Anita. But that would hardly provide her with a defense.

After retrieving her cell phone from the kitchen table, Cheyenne checked her call history as well as her text messages. She’d received nothing from Presley, even though she’d tried to reach her several times.

“Come on, Pres.” Closing her eyes, she pressed her knuckles to her mouth. She wasn’t sure how long she could put off calling the doctor or the hospice nurse.

Nerves stretched taut, she began to pace. But the anxiety only grew worse. She had to do something, had to get Anita out of the house—

The doorbell rang.

Surprised and a little panicked, she brought a hand to her chest. She doubted it was Dylan. He’d only left fifteen minutes ago. She was afraid the police were at her door, maybe with Presley. Had Presley turned herself in—or gotten picked up for something else and confessed?

She hurried across the living room and peered through the peephole.

It was Aaron. His hair stood up, as if he’d just rolled out of bed, and he was unshaven. The “prettiest” of the Amos boys, he had a face that could be on billboards for Armani or Calvin Klein—very classic and sculpted—but he was also the most difficult to deal with. People steered clear of him if they could. He hadn’t even dressed for the weather. He shivered as he stood there in a T-shirt and jeans, shoving his hands in his pockets while he waited.

She opened the door. “Yes?”

“Where’s Dylan?”

“Out searching for Presley.”

“Then why won’t he answer his damn phone?”

Maybe he didn’t want to talk to his brother. Their last conversation hadn’t seemed to go very well. “I couldn’t tell you.”

He sent an apprehensive glance into the house. “So you haven’t found her?”

“Not yet.”

“Where’s he looking?”

“He went to Carl Inera’s and Sexy Sadie’s. That’s all I know.”

He kicked a pebble off the porch. “Fine. I’ll go check out a couple places myself.”

“You might want to put on a jacket first.”

“I’ll survive.”

He was halfway to his truck when she called him. “Aaron?”

Clearly reluctant to be detained, he looked back at her.

“Do you care about my sister?” Cheyenne couldn’t forget the sound of Presley’s voice when she said she might be pregnant. Maybe she’d taken a test and found out for sure. Maybe that was what had started this whole night heading in the wrong direction.

“I don’t know if I’m capable of caring about anyone,” he admitted and left.

Cheyenne was fairly certain that Presley cared about him. Presley might even be in love with him. Her poor sister had never had much. She hadn’t been blessed with the same kind of friends as Cheyenne, had lived without the stability they brought. Presley had hung on to Anita instead, who was no anchor. And drugs. And now a man she’d never be able to rely on, either.