Stillwater Rising Read online

  Also by Steena Holmes

  Finding Emma

  Emma’s Secret

  The Memory Child

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2014 Steena Holmes

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477825150

  ISBN-10: 1477825150

  Cover design by Kimberly Glyder Design

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014937381

  This book is dedicated to the families who have been affected, in one way or another, by an event similar to what has happened to this fictional town. Your loss can never be adequately shared, but I am humbled by your strength.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  PREVIEW: STILLWATER DEEP

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  JENNIFER CROWNE

  The water in the bay rippled with the push of a breeze that wafted in through the open kitchen window. With her eyes closed, Jenn welcomed the morning kiss on her cheeks as the air surrounded her.

  She tightened a shaggy brown housecoat around her body and waited for the flow of the coffeepot to slow enough for her to fill her mug. The drip of each drop into the pot of liquid rang in her ears, along with the steady tick of their old grandfather clock down the hall. Every small sound intensified against the morbid stillness in the house, a facade that ate her insides every second there was no noise, no laughter.

  She leaned down, planted her elbows on the wood block of her island, and stared out their large bay windows that overlooked Stillwater Bay. Her husband had built their house on the cliff with the bay on one side and the town of Stillwater on the other. Glass windows filled three-quarters of their home. Rob claimed it was so they could see everything around them, but to Jenn, there was no place to hide.

  Once she had loved the openness. Now she hated it.

  A light fog hugged the waters below as it drifted out with the current. Every day since that day a fog had covered the shore. As if the bay itself was in mourning, a thought that comforted Jenn more than she wanted to admit.

  A light scuffle and creak from upstairs alerted her that Charity, her thirteen-year-old daughter, was awake. A glance at the clock confirmed it was still early, barely past six in the morning. Jenn sighed at the thought of another long day when she had to be stronger than she was.

  She’d been dreading this day since the letter came in the mail.

  She checked the chocolate-chip muffins she’d pulled out of the oven earlier to make sure they were cool enough, just as her daughter came down the stairs.

  “Good morning.” Jenn straightened and held out her arms. Despite the dark circles beneath Charity’s eyes, her gaze was bright, almost to the point of feverish.

  “Morning,” Charity mumbled as Jenn gave her a hug. She pressed her lips against Charity’s forehead to test for a fever.

  “Can we go in a bit early today?” Charity pulled away and reached for a muffin from the tray.

  “I was actually thinking . . . why don’t we go into the city for the day? We could go see a movie, do some shopping . . .” Heading into the city was one of the last things she wanted to do, but it was better than the alternative.

  “You can’t be serious?”

  It had been a gradual change, but the sweet, innocent daughter Jenn once knew was gone. She saw glimpses, when Charity didn’t think anyone was looking, but gone was the charming little girl Jenn knew, and in her place was a hormonal, surly teenager who didn’t seem to remember what it meant to respect her parents.

  “Yes, Charity. I’m serious. It could be”—she struggled to find the appropriate wording—“fun?”

  “Shopping? Fun? No thanks. I’d rather go to school, Mom.” The exasperation was quite clear in Charity’s voice.

  Jenn’s shoulders sagged. The school.

  “It’s going to be a madhouse, so I’d like to get there a bit early if we could. Mandy and I planned to meet up so we could go in together.”

  Jenn didn’t know how her daughter did it. How she could be ready to head back into that place so soon.

  Just the thought of the school, the mere mention of its name, brought vivid images to mind, images Jenn knew would haunt her for the rest of her life. Thank God Charity would be going to high school in Midland in the fall.

  “Amanda’s going? Of course she is.” There was no reason she wouldn’t. “Well . . . I thought your dad would take you. Didn’t he say that? He knows I can’t . . . ,” Jenn sighed at the dubious look on her daughter’s face. Of course he wasn’t going to take her.

  “Mom, you have to drive me. You can do it.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can,” Jenn managed to whisper before she took a deep breath and fortified herself.

  What was it Robert had said to her last night? That people looked up to her, counted on her to be strong. But who would be strong for her? Not her husband. He wanted to pretend it had never happened, burying himself in his work instead of allowing himself to grieve for what they had lost.

  Her gaze drifted to the abundance of floral arrangements and cards that littered her house. She wanted to throw them all out, rip up the cards she couldn’t bear to read with the well-meaning words written on them, and burn them until she choked on the smoke.

  The grief counselor had told her that one day she’d want to read those cards, that the words written would give her the strength to remember, to get past the nightmare she lived. Soon she’d have to throw out the dead arrangements, the ones that had withered, but even those she couldn’t touch. Every time the local deliveryman rang her doorbell, she had him place the vases on the foyer table for either Robert or Charity.

  “How’s the muffin?” Jenn changed the subject as she took another piece of her muffin and nibbled on it.

  “Edible,” Charity mumbled as she reached for her second one.

  Jenn shook her head but kept quiet. Pick your battles, her counselor had said.

  “Are you ready?”

  Charity shook her head as she glanced down at the pajamas she wore.

  “No, I mean, are you sure you’re ready to go to the school today? I’m sure Amanda or even Principal Stone could gather your thi
ngs for you.”

  “Mandy’s mom says we can either be the victor or the victim. And if we don’t face our fears, then they’ll soon control us.”

  Of course Amanda’s mother said that. It wasn’t her child who had been gunned down at the public school. It wasn’t Amanda’s mother who had found her son facedown in his own blood.

  “And is that what you’re doing? Facing your fears?”

  “I’m not afraid of anything.” Charity’s head popped up, and her chin jutted out.

  Jenn sagged against the counter and turned her attention back to the scene outside her windows. The water in the bay beckoned her, soothed her.

  “I wish I could say the same thing,” she whispered. She was afraid of everything lately, it seemed. Before the shooting, she knew what she wanted in life. In fact, she’d taken steps to change her life, to be more in charge. She thought about the envelope sitting in her desk drawer and wondered if she’d ever get back to the woman she used to be.

  “So can we? Mom? Hello-o?”

  Jenn shook her head and refocused.

  “I’m sorry?”

  Throwing her hands up in frustration, Charity just frowned and stood there with her hands on her hips.

  “Right. School. No. I don’t think you should go.” Jenn filled her mug with coffee, grabbed another muffin, and started to head over to the breakfast nook when her daughter’s voice stopped her.

  “But Dad said . . .”

  Jenn turned. “I don’t care what your father said. I’m not taking you. If he wanted you to go, then he should have been here to drive you.”

  She’d had this argument with Robert last night. She’d suggested instead of going into the office in the wee hours like he normally did to get a head start on work, he should stay home and they would have breakfast as a family, then they could deal with this if it came up. Apparently he hadn’t believed her when she said she wasn’t going to drive Charity to the school.

  “That’s not fair.”

  “You should know by now, life isn’t fair.”

  “I’m calling Dad.” Charity reached for the phone.

  “Yes, great idea.”

  A letter had been mailed last week to all the families letting them know about the school opening the last Friday before summer vacation officially began. A day for closure and remembrance. The day was going to include games and outdoor activities, but opening the school—for even a short period of time—had nothing to do with supporting their children and everything to do with maintaining the pretense that their town was learning to move forward.

  “But Dad—” Charity half turned away from her as she spoke to Robert on the phone.

  Jenn watched as her daughter’s face crumpled. She breathed a small sigh of relief as her daughter hung up the phone. Jenn didn’t say anything, but she was thankful Robert backed her up on this even if he didn’t agree with her.

  “He can’t drive me. He has a bunch of meetings today. Which totally sucks.” Charity pushed items around on the island.

  “There’s no reason to go, Charity, you know that. If it’s just to see your friends, then you can do that anytime.”

  “That’s not it.”

  “Then what is it? Explain it to me. Why are you so insistent to return to that school?”

  “You don’t understand.” Charity lowered her gaze. “Please, Mom, will you just take me?”

  Jenn shook her head. “Please don’t ask me again.”

  She never wanted to step foot back in that school. Ever. She doubted there would ever be a day when she didn’t drive by without remembering, without the sinking weight of depression and grief hitting her.

  Robert had asked her how long she was going to be like this. When she asked him what he meant, he only stared at her. Then he said the words she wasn’t ready to hear.

  “You’ve lost yourself. Little by little, and I don’t even think you care.”

  But she did care. She did. But it had only been a month since she’d lost her son. A month. Of course she wasn’t going to be her usual self.

  A week ago today, the town had held a funeral service for the students who had been murdered in a fit of rage by a local teen. Weeks before, each family had held their own private services. A time to mourn the loss of their children in a senseless act. There were so many questions without answers, so much anger, hurt, and fear.

  Jenn wished she were more like Robert, who didn’t seem to feel any of that. But she did. She felt all of it, and it was overwhelming. She tried to wear a mask, knowing it was what Robert wanted, especially when they were out in public, but it was hard.

  Her ten-year-old son had been one of the last children to be found.

  “I’m sorry, Charity. But as far as I’m concerned, you should never have to set foot in that school again.”

  “I can’t believe you. This isn’t about you. It’s about me going to my school, seeing my friends, and learning to live life again. Unlike you who doesn’t want to live at all,” Charity mumbled before she ran back up the stairs and slammed her bedroom door.

  Jenn winced as the sound echoed through the house.

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHARLOTTE STONE

  Sweat dripped down Charlotte’s face as she bent over, hands anchored on her knees while she struggled to breathe. She’d killed it today, and it felt good. Great even. She reached for the towel at her feet and wiped her face and neck before standing up straight and stretching. The sounds of the buff fitness instructor on the television screen congratulated her for an excellent workout as Charlotte reached for her water bottle and gulped it down.

  She needed that. She’d let her workouts slide in the past few weeks, and it showed. Her patience was thin, her energy low, and she was starting to get fidgety. But after this workout, she felt good. Sore, but good. Energized even. As if she could handle anything that came her way.

  She made her way up the stairs, taking two at a time, not ready to let the burn leave her yet, and poured a cup of freshly brewed coffee. She’d bought new beans yesterday and ground some up before heading down for her workout. The aroma of those beans still filled the air, and she knew it would be a good cup of coffee. Exactly what she needed.

  She picked up the mail she’d set to the side yesterday and sorted through the abundance of letters that still came in. Letters from various students and families from Stillwater Public School, and even from people who didn’t live in their town but had been moved by the tragedy, as if it had touched them personally. All letters Jordan rarely opened, let alone read.

  She flipped through all the envelopes and set aside the three addressed to Jordan with childish lettering. She didn’t understand his hesitation when it came to opening them. Stacks of similar letters filled a shoe box in her office, so many letters praising Jordan for his heroic acts and describing how his selflessness saved countless lives. She still teared up when she read the ones from the younger students thanking him and calling him their hero.

  He was a hero. She knew it. The town knew it. The world knew it. But sadly, she didn’t think Jordan realized it.

  The sliding door off the kitchen opened, and a cool breeze wafted around her ankles. Charlotte set the letters down and glanced over her shoulder to see her husband standing at the door, his back to her, while he banged his running shoes together to get rid of the sand. His navy running shirt and shorts were drenched and so was their dog, Buster, who plopped down on their back deck with his tongue hanging out.

  “Looks like you two had a good run.” Charlotte took a sip of the strong coffee before she set her cup down on the counter and poured some for her husband.

  “You should come out sometime with us,” Jordan offered his obligatory request, same as he did every morning.

  “Maybe next time.” The words were automatic, but they both knew she’d never join him. Running was his thing. Not hers.

/>   Jordan grabbed his coffee, placed a kiss on her cheek, and made his way to the guest bathroom where he always showered off. Charlotte hated to clean a trail of sand throughout the house, so when they built the guest addition to their home a few years ago, she made Jordan start cleaning up in there after his runs.

  While he headed downstairs, she went upstairs to their bedroom and had her own shower. Afterward, with her hair still wet, Charlotte took her coffee into her office. She needed to get a head start on today. She planned to go to the public school, where Jordan served as principal, and then spend the day there with the students and any parents unwilling to leave their children alone.

  Not that she blamed them. Her hands shook slightly as she sank down in her desk chair and reached for the Stillwater News, the weekly paper that was little more than a gossip column for the town. She’d been worried about the front-page article and even asked Arnold Lewery, the editor of the paper, to let her take a peek at what he’d written, but ever since the media had swarmed their town and refused to leave, Arnold had become tight-lipped about what he featured in the paper.

  In the beginning, almost every article he wrote, whether it was a piece about one of the families affected by the event or a new development, he’d been scooped by one means or another. Their town had become overrun with media within hours of the shooting, and they still couldn’t walk down Main Street without a microphone being stuck in their faces or the knowledge they might see themselves on the evening news.

  They’d managed to hold a few special town meetings without alerting the media presence, and it became quite evident that everyone, including Arnold, expected her to fix the mess they were in with the media and to shelter them from prying eyes.

  “Staying Strong” read the title on the front page. Charlotte was pleased to see the image she’d submitted via e-mail to Arnold last week. She was glad he used it. There’d been too many images of the school ensconced with police tape, memorial flowers, and weeping parents. This photo, taken last year right before the annual summer parade, featured welcome banners, balloons, and children’s play centers set up at the school for the summer party. Starting at Stillwater Public, the parade always made its way down Second Bridge, across Main Street, and then up First Bridge until everyone joined together back at the school for the festivities. She hoped the image would help the town remember the good things about Stillwater Bay and not the sad, horrific event that had torn them apart.