Can't Go Home

By Melinda DiLorenzo

“Do you remember Savannah?”

How could she forget? Two decades ago, Trinity Calhoun's best friend—18-year-old Savannah Stuart—went missing. Just weeks later, Savannah’s body was found brutally slain outside the mountain town. With no suspects or leads, the local authorities dismissed the murder as a tragic one-off, likely perpetrated by a tourist. But Trinity wasn’t convinced.

Determined to do better for other victims, she left town and settled in Vancouver, rising through the ranks to become a detective. She’s never looked back. But now, an unexpected phone call from her former lover has her barreling down the highway to face the past.

Another young woman has disappeared under eerily similar circumstances. Allegedly. But the local police are disinterested. Trinity’s ex has a tenuous—at best—hold on his mental and physical health. And Savannah’s secretive and handsome brother is in town, asking an awful lot of questions.

Trinity’s focus is clouded. Maybe her judgment, too. As she wades through her past, she needs to answer a potentially life-threatening question: is there a dangerous, repeat criminal on the loose, or is she just desperate for closure?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tule Publishing
• Release date: Jan 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781954894815

Book preview

Prologue

A crackle over the line.

Trinity?

Yes?

Trinity Calhoun?

Asher?

A too-long moment of silence.

Professor Phillip? Is… Are you there?

Trinity…do you remember Sylvia?

A chill.

You mean Savannah.

Yes. Yes, that’s right. Savannah. A throat clear. But do you? Remember, I mean.

Yes. Of course.

Trinity, I need you to come home.

A pause.

Home? Asher…

Trinity. I need you here.

What do you mean?

Can you come?

I can. But—

A click.

Asher? Are you there? Asher?

Dead air.

Chapter One

My Journal

Monday

I’ve been keeping a secret! (Is it weird to keep a secret from your own diary? Maybe. But I don’t care. I’m too excited to care!) Last month, I met someone. Well. I guess met is the wrong word. We haven’t seen each other face-to-face. (Not yet.) Only online. And we’re still just going by our screen names. But I’ve told him more about myself than I’ve ever told anyone. He said he’s worried about disappointing me in person. I don’t know how he could think that. I’ve never felt a connection like this before. Anyway…that’s not the reason that I’ve been keeping my lips zipped (and my pen capped). At first, it was just because I was worried it wasn’t going to work out. I’m not after a casual hookup, and you know how these things can go. (Case in point, that guy who was old enough to be my dad…but let’s not revisit that…bygones, right?) But mostly, the reason I’ve kept quiet is because of you-know-who. He’s been completely up in my face lately. I swear to God, it’s almost worse since we went our separate ways. And if he finds out I met someone online, he’ll go ballistic. Literally. Anyway, I’m trying to focus on the good stuff. I’ll update again when I have more news.

Love, Me

Chapter Two

Something was very fucking wrong. As soon as he put his palm on the door handle, he knew. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was experience. Or maybe there was something more tangible behind it. A subtle, physical change that he’d picked up on subconsciously. Whatever the case… He. Just. Fucking. Knew.

Except the knowing wasn’t enough.

A second too late, he dropped his hand. The door came flying open. The heavy wood—they sure as shit didn’t construct stuff like that anymore—slammed straight into his forehead. The blow sent him to the ground; the pain paralyzed his limbs and made his eyes water.

Then…there she was. The girl.

Chapter Three

Whimsy, British Columbia, isn’t a tiny town. But approaching the outskirts, it would be almost impossible to know this. For one thing, it’s buried in the mountains just west of the Similkameen Valley. A deceiving map dot that wouldn’t make someone look twice if not for the cutesy name. And the tree-covered terrain, the reems of wildlife, and sheer isolation abet the illusion, adding to a mask that’s already worn well.

Even the lone sign announcing its presence appears to be a joke at first glance. The wooden placard sits at the top of a pavement hill. It’s brown and painted with faded white lettering.

Welcome to Whimsy! Home of the Walruses!

If not for the second part of the greeting, it might be seen as a throwback hail to some now defunct village. Maybe a Gold Rush town, maybe a mining community. Maybe something even less relevant to today’s world. But one thing the sign doesn’t do at all is give away what’s beyond the crest. When a visitor arrives for the first time, seeing what lies in the sunken valley below can be a shock. The multitudes of rubber marks on the concrete at the top of the hill attest to the fact.

That’s not to say that the surprise is unpleasant. From the high-up vantage point, Whimsy is splendidly sprawled out.

Three corners of the town are taken up by low-density residential neighborhoods—each with its own economic standing. Set between the housing communities is a bona fide downtown core. It’s an almost startling hub, located right in the center of Whimsy. The miniature nod to city life spills into commercial property in a rather abrupt way. Turn left at Fifteenth Ave, and bam! There it is. An outlet mall, a few restaurants, and a series of standalone stores. And finally, past all of that, is Whimsy U—provider of the unusually named mascot. But as impressive as the view is, the most significant part of Whimsy is actually unable to be seen from above. Tucked down on the other side of the mountain, separated by a thriving river, is Whimsy Resort. It’s what drives the economy. What brings in the people. It fills the stores and creates a hearty amount of tourism, particularly in the summer months. It’s the town’s biggest claim to fame, as well as the locals’ biggest source of pride, and one of the reasons I left Whimsy in the first place.

Sorry, Walruses, I say, tightening my hands on the steering wheel as I take a particularly tight turn. But you know what they say… It’s not you, it’s me.

My facetious statement is at least partially true. I’m not naive enough to think that all of my bad memories stem directly from Whimsy’s tourism hotspot. I’m sure that there are four-hundred and eighty-two other reasons that I left my hometown. Give or take. And those are all the same things that have kept me from returning all these years. Or maybe it’s more like four-hundred and eighty-three reasons. Assuming, that is, that I want to add the promise to myself that I’d never come back. No matter what.

Fat lot of good that’s doing for you at this exact moment, Calhoun, I say to myself as my odometer registers another click.

I’m trying to stay light. Optimistic. But my mind is churning. And although I’ve mostly been thinking about Asher Phillip—worrying about him and the unnerving phone call that I received hours earlier—the fact that I’ll soon spy the welcome sign and its hill has made my thoughts shift. They’re filled with all the things that should be keeping me from continuing with my journey. Like a highlight reel, but the opposite. An anti-highlight reel. A lowlight reel. Bloopers. All the scenes that should’ve been cut out but were left in instead.

There’s my childhood, or lack thereof.

There’s my lecherous boss at the pancake place where I had my first job.

There’s the asshole counselor at Whimsy Secondary who told me I’d wind up incarcerated before I ever managed to vote in my first federal election.

There’s the fact that this whole place has always put its reputation over the safety of its residents.

And a whole lot more.

I acknowledge the thoughts with the barest nod, and then forcefully steer my musing away before my brain can sink into that particular abyss.

A little fewer than fifteen years have passed since the day I walked away from my life in Whimsy. And yes, there’s a possibility that some—or maybe most—people might think that’s enough time to let at least a few of those things go. But I have a simple two-word reply to that. You’re wrong. So very wrong. There are some ties that need to be permanently rent. Some things that can’t be forgiven or forgotten. And I don’t necessarily mean that I need to be the one on the giving end of those two things.

My eyes drift to the dashboard clock. I’ve made excellent time. I’ve been driving for three hours and thirteen minutes. Which means that I’ve had three hours and thirteen minutes to reconsider. Three hours and thirteen minutes to turn around. Or to send someone to check on Asher in my stead. It’s true that I’ve cut ties with Whimsy, but I’m sure that I could’ve tracked down an old acquaintance with the magic of social media. But I know that if I was going to change my mind, I would’ve done it by now. And each time the thought crosses my mind, I hear Asher’s voice in my head, saying that he needs me, and that alone keeps me on the road. Maybe it even makes me drive a little faster.

If not for my concern, there would be some irony there. Because it was he who’d encouraged me to make my dream of moving away from Whimsy a reality. For the sake of my future. He saw more for me, he’d said.

More than what? I’d teased. More than you?

And he’d threaded a strand of my dark hair around one of his strong fingers as he’d replied, So much more than me.

The statement had broken my twenty-something heart a little. For the first time, I’d felt my own naivety. I’d been a world-weary, sarcasm-dripping cynic when set amongst my peers, but beside him, I was little more than a child. A lovestruck, starry-eyed child. A man like Asher, interested in a girl like me? I’d been lucky to have him for the two months that I called him mine. It was a privilege to have him pay so much attention to my future, too. And of course, he was right about me and the more. Why wouldn’t he have been? For the duration of what I’m totally happy to refer to as a torrid affair, Professor Asher Phillip had come to know me well. I’d let him in. I hadn’t been as close to anyone since. Which is probably the reason that his unexplained plea for my presence had me tossing items into a suitcase and speeding away from my apartment in Vancouver in under twenty minutes.

Maybe he’d known that my acquiescence would be immediate. Maybe it was why he’d asked me, specifically, to come. Because I honestly can’t imagine a scenario where my old teacher—holder of multiple doctorates, seducer of minds and bodies—would beg or cajole.

As I’ve done an awful lot over the last few hours, I picture his face as it was then. Two decades my senior, despite his dark hair and smooth face. Forty-two to my almost twenty-three. Warm eyes, the color of the sky and full of intelligence that was so visible that it was almost breathtaking. Not terribly tall, nor wide-shouldered by any stretch. Yet still a commanding presence. Charismatic. Passionate about justice and law and all the things that fueled me to pursue my career. It was impossible not to fall in love with him each and every time he lectured. And when he deigned to give someone all of his attention…there was little better than that.

Even remembering it now makes my heartbeat speed up in a way that borders on embarrassing.

I think about the very last time I saw him. He was standing in the parking lot of the gas station at the edge of town. He’d had his hand—whose whorls and warmth were more than familiar to me—resting against the small of another woman’s back. He was laughing. She’d tossed her mane of blood-red hair over her shoulder and shaken her head at him. And even though we’d amicably parted weeks earlier, it had stung to see it. But it was good all the same. Because that final moment gave me a cleaner break from my past than I would’ve thought possible. I’d shoved the middle finger at Whimsy and its dead-end pretention, and I’d stuffed Asher into a mental lockbox with all the rest of the stuff I didn’t want to remember.

But now he’s pulling you back in.

Why? I wonder aloud.

I’ve asked myself the same thing countless times since leaving my place in the city. I haven’t come up with a good enough reason. Or maybe just not any reason that’s good. But I have ruled out the idea that it’s anything directly life-threatening. Asher’s academic speciality is literally criminology. There’s no way that he’d call me if what he really needed in the moment was 9-1-1. But the only explanation that wants to stick is no better than a direct threat.

He’s sick.

My stomach flips. Despite the way I’ve compartmentalized that chapter of my life, the thought of losing him permanently makes my heart want to break all over again. Except there’s a hole in that suggestion, too. Because an illness—even a terminal one—doesn’t explain why Asher would ask me if I remember Savannah. So as the tree-heavy scenery flashes by, I try yet again to come up with something else. Anything else, really. Instead, my mind insists on coming back to all the reasons I should be staying away. On all that I’ve accomplished, and why I’ve never looked back.

In an unconscious affirmation of my choices, I glance toward the glovebox. The item inside is my proof of resilience. Of success. Of strength and my ability to keep not only myself safe, but also those around me. It holds power.

Even while you’re on administrative leave?

The thought slips in before I’m able to stop it, and I roll my eyes. But in the solitude afforded by the drive, I can admit that it’s a sore spot. Yesterday’s conversation with my boss, Sergeant Kathy Daniels, is fresh in my mind.

Trinity, she’d said. Do you know why you’re here in my office?

Presumably to drink a toast to my remarkable ability to put meatheads where they belong? I’d replied.

Her gray ponytail shook with her denial. No. We’re here because you gave a particular ‘meathead’ a black eye.

I’ll drink to that, too.

Can you drop the sarcasm for a second? Someone called the higher-ups, and they told them about Link’s black eye.

I’d frowned to cover the unsettling feeling that sliced through me. Link Haley was my most recent arrest. A man who’d been literally choking a woman when I caught up to him.

Someone? I echoed.

An anonymous tip. And whoever it was, they suggested that Internal Affairs look into all of your cases that involve battery against women.

Why?

Heather and Doug Pearson.

I’d sucked in a breath, and it had required serious effort to keep my expression still.

Even now, as the husband’s face fills my mind, I feel the furious pang in my chest. His ex-wife’s murder was my very first case as a detective, and he’d been an evil son of a bitch. A smart, conniving, arrogant asshole who’d spent years torturing Heather before filling a hotel room with her blood and somehow disposing of her corpse so effectively that it was still missing to this very day. And yes, I’d gone out of my way to trick him. To manipulate him. Something he deserved to the fullest. I got the confession. Pearson got life with no parole. And he was killed in prison just three short months later, and I’m probably not as sorry about that as I should be.

I squeeze the steering wheel and replay the next part of the unpleasant interaction with my boss.

I’m not saying I disagree with your methods, Trinity, she’d added. Or even that I think you did anything close to wrong. Not with Doug Pearson eight years ago or with the meathead last night.

But? I said, because I knew one was coming.

But this isn’t about me, or what I think of you, she replied. This is about the integrity of the whole station, and about every case that we’ve closed since you’ve been here. Years’ worth of stuff.

I’d stared at her, angry and dumbfounded. She was right. A scandal involving one officer might as well be a million scandals rocking the entire force. But who the hell would do this? A jealous co-worker? Some vindictive ex-con?

I still don’t know the answer. But somehow, that betrayal managed not to be the worst part.

And I should tell you something else, as well, Kathy had said. Whoever made this report referred to the Pearson and Haley cases as ‘bookends.’

The words had frozen me. Bookends. It implied a beginning and an end, and I hadn’t liked the sound of that at all.

Am I being fired, Sergeant? I’d asked the question casually, but my heart felt like it might literally stop beating.

Jesus, no, Kathy told me quickly. You’re on paid leave until I have this shit sorted out. I’m going to fast track Link Haley as best I can. And we’ll go from there.

How long?

I don’t know, she admitted. A couple of weeks, maybe more.

You can’t be serious, I said.

I wish I wasn’t. And you have to stay out of it. Squeaky clean.

What the hell am I supposed to do?

Her shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug. Go home. Get some rest. It’s two o’clock in the morning, and you’ve been on shift for almost fourteen hours.

That isn’t what I meant, I stated.

I’m aware.

We’d both gone silent. My boss had looked as frustrated as I’d felt. Usually, Kathy and I are on the same side. Almost always, actually. As the only two women in our station who hold a rank above constable, it’s no surprise that we often band together. But right then, it’d been impossible to appreciate the solidarity. I’d barely been able to muster up a tight nod before I’d swivelled angrily toward the door. Her voice had stopped me again, though, before I could make my escape.

Trinity, hang on, she’d said.

I’d turned back. What now? You want to give me more bad news?

I didn’t want to give you bad news to start out with, she replied, sounding sincere as she let out a sigh. You’re one of the best detectives on the force, Calhoun. You know that, right?

I try. My words were dry and slightly bitter.

The thing is…you could be better.

Gee, thanks.

"What I mean is that you might actually become the best, if you ever decide to deal with that chip on your shoulder."

I don’t—

You do. And I’m telling you this as a friend. Maybe you know it and are ignoring it, or maybe you’re truly in denial. But either way, that chip is the thing that holds you back. Not scumbags like Pearson and Haley or all the other assholes who you put away in between those two cases.

I hadn’t answered. What could I have said to her claim? An argument would’ve only made her seem right. But an agreement would have been that much worse. And truthfully, if the roles had been reversed, I’d have done exactly the same thing. So I kept all of that to myself.

See you when this is over, Kathy, I said stiffly.

She opened her mouth, closed it, then cleared her throat. Soon.

I had refused to reply. I’d refused to look back as I exited, too. And that—plus a quick signature on some red-tape paperwork—was it. She hadn’t asked for my gun and badge in some dramatic way like it happens in the movies. I’d stored my weapon in my locker just as I always do, and I’d tucked my shield into my purse. In fact, it wasn’t until I was leaving my house this morning that I’d thought about either thing. Right before I’d locked my apartment door, some part of me had whispered that I might be wishing for my gun while in Whimsy. I’d brushed it off, run back inside to grab my badge, then hopped into my car. But recalling the feeling now, an unexpected and oddly apprehensive shiver hits me. In fact, the chill is so thorough that it runs through my entire body, starting at my hairline and working its way down. And at the same moment that it hits my toes, a horn blares noisily several times in a row.

Shit! I exclaim, jerking my eyes back to the road just as an SUV swerves around me. What the hell are you—

I cut myself off when I realize that the other driver’s angry panic is fully justified. I’ve crossed the center line. Belatedly, I yank the wheel and pull my car back into its own lane. Mere seconds later, I spy a semi-truck coming down the road at breakneck speed.

Shit, I repeat, this time in a mutter. What kind of homecoming is it going to be if you arrive in a body bag, Calhoun?

I can’t even manage to muster up a smile at my own gallows humor. My heart is hammering unreasonably hard, and I can tell it’s not going to slow anytime soon. Not without some encouragement. So I flick on my signal and pull over, coasting to a stop on the gravel shoulder. I expect to feel a bit of relief. Instead, the sudden inertia seems to throw off my equilibrium. Wooziness hits me. And as I blink at the wobbly horizon, I realize that aside from a single stop for fuel—for myself and my car—it’s the first time I’ve really stepped off the gas since leaving Vancouver. When I’d hit the road, it’d still been dark. At some point, dawn had come and gone. It should be fully daylight now, but the sun remains hidden, covered from view by a sky full of chilly gray clouds. It’s no wonder that exhaustion is pulling at me.

I deliberately let my eyes sink shut. Drawing in several measured breaths, I count down from thirty. Once. Then again. When a full minute has passed, I slowly open my eyes. And I’m glad to see that the world is as solid as it ought to be. But I no sooner experience relief than I’m struck by the feeling that I’m being watched. The chill comes back, different now. Every pore tightens with it, and even though I tell myself that I’m being ridiculous, I dart a look around anyway.

The dim sky is oppressive. Trees line the winding road, providing ample coverage for anyone who might choose to use it that way. And even though I don’t see anything suspicious, the feeling doesn’t ease. Resisting an urge to double-check that my doors are locked, I crane my neck and scan the horizon. There’s nothing to see but greenery and the dip of the road and the mountains in the distance. I hold still. Under me, my car vibrates lightly. The accompanying noise isn’t overwhelming, but it might be just loud enough to drown out other, fainter sounds. So I turn the key into the off position, and I listen harder. The silence is almost absolute.

All right, Calhoun, I say aloud to myself. "You’re not even in Whimsy yet, and you’re already losing it."

I’m about to concede temporary insanity when I hear the rev of an engine. It’s a forceful, purposeful kind of noise. And the forest makes it echo a little, so it’s hard to tell the source. But I do know that it’s somewhere nearby. My breath hangs a little in my throat. I’m tense. The spin of tires on pavement carries to my ears. And now I do glance at my door locks. They’re in a secure position. But I immediately wish I hadn’t looked away from my windshield, because right at that moment, there’s a flicker of movement. And it’s coming from way up ahead on the road. Just barely in sight. And somehow, it’s inside the forest. I blink as the sound and sight merge. A vehicle—dark in color and otherwise indistinguishable—bursts from the trees a hundred feet or more in front of me, then flies onto the road. I’m so startled that I don’t react. I simply watch the bumper and unlit taillights as they disappear over the next hill.

What the hell?

My heart is jumping wildly. I tell myself that whoever the driver is—and wherever they’re going in such a hurry—it can’t possibly have anything to do with me. Why would it? It’s an absurd thought. But there’s a part of my brain that remains wary. And that’s the part that wins out.

With a quick shoulder check, I turn the ignition, put my car into drive, and set my foot on the gas pedal with the intention of chasing down the other vehicle. At the very least, I can reassure myself that someone isn’t tracking my moves into town. But the moment I ease onto the road, I realize my chances of doing that are slim. I don’t even know what I’m looking for. It could be a car or a truck or an SUV. I caught that little of the other vehicle. I don’t even know if the driver is a man or a woman, or young or old. And they have a head start to boot.

Dammit.

As if to prove my point, three cars pass me going in the other direction, and any of them could be the one I want to catch up to. So I shift my focus, and instead I try to find the spot where the driver had exited the trees.

I cruise along slowly. I let my gaze trail over the righthand side of the road. And just a minute later, I find a possible location in the form of a dirt and gravel cut-out.

When I pull over, my suspicion is solidified. Even from inside my car, I can see fresh tire tracks. I direct a small frown toward them, and I shake my head at my inability to stop being a cop for five minutes. My fingers tap out a rhythm on my thigh.

Should I get out?

As I think about it—leaning toward a yes—I start to look around. But I stop before I can really get going. Because quite suddenly, I recognize my surroundings.

A new sensation rolls in. This one is heady and surreal, and it overtakes my concern about the vehicle that I’ll probably never see again.

I feel as though I can’t possibly be where I am already. I’ve barely left my house. I’ve only just closed my door and waved at my neighbor, who was coming in from a night shift at the hospital. And yet here I am. In this spot of all spots. The slope of the terrain is one I’ve seen too many times to count, and if I roll down my window, the crisp, autumn air—always tinged with a waxy, candle-burning scent in this spot—will waft in. But I associate nothing pleasant with the idea. Just the opposite.

For almost five years, I averted my eyes each and every time I passed this space. I so thoroughly avoided looking that it seems that I ought not remember it so well. But I do. With a vividness that throws me back to that very moment.

The first thing I see is the crime scene tape, strung from one tree to another. Its yellowness strikes me with foreboding, and I slam on my brakes. I climb from the car. My feet move toward the inevitable.

You shouldn’t be here, calls someone.

I want to scream that the real problem is that I was supposed to be there before. Really, really supposed to be. As a friend. As a shoulder. As another human being. But I say nothing. Not even