The Haunted House of Hillman: (H2 OH)

By Frank F. Weber

Maddie Dehler demonstrated one of the most remarkable survival escapes in history. Still horror returns again and again to the same county in rural Minnesota, and eventually to the home Julia Adams built. The cases go cold until BCA Investigator, Jon Frederick, is called in to find a common thread to a series of crimes that appear unrelated. Jon's relationship with Serena is put to the test by an old "friend." Serena makes a mistake with profound costs. Jon, despite his aversion to hauntings, and strains on his personal life, finds his way through the fog to solve the case. Based on a true case that eluded resolution for years.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798888955567

Book preview

1

MADISON MADDIE DEHLER

5:30 P.M. SUNDAY, DECEMBER 4, 2011

CHRISTMAS POINT WILD RICE COMPANY

14803 EDGEWOOD DRIVE NORTH, BAXTER

Minnesota weather could be wicked, and the news could be just as cruel. Let’s start with the weather. The bitter, arctic air bit down on my bare fingers as I fumbled for my keys. Good lord, it was 21 degrees! I understood it was December, but we just had 40-plus degrees three days in a row, and I was still mowing my lawn in November. The freezing wind burned my ears. I needed to keep a hat and gloves with me. Winter always came sooner than I was ready.

The Occupy Wall Street protests were ending, which was disheartening to me. Nobody I knew but me cared about this, primarily because they didn’t understand the significance of it. The protests were about the growing inequality between the wealthiest and the rest of us. Last year was the first time the top 1% of Americans had more money than the entire middle class combined (46% of the U.S. population). What people didn’t get was that the violence of the 1980s and 1990s was the result of a lack of opportunity for our poorest and, mark my words, it was coming back.

I started my car and rubbed my hands together, hoping somehow, they’d spontaneously combust. My back was aching from a long day of standing on the concrete floor at Fleet Farm, operating the cash register all day. On the upside, most people were in a good mood, which made the shift easier. I decided to call my husband, Tyson Hattie. For Ty, the biggest problem following my refusal to take his name, when we married, was the Minnesota Vikings football team. I should explain, keeping my birthname was nothing personal. I just didn’t want to be called Maddie Hattie. I pointed out that if he took my last name, Dehler, he could be called TD, for Touchdown. To put it mildly, Ty wasn’t wild about it. He took the suggestion as an assault on his ego and was irritated about it for months. I knew a little about football and saw the writing on the wall when the Vikes signed an over-thehill quarterback, Donovan McNabb, hoping he would give them a season like Randall Cunningham or Brett Favre did in the past. McNabb hadn’t thrown a touchdown pass in the last two minutes of a game for eight years. After six games of watching McNabb bounce passes in front of receivers, the Vikings cut him. This left the franchise with a young quarterback, Christian Ponder, who didn’t have the benefit of a preseason with the starters.

I called Ty to see if we could enjoy a night together, but as anticipated, he was in a mood. He grumbled and I could barely hear him over the loud background noise: Groundhog’s Day again. Ponder threw an interception on our last drive. Denver returned it to our twenty-yard line, kicked a field goal and won 35-32. The only good news is Rocori graduate, Eric Decker, got his first win of the year for the Broncos. For us, it’s our fourth loss in a row.

I softened my tone, I’m sorry I’ve been so distant, lately. I’ve been so tired, and the extra shifts haven’t helped.

Ty cut me off. I can’t hear you. I could tell he was annoyed. It didn’t make any sense that a bunch of overpaid athletes would ruin his day by underperforming —but they would.

I raised my voice and offered, Anything I can do to cheer you up?

I’m at the Fort Bar. Stop in. I don’t even care if you’re still wearing the hunter orange.

All right. I love— The call was cut off. Our work smocks were bright orange, with Fleet Farm written in black, block letters. I’d just leave my jacket on.

I’d had a sadness that crept inside of me over the last couple months. Cut me open and I’d bleed blue. I had no excuses. People who knew my family told me I was so lucky. They were the happy, gregarious people you saw at parties in holiday movies. And I would’ve killed to have this body as an adolescent—Barbie-like breasts on a thin frame. Instead, when people were pairing off, I was built like a prepubescent boy. I’m dying—hair first. I’d just hit 23 and my hair was thinning and dull, fraying out like a worn appliance cord. I tied it back because I was starting to look like my imaginary picture of Shakira’s grandmother. I pinched myself. Enough self-pity. Grandma used to tell me, It only takes a moment to turn your life around.

I decided to surprise Ty by picking up sandwiches and salads from Christmas Point in Baxter. They have good food, but I could never get him to go there because somehow, he got it in his head that men don’t shop at Christmas Point. I wanted to give him a little more time to get over the Vikings game. I also didn’t feel like cooking, and it gave me a chance to look for Christmas gift ideas. I was looking forward to a night alone with my husband.

5:35 P.M.

THE FORT STEAKHOUSE

643 FRONT STREET, FORT RIPLEY

WHEN I DROVE THROUGH FORT RIPLEY, Tyson’s truck was still at The Fort Steakhouse. I wasn’t in the mood to sit at the bar, but I thought I’d be cordial and stop in to let him know I was on my way home. The game had been over for two hours, so maybe he had enough time commiserating with the boys to join me. I flipped down my visor with the lighted mirror to make sure my long, blonde hair remained in the low messy bun I’d fumbled into place before heading to work this morning.

An old, red Chevy truck slowly cruised by. Fort drew a good crowd for the Vikes; he was probably seeing if I was going to pull out so he could park.

The bun looked effortless but had taken me ten tries this morning to get it to look this way. I wasn’t going to mess with it again. Good enough.

When I stepped into the bar, I immediately spotted Ty. He was built like a big blonde bull, so he was hard to miss, sitting at a table with his friends from the lumberyard. Ty wasn’t frustrated, as I anticipated. He was giddy and I was damn mad about it. The new gal at the lumberyard, platinum hair raining down from underneath her baseball cap, was sitting at Ty’s side, directly facing him rather than the group. The manner in which Darlene affectionately dar-leaned into him, knees spread, made me want to tear that slut apart. Tyson was drinking it all in. I wanted to scream, Noooo!!!

My face flushed as I stood in silent misery.

One of Ty’s friends tapped him on the shoulder, in an effort to get him to look my way. Ty was too enamored with his new playmate to give me a glance

I could feel my blood pressure rocketing and I was seconds away from bursting into tears. So, what did I do? In my head, I was fighting like a wildcat. But there was a canyon between what I thought and what I did. Disheartened, I slinked back out of the bar. I didn’t want to make a scene. I’d end up looking like a blubbering fool and he’d act like I was crazy.

6:30 P.M.

JOHNNY C’S SPORTS BAR

108 BROADWAY EAST, LITTLE FALLS

MY SADNESS WHIRLED INTO RAGE, so I was steaming when I drove into my hometown of Little Falls. I stopped at Johnny C’s, a bar just off the main drag. The bar had a few tables of Vikings fans in their purple jerseys. The lights were dimmed and I sat away from others, at the darkest high-top table, to match my mood. Ring of Fire played on the jukebox. Within ten minutes, I’d pounded down a glass of Starry Eyed Cream Ale. This is stupid! I was too miserable for conversation and getting drunk wouldn’t resolve a damn thing. I was about to head home when a second glass was set in front of me.

Johnny told me, It’s on that gentleman. He nodded toward the bar.

A man with thick, wild hair and a buffalo plaid shirt slid onto the barstool next to mine. He was physically fit, but shorter than I and incredibly unsure of himself. Head bowed in submission, he seemed to be looking at me through his eyebrows when he asked, Mind if I ax you something?

Feeling bitter, I obnoxiously remarked, Ax? Aren’t you a little too white to be using that lingo?

Embarrassed, he explained, They were saying ax in England long before they were saying it in America. The very first English translation of the Bible spelled ask, A-X-E. It wasn’t until Shakespeare’s plays and the King James Version that it was switched to A-S-K. He apologized, Sorry for the mispronunciation. Something I picked up from my dear old mum.

All right, ax me something, I challenged.

He didn’t seem to know how to respond to my brazen banter. Having a rough day?

Now I felt bad. He was just a socially awkward man trying to comfort me. He wasn’t a bad-looking young man—solid chin; strong jaw; high cheekbones. He looked like a guy who’d spent the day chopping wood and he decided to stop in for a cold glass of beer before heading home. He was younger than I first thought—likely a couple years younger than I.

I’m not trying to bust your balls, he said quietly.

I laughed at his ineptitude. Not possible.

He sojourned forward, I’m Harry, as in Prince Harry . . .

8:45 P.M.

After two more ales and an hour of cumbrous commiserating with this pauper’s version of a prince, I thanked him and told him I had to go. I never drove after two drinks, so I needed to start my trek home. Tyson and I lived east of Little Falls, so I had a long, sobering walk ahead of me. Maybe I overreacted. Ty and I had both been busy lately and we hadn’t had much time together. I had it in my head that tonight we’d make up for it. Why was our lack of intimacy always my problem to solve?

After sweating in my jacket in the bar for a couple hours, the winter air was even more brutal when I stepped outside. A brisk northeaster cut through my clothing, and I chastised myself once again for not having a hat and gloves. I blew warm air into my cupped hands and stuffed them deep into the pockets of my lightweight burgundy jacket. Another stupid choice, not wearing a warmer coat.

As I walked by Coborn’s, a beat-up red Chevy truck pulled up next to me. I thought I saw that same truck at The Fort. Harry lowered the passenger side window and asked, Need a lift? I turn north after the Ballroom, but I can give you a ride that far.

Eager for warmth, I said, Yeah, that would be great. Thank you. I climbed in and asked, Why are men such dicks?

As Harry pulled on down the road, he maintained his monotone. It’s just in men to have a strop. You can’t really blame ‘em.

Confused, I asked, Strop?

Tantrum.

What language is that?

We drove passed the ballroom. Ignoring my question, he asked, Do you wanna vent a little more? We can just pull over for a bit in my warm truck.

Sure. I could use a man’s perspective. Ty had never been much of a talker. Even though Harry was socially inept, he wasn’t a fool.

9:05 P.M.

JEWEL ROAD, LITTLE FALLS

HARRY STEERED HIS TRUCK INTO a field approach.

I unhooked my seatbelt and leaned against the passenger door so I could face him.

He slowly drove behind a row of pine trees.

I don’t think we need to hide behind a grove of trees to talk. I don’t care if anybody sees us.

I’m a little shy. He shifted into park and removed his seatbelt. And I said vent, not talk. This was when I first noticed his creepy sneer. He leaned toward me.

Shocked, I quickly raised my hands in protective retreat and declared, I am not having sex with you!

Harry stared resentful daggers at me, as if I owed him something for a few ounces of beer.

Hurricane Maddie was about to cut loose. I was sick of being disrespected. I wasn’t some wimpy little girl who was just going to lie there and take it. I scowled defiantly at him, crossing my arms across my chest. You’d have to kill me first.

He didn’t say a word, but the emptiness in his eyes shot icicles of fear down my spine. Just give me a ride back to Highway 27, I demanded.

All right. He remained strangely cool. When he bent down, I thought he was going to adjust his seat. Instead, he pulled out a revolver and with a smarmy grin, uttered, Have it your way.

Somebody gave this grifter a gun and now he thinks he’s hot shit. With gritty insolence, I shouted, You can go to hell! and reached for the door handle.

And without warning, he fired.

My neck burned like it had caught on fire. I shouldered the door open and slid out.

He came across the seat and fired again.

It felt like an ice pick had been stabbed into the side of my head. He’d made a direct hit, but I ran. I slid down the dark, steep slope of the ditch and stayed there, fearing I’d be an easy target on the road.

Harry fired again in my direction, but this time he missed.

I just kept running.

And then I heard his truck start, so I stopped and sank back into the snow along the ditch wall. He was pulling out. For a moment, I felt relief.

The relief was short-lived. Damn it! His truck was plowing through the ditch toward me. His headlights on this white snow would make me stand out like Merlot on a white blouse.

I leaned against the embankment and crept on. It was only a matter of time before the light caught up to me and I couldn’t outrun the truck. I was in trouble. I stumbled and fell to my hands and knees; as I tried to find purchase to push myself up, my hand felt something metal and sharp beneath the snow. There was an opening. It was a culvert—only about a foot and a half in diameter. The bottom third of it was caked in frozen mud, but I squeezed my body inside, headfirst, to avoid being spotted.

It was dark and suffocating, and the stupidity of this choice slowly registered. I was momentarily out of sight, but once he found me, I was like a cow in the chute at a packing plant—dead meat. I could see a faint light ahead at the end of the culvert. Arms reaching out ahead of my pinched torso, I used my toes to inch my body forward.

Behind me, I could hear the truck pass and then stop. It was idling. I could picture Harry walking back along the ditch behind me. With any luck, his four-wheeling destroyed my tracks.

I squeezed ahead, for the first time appreciating that I wasn’t wearing a thick winter jacket. Now I know what tooth-paste feels like. When my hands finally reached the opening on the other side of the road, I grabbed the bare metal and pulled myself ahead until I rolled out into the snow in the ditch.

Suddenly, light flashed above me through the culvert opening. I leaned against the embankment, out of sight. The spotlight lit up a bear bait sign nailed to a tree in front of me. Great! If I escape this psychopath, I could be eaten by bears.

Finally, the stream of light went off. The truck shifted into drive, and I could hear it plowing along through the ditch on the other side of the road. I decided to take my chances with the bears and stumbled into the forest of evergreens. When I touched my forehead, I felt warm blood. This isn’t good. I was drifting in and out of consciousness but surged forward. I couldn’t chance that he would drive back down this side of the ditch and find me.

I finally came to a rest at the base of a large pine tree and dug for my phone. The sound of the truck was now in the distance. My inability to walk was my new enemy. Will I be attacked by bears, freeze to death, or bleed to death? I’m not that far from Little Falls. Maybe I still have reception.

I dialed 911. And there it was. Thank you! I spoke quickly, I’ve been shot. It took all of my energy to focus. East of Little Falls. North of 27. Jewel Road— I was exhausted and the pain in my head was so incredibly agonizing. I could hear the dispatcher talking, but her words didn’t register. I laid my face into the snow. The cold lessoned the agony. And then I fell into a deep sleep . . .

2

TONY SHILETO

11:30 P.M. SUNDAY, DECEMBER 4, 2011

JEWEL ROAD NORTH, LITTLE FALLS

The dispatcher was tracing the call for me as I gunned my unmarked squad east of Little Falls on Highway 27. When I turned north on Jewel Road, the dispatcher informed me, She’s somewhere in that area. I’m sorry, but this is the best I can do.

Not good enough. Please find me something. I got out of my rusting Chevy with my mag flashlight and jogged along the road, carefully listening and looking for any sign of life. God, if you’re up there, you gotta help me. There was a woman dying here and I didn’t have a clue which direction to head. Maybe I should’ve driven further down the road. I was about to turn back when my flashlight spotted tire tracks leading off the road onto a field approach. I curiously stepped down into the ditch, immediately sinking up to my knees in the snow. It was clear a truck had plowed through the ditch. As one of my favorite colleagues out in Colorado, Joe Kendra, would say, My, my, my—now this is something. I decided to climb back up onto the tar. It was quicker to look down over the ditch from the road than to trod along through the foot of snow ahead of me.

When I reached the top of the embankment, I saw a small beam of light coming from the woods across the way. I crossed the road and observed footprints leading into the forest. There was blood on the tracks.

I raced along the trail with hope that somehow, I could find this poor woman alive. My flashlight caught the form of a young woman lying face-first under a towering pine. As I approached, I noticed a halo of blood in the snow around her head. I wanted to cry. I carefully turned her over and found a face caked with ice crystals. I felt for a pulse in her neck and couldn’t believe it. I immediately called for an ambulance. She had been shot in the neck and the head, but somehow was still alive. This young woman owned a Blackberry OS 6—a feckin’ cell phone with a flashlight on it. She had turned the light on and stuck it in the snow, facing the road so we could find her. I needed one of those. I used my stocking hat to pack the bullet wound in her head. With my gloves, I sealed and put pressure on the wound through her neck. What had this poor woman done to deserve such a horrible fate? Sadly, I knew the most probable answer—nothing. Some narcissistic jerk decided she wasn’t giving him what he wanted, so he tried to take her life.

When I brushed snow off her pretty face, I realized I knew her. It was one of the Dehler girls. They were salt of the earth, decent people. If I found the guy who did this, I swore I’d tear strips off him.

Even though it felt like forever, the deputies from the Morrison County Sheriff’s Department and an ambulance from St Gabriel’s Hospital were only minutes behind me. They were better at administering first aid than I, so when they arrived, I stepped aside.

I followed her tracks back to the road and was proud of the Dehler girl when I saw they ended at the culvert. She gave him a hell of a run for his money. I crossed the road and decided to burn some of my anger off by walking along the vehicle tracks in the ditch. I envisioned a domestic, which ended when the prick shot his lover. She probably dove out of the truck trying to save herself.

I thought about the sorry state of my life. My wife, Doris, left me, accusing me of being married to my job. If that was the case, it was an abusive marriage. My son, Marcus, didn’t visit me, saying I didn’t have time for him. Being an investigator meant having to abandon my family to be at crime scenes. I’d never forget the heartbreaking look on my son’s face when I left his eighth birthday party. Even though I said I’d be back as soon as I could, he knew and I knew, I was gone for the night. Still, if I was honest with myself, Doris did well with Marcus. Great kid. Now, a good man. It was hard to explain to people who made family a priority the reason I felt my work was more important. There was so much pressure from work, at the time. When Doris left with my son, I buried myself in investigations. I tried to forget about them and they tried to forget about me. I think they were more successful. All I had now was the service I provided for victims and the safety I offered the community which, at the moment, wasn’t impressive.

And then I heard it. Ahead, in the dark of the night, gears of a truck were grinding. Someone was trying to get himself unstuck. There was a reason the driver left his lights off. The asshole didn’t get away. I called for backup and sprinted ahead.

I saw a truck rocking back and forth, from forward to reverse, trying to break free. I drew my gun and, in the darkness, made my way to the driver’s side.

Sirens from the squads just down the road headed my direction.

The driver quickly hopped out of the truck, gun in hand, ready to run.

I yelled, Drop that gun, or I swear I will sprinkle this snow with enough red to make it look like a Christmas cookie. He hesitated, so I followed with, Try me, motherfucker. I am two seconds away from ending your life.

He dropped the gun.

3

SERENA BELL

8:10 A.M. FRIDAY, DECEMBER 23, 2011

HIGHWAY 25, BECKER

My used Impala was toe-to-toe in taillights on Highway 10 headed north. One of thousands on the road to spend Christmas with family. Although my sedan was technically gold mist in color, everybody’s car was the color of road salt, highlighted with drippings of black ice hanging from the undercarriage. Still, pleasant holiday memories played like a classic Hallmark movie through my mind. I exited the freeway just north of Becker and cut north through the forest of pines on Highway 25.

I was listening to the Bob Hughes morning show on KNSI and enjoying his interview with 25-year-old Maddie Dehler. This was the first interview Maddie granted since being assaulted. Maddie and I were close to the same age, but I doubt I would’ve had the resilience to survive being shot, squeeze through a culvert, and then signal my whereabouts to the police.

The damage the bullet had done to Maddie’s throat gave her voice a gravelly whisper. She solemnly said, Unexpected comments can bring back intense flashbacks.

Bob gently probed, Would you mind sharing an example?

On the news last night, they announced the Vikings lost their sixth game in a row. My blood started racing and suddenly I was scared to death. And then I remembered, on the day I was shot, the Vikings lost to the Broncos. The news triggered that memory.

Bob comforted her, We don’t need to talk about it.

Maddie responded, I’m okay. I’m ready, too. It’s just that the unexpected triggers knock me off balance.

The Vikings might give you an opportunity to work through that particular trigger this year. Bob said, Central Minnesota is cheering for your recovery, Maddie . . . In his soothing baritone voice, Bob had her lay out the scenario and then compassionately walked her through the tragedy.

Her genuine pain and fear brought me to tears.

Bob ended by commenting, We live in a world with dangerous people. It’s insane. He was going to end your life. Not because you did anything wrong—simply because he didn’t get what he wanted. We are blessed to still have you with us, Maddie.

Maddie revealed, It’s easy to be angry. But I remind myself to look at the world. I’m not the only one who’s been through hell. And so many people have been kind. I’ve decided to start working with volunteers to help the homeless. It bothers me that we have a growing population of billionaires and homeless in the same country. Come on, rich folks, you’ve got to help out.

Bob reassured her, You’re an inspiration to all of us.

Maddie added, I wanted a lot of unimportant things until the moment he pulled that gun out. Then I just wanted to live . . .

Someday, I’d have to meet Maddie simply to tell her I admired her.

Harry Reed had admitted the offense and, as a result of his guilty plea, Maddie would never have to testify in court. They had Harry dead to rights. He was arrested in possession of the gun, Maddie’s blood was in his truck, and she was able to identify him. Case closed.

10:15 P.M.

PATRICK’S BAR & GRILL

116 MAIN STREET SOUTH, PIERZ

MY OPTIMISM ABOUT CHRISTMAS waned as the day wore on. My chronophobic (fear of not getting things done on time) mother was all panicky about having everything perfect. Dad wisely made himself scarce with outside chores, leaving me to deal with her. I reminded her, Jesus was born in a manger, not a five-star hotel—to no avail. I needed to talk to my sister, but she was getting her own family ready for Christmas, so I respected this. Clay Roberts called and told me some of our old classmates would be at Patrick’s tonight and I should stop in. Clay was a committed bachelor and outdoorsman who was easy on the eyes.

When I looked around the bar, I felt like the ghost of Christmas past had launched me into a time warp. There sat the same alcoholic couple on the same stools their bodies melded into seven years ago. The smart aleck in me wanted to say, Be one with the barstool. An obnoxiously loud drunk swaggered at the bar, swearing, standing in for his uncle who once filled the role. And while I enjoyed most of my classmates, Heather Hilton dominated the conversation tonight, managing to make every discussion about her. Heather wore the short blonde pixie hairstyle Emma Watson popularized this year. She was pretty, but not the prettiest, and smart, but not the smartest. While none of us cared, her failure to reign over us left a chip on her shoulder the size of a Louisville Slugger. Heather referred to me as the iron maiden behind my back in high school, because of my modest dress and lack of PDA (public displays of affection). She was now an affluent defense attorney in Douglas County, who returned to her old stomping grounds to let her hair down. Heather always managed to find her way to my side when I was around, even though it felt like she had nothing but contempt for me. I felt like I should wear a nazar (Turkish talisman) in her presence, just to ward off her evil energy.

My former classmates had become weirdly competitive strangers, and I was just as guilty. We were once a group of atychiphobics—people who are afraid of not being perfect, unified in our fear of failure. Where was the agape love, we spoke of in our catechism classes? In truth, it never existed between us. Tonight, we were trying to recreate what had never been created. The insecurities we brandished as confidence in the classroom once comforted us into our solidarity. Today, we were solitary, misguided missiles, trying to convince one another that we had each selected our chosen paths completely on our own.

Maybe my melancholy was all on me. My relationship with a guy from Chanhassen I’d dated since college had just blown up. The thought of starting over created the most misery. He felt we weren’t spending enough time with his friends, so I backed away from mine and it still didn’t work. I wasn’t in the mood to share it all with strangers I might not see for another decade. When the topic of classmate, Jon Frederick, came up, I knew it was time for me to leave.

There was envy in Heather’s crocodile green eyes, as she gossiped, Can you believe Jon got away with murder?

I immediately put an end to that line of talk. Jon didn’t kill Mandy Baker. A girl Jon dated his senior year disappeared. He was implicated because she vanished shortly after they broke up. We don’t even know that Mandy’s dead. She came from a dysfunctional family and was a risk taker. Jon had no reason to kill her. He was the one who ended the relationship. I don’t know why he even went out with her.

Heather knew I once had strong feelings for Jon and laughed spitefully in my face. I think we all know why Jon went out with her.

The group smirked in unison. They didn’t necessarily all agree with Heather, but no one else challenged her. There were good women in this group, but there was no neutral ground when a person was being persecuted. You either stood up for the person or you become part of the oppression. I told the crew, I’m going to stop in the back room, say hi to Clay, and call it a night.

Heather teased, Serena’s the Clay play of the day! Clay was our high school class heartthrob, and we all viewed him as a young and rugged Brad Pitt.

Feigning ignorance to their suspicions, I questioned, What?

The flock remained silent, but everyone seemed to know what she meant.

I filled the void. I promised my mom I’d be up early helping her prepare our Christmas meal. It was our tradition to attend the midnight mass and have a feast afterwards. I waved goodbye. It was nice seeing everyone . . .

In the back room, Clay was playing pool with some of the local good ole boys.

Clay worked in home construction and was proud of looking like a Carhartt fashion model. I watched as he went on a run, sinking one ball after another, grinning at me briefly before calling the pocket for the eight ball and sinking it. He casually pocketed the cash on the bumper and handed his pool cue to his opponent, indicating he’d be right back. There was no doubt in my mind the gesture was intended to insult the man. His opponent appeared irritated to be used as a pool rack, but he complied as the only way to win his money back was get Clay to play him again.

Clay sauntered to me and asked, Can I buy you a drink?

I should probably get going.

He glanced at our classmates in the front room and with a grin, asked, Heather getting to you?

I didn’t need to respond. While I didn’t see a future with Clay, a moment could get me through the hometown blues.

Up for a trip to Babbling Brook? he asked.

My heart warmed at the thought of the burbling stream. Babbling Brook meandered through the woods in a rural area with no signs of humanity in sight. On a calm, starry winter night, it looked like a Christmas card. Back in high school, Jon Frederick, Clay, and our group of friends used to sit on that bridge and ramble on about life and the drama in our relationships. We were small town kids—naïve and untarnished by the world. I wouldn’t have minded having a taste of that innocence again. I teased, You might say this was a serendipitous encounter.

Clay thought for a moment and said, Nah, I would never say that. The best I could do would be on-a-filly-ated.

I grinned. That, too. Unaffiliated is a good description. I’m not in a relationship and I don’t imagine you’re committed to anyone.

He laughed. I meant on a filly—a lively young female.

I should have a Clay translator. I bumped him with my shoulder. When I saw Heather was now standing in the back-room entry