Page 32 of In Her Path

The phrases played on repeat as she climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. Who was sleeping? Who would vanish? And what did any of it have to do with Curtis Paige’s murder?

She closed her eyes, willing her thoughts to slow down. Tomorrow she would talk to Warren’s lawyer, would follow up on the fingerprint results from the state lab, would try to make sense of the cryptic messages from Piper’s voices. Tomorrow she would see Jake again.

For now, though, there was only the darkness and the questions that had no answers—and the lingering warmth of a kiss that just might have changed everything.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Diane Holt lay staring at the ceiling, the bedroom’s darkness punctuated only by the dim glow of the digital clock. The numbers read 3:17 a.m. Beside her, Gerald slept in his medicated stupor, his breathing deep and rhythmic. She had given up trying to join him in that oblivion. Once awake, no matter how early, her mind would refuse to power down, cycling endlessly through budget concerns, political strategies, and now, the chilling thought of a fellow council member’s mutilated body.

She rolled onto her side, watching the steady rise and fall of Gerald’s chest. His face had relaxed into the slack expression she’d grown accustomed to—mouth slightly open, eyes moving beneath paper-thin lids. The heavy pain medication had reduced him to a ghost of the man she’d married thirty-five years ago. Sometimes she wondered if he even recognized her anymore.

Diane slid out from beneath the covers, her bare feet meeting the cold hardwood. She stepped into her slippers and grabbed her robe from the hook on the back of the door, pulling it around her. The house creaked and settled around her as she made her way downstairs. At fifty-eight, she had learned to navigate these midnight wanderings by memory, not bothering to turn on any lights until she reached her destination. As usual, that was the kitchen.

She switched on the light, filled the electric kettle and switched it on, too, then pulled a mug from the cabinet. Chamomile tea—her mother’s solution for everything from headaches to heartache. It never worked, but the ritual was comforting.

While she waited for the water to boil, Diane leaned against the counter and watched the darkness outside the window. Streetlights cast their glow across the front lawn, illuminating nothing of importance. Their home sat on the edge of Trentville’s historic district—a modest two-story colonial with a front porch that Gerald had never finished painting before his arthritis got so bad.

She’d wanted to hire someone to finish the paint job, but when said so to Gerald, he had gone quiet in that particular way of his, setting down his fork and looking out the window until she changed the subject. That had been three summers ago. The remaining unpainted section had weathered to a gray that didn’t quite match either the finished white or the bare wood, a strip of indecision preserved in plain sight—not that she was around to see it by daylight that much anymore.

The kettle clicked off. Diane poured the steaming water over her tea bag and watched the pale yellow color bloom into the water. She carried the mug with her as she made her way down the hall to her study. Years ago, this room at the back of the house had been her husband’s home office. Now that it was her own sanctuary, he avoided the space. She flipped on the desk lamp and settled into her leather chair.

The laptop whirred to life as she opened it, cold light illuminating her face. A file of budget spreadsheets waited for her—the proposed allocations for Trentville’s coming fiscal year. Her job was to make sure the numbers aligned with the council’s priorities, but she was finding it hard to concentrate. Her mind kept circling back to what had happened earlier that evening at City Hall.

The public meeting had gone smoothly enough at first, then had turned into a disaster with those conflicting statements by Mayor Simmons and Sheriff Graves. The Sheriff and Deputy Hawkins had just driven away and the small crowd was dispersing when Mayor Simmons had cornered Diane right there on the City Council steps.

“You and I need to talk,” Claire had said, her voice carrying in the evening air. “Your obstruction is jeopardizing every development project this town has worked for.” The argument had escalated quickly, and Diane had seen a few townspeople looking at them curiously.

She had stood her ground. “I’m protecting Trentville’s financial future. The proposed Riverside Development is fiscal irresponsibility wrapped in a shiny ribbon.”

“You’ve been blocking that project for eight months because you’re afraid it will make me look good,” Claire had replied, her voice low enough that only Diane could hear. “That’s not fiscal responsibility—that’s sabotage.”

“I refuse to cooperate with anything that sells out this community,” Diane had retorted, feeling the fire in her veins. “I’m not going to rubber-stamp your fiscally irresponsible grandstanding.”

Claire’s expression had soured. “If you think you can run this town by sabotaging every initiative, you’re delusional. You should know, Diane—I’m backing a primary challenger against you.”

“That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it?” Diane had said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “Bring in someone who’ll do whatever you say.”

“Unlike you, I know how to get things done,” Claire had replied, her voice cutting. “Enjoy your last months on the council.”

Diane had watched the mayor walk away, the certainty sinking in that their alliance was broken beyond repair.

She sighed and reached for her tea. The cup had gone cold while she’d been lost in that memory. She pushed it aside and focused on the spreadsheets. The numbers blurred before her eyes. She was tired, that’s all. Just tired.

It had been a long day since Curtis’s body had been discovered in the City Council chamber. Diane shivered despite the warmth of the room. Curtis had been a political ally for over twenty years—prickly, difficult, but generally on her side of the issues. God only knew, he’d had more than his share of enemies, but she’d never been one of them. Now he was dead, killed in the very building where they had both served for decades.

It could have been me, she thought. After all, she herself had often spent nighttime hours alone in that chamber.

So, was she safe even now? Maybe she should hire private security. The thought was galling—Trentville had never been that kind of place—but with the rumors spreading through town and fear gripping her colleagues, perhaps it was necessary. The cost would be steep, though. Gerald’s medications were expensive, and his pension only stretched so far. City Council member payments weren’t generous either.

Diane returned to the budget, scrolling through page after page of figures. The library needed a new roof. The community center’s heating system was failing. The police department had requested two new patrol cars. All worthy causes, but the money simply wasn’t there. Not without raising taxes, and that would be political suicide for whoever promoted it.

She rubbed her eyes and took another sip of her cold tea. Her gaze fell on the framed photograph on her desk—Diane and Gerald on their wedding day, her in a simple white dress, him tall and straight-backed in a borrowed suit. They had been so young then, so full of plans. They had wanted children, a family to fill the big house they’d bought with such optimism. But it hadn’t happened, and then Gerald’s condition had worsened, and the plans had given way to the day-to-day reality of medications and doctor’s appointments and a husband who spent more time in his recliner than he did in the world.

She considered retiring early. Maybe a quiet life by the lake, somewhere they could afford on Gerald’s pension and her slim city council retirement funds. She could volunteer at the library, take up gardening. She could—

No. The thought was absurd. Politics was her identity, her purpose. Without it, she would be nothing but Gerald’s caretaker, a role she had never wanted and wasn’t particularly good at.

A sound came from somewhere in the house—a soft thud, like something being set down too hard. Diane froze in place. She listened intently, but she heard nothing unusual.