Cold Case Sheriff by Tara Taylor Quinn

Author:Tara Taylor Quinn
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2023-01-03T19:33:41+00:00

Chapter 13

Aimee needed more. So much more. And couldn’t seem to help herself. What kind of life hack made it so that you had all of the answers you needed, but wouldn’t give them up to yourself?

It was like a horror movie. Only worse, because it was real.

She stayed in the space between past and present—feeling the past while not fully reentering the present—as long as she could. Afraid that if she didn’t hang on to the feelings she’d been experiencing over by the counter, she’d lose something she might never regain.

If she hadn’t cut her finger, she’d have had more. She was sure of it. For a second, it had been like she’d been transported back in time. The memories had been so strong it was as if she’d actually been there.

Which she had been, of course. So long ago.

If she’d just had another second to look around...but she sliced herself with a knife.

Because she wasn’t ready to know what had been waiting for her to see?

The idea had occurred to her almost immediately, which was part of the reason she’d tried so hard not to let go.

The couch sank beside her as Jackson sat down—not too close, but not a full seat away, either. She shuddered. A residual from the way the voices in that other kitchen had made her feel. It was almost as though, with Jackson close by, she could more easily let go of the hold her mind was keeping on her past.

But was her heart, already aching from the loss of Aunt Bonnie, ready for onslaught? It wasn’t all going to be laughter and bubbles. She’d known that from the beginning. Her father’s voice had been angry—unusual for her to hear, she now knew, but still angry.

And the nightmares...they’d always been awful.

But she wasn’t going to stop reaching. She had to know...

Maybe whatever she was hiding hadn’t been all that terrible. She’d been three. Minutia could seem catastrophic to a toddler. She’d already figured that one out on her own before Kelly had mentioned it to her.

“My mom was making fried shrimp. It feels like she was making po’ boys, but I’m definitely not saying she was. Makes sense, though, since she was from New Orleans. And maybe wanted to bring a piece of home into our home.” It was what Aimee had done. Buy New Orleans fare to prepare in Evergreen. When she didn’t even do it at home.

Because her mother had done it there?

Could her little-girl brain have known such a thing? That the food was from her mother’s hometown?

She just didn’t know.

“I’m sure it was fried shrimp,” she reiterated, as much to herself as anything. “The scent is very specific, and the spices in the po’ boy fried shrimp—the combination of cayenne pepper, black pepper and garlic...puts off a strong odor...and it’s just something I know.”

Enough with the shrimp already. He didn’t need to know about the shrimp.

“I like shrimp,” she said. “It’s the only kind of po’ boy I ever order.

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