Redemption At Hawk's Landing. Rita Herron

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      She bought houses like this and completely renovated them, turning them into showcases. For a brief second an image of gorgeous little bungalows filled her vision. She could make this neighborhood into something to be proud of.

      But every house needed to be gutted.

      Sweat beaded on her neck as she climbed from the van.

      No. She would not think about renovating the neighborhood. She didn’t intend to stay here a minute longer than necessary. And she sure as hell didn’t care if someone bulldozed every house on the street.

      Tomorrow she’d talk to the local real estate agent and see if any investors were interested in the properties.

      But tonight she had to stay here.

      The thought sent dread through her. How was she going to sleep in this nasty place? It had been bad enough as a child before she’d known better.

      She should have booked a room at the local inn, but she hadn’t wanted to announce her arrival or come face-to-face with anyone else from her past.

      Squaring her shoulders, she decided to check out the inside first. If it was unlivable, she’d try the inn.

      Weeds clawed at her legs as she walked up to the porch. She climbed the makeshift brick step, then dodged holes in the floor as she crossed to the door. She jiggled it and it opened easily, then she stepped inside.

      Nausea flooded her as her childhood rushed back. Images of her parents fighting hit her, along with the strong odor of cigarettes and booze.

      It was a gut job. The threadbare sofa and chair her father had had when she lived here was falling apart. Cigarette ashes and empty liquor bottles testified to the fact that he hadn’t changed his ways.

      The kitchen was outdated, the cabinets sad looking, the Formica kitchen table and counters greasy and splattered with food stains.

      Anger at her father for letting the place reach such disrepair railed inside her. She’d seen worse on jobs, but this had once been her home, albeit a dysfunctional one, but at least it hadn’t been filthy. Because she had cleaned it.

      She passed the kitchen, then stopped in the hallway in front of her father’s bedroom. The faded chenille spread remained, stained and dotted with cigarette burns. The metal bed was rusty, the curtains dingy, her father’s work boots and clothes piled on a chair in the corner.

      She forced herself to go into her old room. He hadn’t changed the pink-and-white-gingham bedspread or curtains. Her teddy bear and dolls still sat on the shelf on the wall. She spotted the jewelry box she’d gotten for Christmas the year before her mother left, picked it up and sank onto the bed.

      The springs creaked beneath her weight. Her mother had loved costume jewelry and had given Honey some of her pieces when she’d grown tired of them. Honey had called them her treasures and had played dress up in them, pretending to be glamorous.

      A bitter chuckle rumbled from her chest.

      She’d never been glamorous. Instead her attempts at dressing up her homely clothes as a teenager had only made her look cheap. No wonder Harrison’s mother hadn’t wanted Chrissy around her.

      Unable to resist, she opened the jewelry box to see what was left of the costume jewelry.

      Instead her heart leaped.

      On top of the pop beads and clunky gold-and-rhinestone pieces lay a yellow ribbon.

      Nausea churned in her stomach.

      Chrissy had been wearing yellow ribbons the night she’d disappeared.

       Chapter Four

      Honey draped the shiny bright yellow satin across her hand. An image of Chrissy’s pigtails, tied with yellow ribbons, flashed behind her eyes.

      Little Chrissy singing, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,” as she skipped across the yard.

      One day it would be yellow ribbons, the next day purple or red or blue.

      Sometimes she wore ribbons of different colors and called them her rainbow hair.

      She had been such a happy kid, all smiles and singing and curiosity. She had sneaked over to Honey’s one day and asked Honey to show her how to wear makeup. Honey had thought it was sweet. Since the little girl only had brothers, she’d figured Chrissy needed a female in her life to teach her girl things.

      In spite of Chrissy’s pleas for layers of blush, eye shadow and lipstick, Honey had brushed her cheeks with a light powder, applied a pale pink gloss on her lips, then a very faint dusting of sparkly white eye shadow. Chrissy had thought she was beautiful.

      But Chrissy’s mother had stormed over to Honey’s that night and ordered her to stay away from Chrissy. Mrs. Hawk finished by saying she didn’t intend to allow Honey to make Chrissy look like a tramp.

      Tears blurred Honey’s eyes. She’d realized then that the gossip about her mother and father extended to her, and that she would never fit into the same social circle as people like Harrison Hawk and his family.

      She’d also made up her mind to leave town as soon as she was old enough to get a job.

      And she had.

      She blinked to clear her vision and the memory. The yellow ribbon mocked her with questions, though.

      How had it gotten in Honey’s jewelry box?

      If Chrissy was wearing this ribbon the night she disappeared, that meant whoever had killed her must have taken it. Which made it even more curious as to how it had gotten in her own jewelry box.

      Rumors had spread that Chrissy had come to see Honey the night she went missing, and that Honey’s father had done something to her. Honey had hated her father, but she didn’t think he would have hurt Chrissy.

      But this ribbon... What if her father had done something to Chrissy?

      If so, why would he have kept the ribbon?

      She’d never seen it before, and she’d used her jewelry box plenty of times after Chrissy went missing.

      Maybe her father had hidden it, then after Honey moved out, he stashed it in the jewelry box, thinking that if anyone searched the premises and found it, they’d think it belonged to Honey.

      Her hand trembled, the ribbon dangling between her fingers. If her father or Chrissy’s abductor/killer had taken this ribbon, their fingerprints might be on it.

      And she’d just contaminated it with her own.

      Indecision warred in her mind. What should she do? She’d spent her childhood hiding her family’s dirty little secrets. She could just stuff the ribbon back in the jewelry box and no one would ever know about it.

      If she showed it to Harrison, he and everyone in town would assume, even believe, that her father was guilty of...murdering Chrissy.

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