November 26, 2024

After completing the previous season of her true crime podcast, barista Joss Miller is ready to hang up her microphone for good. But when she meets Lily Hartman, the widow of a renowned choir director found dead last Christmas Eve, Joss’s sense of justice won’t let her walk away.

Joss soon realizes that quite a few people—including Lily—have something to hide. Her detective boyfriend isn’t too crazy about her diving into another cold case. The closer Joss gets to the truth, the more she must confront her own past traumas and decide if pursuing justice is worth the risk.

Chapter 1

Panic Attack
Tuesday, November 12 at 3:37 p.m.

I can’t breathe.

My chest tightened, an invisible vise squeezed tighter with each passing second. The familiar café sounds faded away, replaced by the thunder of my own heartbeat in my ears. My vision blurred, the edges darkening as if a heavy curtain was slowly falling around me.

Panic clawed its way up my throat, threatening to escape in a scream I couldn’t release. My hands trembled, and I gripped the edge of the kitchen sink. The world seemed to tilt and spin, and I felt like I was falling despite standing still.

I tried to remember what my therapist had taught me. 

Breathe. Count. Ground yourself. 

But I couldn’t breathe.

The smell of coffee, usually so comforting, overwhelmed me. 

I closed my eyes to regain control. But behind my eyelids, images flashed. 

Me running. 

Him pursuing.

“Joss.”

Was someone saying my name?

My eyes popped open and my vision blurred. Then it cleared. 

My fellow barista Briana Jones stood next to me with concern in her eyes. “Are you alright? You don’t look so good.”

The memory of the phone call I’d received this morning flashed through my mind. “Ms. Miller, this is the Prosecutor’s Office. Chief Prosecutor Rutledge needs you to report to the Charleston County Courthouse next Monday at 10:00 a.m.” The words echoed in my head, making my stomach churn.

I didn’t like to burden people with my issues, so out of habit I plastered a smile on my face. “I haven’t been getting a lot of sleep. Is there a crowd up front?”

Briana shook her head, her eyes searched my face. She’d known me for about two years as a co-worker, neighbor and a friend. Briana also valued privacy and gave me an understanding look. “No, it’s still quiet. Fay was looking for you. She’s next door in the center.”

“Great. I could use a break. Are you okay working the counter?”

“Of course. And, Joss,” Briana touched my arm. “You can talk to me. I know it has to be hard to be here sometimes. I don’t know how you do it.”

I took a deep cleansing breath. “I’m fine. Really.” Yep, Briana knew me too well. So did my boss. I moved quickly toward the front of the café, skirting around the counter toward the left. Everyone wanted to keep things normal for me, and I was grateful for their thoughtfulness.

I’d hoped my memories of the attack this past summer here at the café would fade away. But they lingered like a heavy weight on my mind. Most days, I was fine. But today started out differently.

Cast all your anxiety on him, because he cares for you (1 Peter 5:7). 

My next door neighbor, Eugeena Patterson-Jones shared that verse with me. I’d written it down and placed it on my bedroom mirror. 

I repeated it as I left behind the scent of coffee and soft jazz to step over the threshold into the new center. In just a few months, Sugar Creek Café had merged with the neighboring building, a former craft store. Brand new double glass doors now led from inside the café to the Rebecca Montgomery Art Center. My boss Fay Everett and I had been involved in the plans for the new space, which expanded the café. Fay had tapped into her artistic side painting a colorful mural on the back wall. Not an artist myself, I had fun joining in.

 It had been a kind of therapy that I needed. It was hard to think about, but over a year ago, I found the body of Maggie Nelson, the owner of the Crafty Corner. And then, this past summer, I managed to escape with my life from a crazed man. Both experiences had affected me more than I liked to admit. Through prayer and talking to my therapist, I was determined to move past my moments of PTSD.

The glass door swung shut behind me and I paused, facing the large open windows. The sun shone bright and I welcomed the warmth on my face. That and the quiet open area grounded me. Even though I’d been in this space multiple times, I still stared in amazement at the no longer recognizable former craft store. 

I vaguely remembered the shelves with colorful yarn, spools of fabric and floral arrangements. Fresh paint and sawdust lingered in the air as workers continued construction inside the classrooms. In the corner were boxes of chairs and tables ready to be assembled.

I studied the tree in the center of the mural Fay had painted on the back wall. Its trunk was formed from stacks of colorful books, each spine a different hue, creating a rainbow effect that seemed to shimmer in the light. At the base of the tree, the roots spread out across the lower part of the wall. At the ends of each root were pencils, pens, and paintbrushes, stretching outward as if seeking new areas to create.

I glanced over at the framed photo of Rebecca that would greet visitors when they entered the center. She’d left a legacy of murals all across Charleston before her tragic death. The center was a fitting tribute to her memory.

“Joss! Get over here, girl!” Fay’s voice cut through my thoughts. 

I looked over to see my boss beckoning me, her grin wide. Fay had been all smiles the past few months. This project was special to her since she’d been friends with Rebecca. With the expansion also came the end of the dreaded development project that had threatened the café and neighboring businesses for months. 

I could tell that weight had been lifted off my boss as well as the other business owners. Many people in Sugar Creek had contributed their time to the center. I’d spent time yesterday afternoon organizing books donated by the bookstore a few doors down. Books from my childhood like Charlotte’s Web and Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry were available for a new generation of readers.

As I made my way over, I couldn’t help but notice the stunning woman standing next to Fay. She wore her auburn hair up in a ponytail and had high cheek bones. Her model thin shape was perfectly clad with a long gray hoodie over dark leggings. With sneakers, she stood as tall as Fay who was around 5’8. Long lashes framed doe brown eyes that warily assessed my approach.

There was something about her that seemed sad, like she was carrying a burden she couldn’t quite shake. Despite her height, she stood hunched with her arms folded. I was pretty sure I’d seen her before. That wasn’t unusual since most Sugar Creek residents visited the café. 

“Joss, I want to introduce you to a potential volunteer,” Fay said, placing a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “This is Lily Hartman. She would be a great asset to helping us run music classes for kids here at the center.” Fay turned to the woman. “Lily, this is Joss Miller, our resident barista extraordinaire and true crime podcaster.”

 Lily’s eyes widened slightly at the mention of true crime. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Joss. Fay’s told me so much about you and your work at the café. I love the Cold Justice podcast. I can’t wait for the next season.”

“Great to meet you too, Lily. I’m still fresh off the last season and haven’t thought about what to do next.”

I had a list of cases that I’d pulled together, but the first two seasons had affected my mental health. If I continued the podcast, I needed to choose wisely. I wasn’t quite sure how to do that since I dealt with cold cases involving murder.

“Lily has some cool ideas.” Fay clasped her hands together. “And Joss also coordinates Friday Night Jams. It was her idea for us to start doing them more than once a month.”

“I enjoy working with the talent.” I peered at Lily’s face more closely. “You know what, I remember you from some place. Are you a singer?”

A shadow passed over Lily’s face, and I immediately regretted asking. 

“Yes, I sing,” she said softly. “…but I have been away for a while.”

An awkward quiet settled on us.

I wanted to ask why, but I felt Fay’s stare before I glanced at my boss and caught her slight head shake.

Lily must have seen it too. She grimaced. “It’s fine, Fay. Everybody is going to be asking questions, especially when I start showing my face more regularly.”

Questions? About what?

Lily took a deep breath, her face devoid of emotion. “Most people still think I’m responsible for my husband’s death.”

***

Tuesday, November 12 at 3:52 p.m.

Lily’s words hung in the air, heavy and unexpected. I opened my mouth, but before I could speak, Lily’s composure crumbled. Her eyes welled up with tears, and she pressed a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she choked out. “Fay, forgive me. I know you had good intentions, but I can’t do this right now.”

Fay reached out, but Lily turned and hurried toward the double doors.

Stunned by the women’s abrupt exit, I faced Fay. “What was that about?”

Fay rubbed her temples. “I shouldn’t have pushed her. She’s been through so much.”

My mind raced with questions. “What did she mean about people thinking she’s responsible for her husband’s death? Who was her husband?”

Fay held up her hands and shook her head. “Let’s talk later, I’ve been neglecting the café long enough today. And it’s just Briana in there right now.”

I followed Fay through the double doors, my mind on something other than my earlier anxiety attack. Sure enough, the café had filled up and Briana looked at us with relief as we returned behind the counter.

We worked together to take care of the patrons until I flipped the sign on the door to Closed. I’d almost forgotten about Lily until Briana asked, “What were you and Fay talking to Lily Hartman about? I haven’t seen her in ages.”

I glanced over at Briana as I replenished the sugar packets on the condiment counter. “You know her?”

“Yeah. I know it’s been awhile, but I’m surprised you don’t remember her. She had changed her hair, and she wasn’t wearing makeup. She used to come to Friday Night Jams. In fact, she sang with Indigo Soul before I stepped in. Lily has always been good at reinventing herself, I heard.”

I liked to call Briana our Beyoncé of Sugar Creek. When she wasn’t working at the café, she was on the road singing solo or with a local favorite, the rhythm and blues band, Indigo Soul.

I slapped my hand over my forehead. “That’s where I remembered her from. Wow, that was a few years ago, but I knew there was something about her that looked familiar. What happened? She kind of mentioned her husband before she hightailed it out of here.”

Briana tilted her head. “That’s what happened, girl. Actually, she stopped with the band when they got married. Let’s just say there was some drama with a certain band member. Anyhow, she and her husband had only been married about a year when he died.”

I held my hand over my chest. “Oh my! They were still newlyweds. I can’t imagine. Who was her husband?”

Briana eyed me. “C’mon, Joss. You’re the queen of true crime. I know you remember the choir director who was found dead on Christmas Eve last year?”

My eyes widened as the pieces clicked into place. “Vince Hartman? Lily is Vince Hartman’s widow?”

Fay’s voice pierced our conversation. “What are you two talking about?”

We were gossiping. I exchanged glances with Briana, suddenly feeling sheepish. I lifted my shoulders. “Briana was telling me about Lily. I’m sorry. I know she’s your friend, but she left after dropping that bomb statement. And I was curious.”

Fay leaned against the counter and crossed her arms. “I know, and I left you hanging. It was a terrible situation. Folks loved Vince. He was easy on the eyes and had a voice that could take you into worship. When he died… Well, people wanted someone to blame. Lily became the target of a lot of ugly speculation.”

I felt a familiar tug in my gut. “But she was never charged, right? I remember the case was never solved.”

“No charges,” Fay confirmed. “But accusations can be as damaging as a conviction. Lily has been suffering from depression. Who can blame her? Her mother was the music teacher back when I used to teach art. She reached out to me, desperate to get Lily back into the land of the living.”

Briana shook her head. “Don’t you think her being at the center will stir up a lot of old gossip?”

Fay’s expression hardened. “Lily deserves a chance to rebuild her life. She’s an incredible singer and an accomplished pianist. The kids will be lucky to learn from her.”

Briana turned away as if she’d been scolded. “I hope it turns out good for everyone involved. I’m going to grab my stuff.”

After Briana walked away, I turned to Fay. “Maybe if someone tried to clear Lily’s name, she could get her life back too.”

“Joss,” Fay warned. “I know that look. Whatever you’re thinking, be careful.”

I met Fay’s gaze, seeing the concern there. “Don’t worry. I haven’t been thinking about the podcast.”

Fay’s eyes softened. “How are you doing, Joss? You know you and Lily have a lot in common.”

I eyed my boss. “What’s that?”

Fay reached out and touched my arm. “You both hide your pain. Or you think you’re hiding it, but it’s all over your face.”

I stepped away from Fay’s touch. “I’m not in pain. Everything is fine with me.”

Fay sighed, “That’s not what I meant—”

Before Fay could finish her words, a loud knock echoed from the front of the café.

We both spun around to see who was at the café door after closing.