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 after a Christmas Eve performance last year, Joss’s sense of justice won’t let her walk away.

As the holiday season unfolds, Joss uncovers a complex web of rivalries and resentment that threatens to tear apart the community. She 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, especially with his family coming to town. The closer Joss gets to the truth, the more she must confront her own past traumas and decide if pursuing justice is worth reopening old wounds.

Chapter 1

****Unedited Excerpt***

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 cafe 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, now seemed overwhelming. 

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. “Girlfriend, 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 Tuesday 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 roamed my face. She’d known me for about two years now as a co-worker and a friend. Briana also valued privacy and smiled back at me. “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.” 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 towards the front of the cafe, skirting around the counter towards the left. Everyone wanted to keep things normal for me. I was grateful for their thoughtfulness.

And I’d hoped my memories of the attack this past summer here at the cafe 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 wrote 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 Cafe had merged with the neighboring building, a former craft store. Brand new double glass doors now led from inside the cafe to the Rebecca Montgomery Art Center. The official opening wasn’t until the first of the year. But my boss Fay Everett and I had been involved in plans for the new space, which expanded the cafe. 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’s hard to think about but over a year ago I found the body of Maggie Nelson, the owner of the Crafty Corner. Just this past summer, I managed to escape with my life from a crazed man. Both experiences had affected me more than I like to admit. Through prayer and talking to my therapist, I was determined to move past my moments of PTSD.

I paused as the glass door swung shut behind me and faced 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’ve 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 to build walls that divided the space for classrooms. In the corner, were boxes of chairs and tables ready to be assembled.

The art center was designed for young people, evident in the mural that I worked on with Fay. On the back wall, Fay started the mural with a tree in the center. 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 root ends were pencils, pens, and paint brushes, 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 to where she stood. Fay’s shoulder length dreadlocks framed her face, her grin wide. My boss 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 cafe and neighboring businesses for months. 

I could tell that weight had been lifted off my boss as well as the other business owners. Everyone had poured time and contributed 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 to 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 which worked perfectly with the crisp white hoodie over dark jeans. With sneakers, she stood as tall as Fay who was around 5’8. Long lashes framed doe brown eyes that warily accessed 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’m pretty sure I’d seen her before. That wasn’t unusual since most of Sugar Creek residents visited the cafe. 

“Joss, meet our newest volunteer,” Fay said, placing a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “This is Lily Hartman. She’s interested in running 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 cafe. 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 pulled together, but the first two seasons had affected by 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.

Fay clasped her hands together. “Lily has some cool ideas. Joss, here coordinates our Friday Night Jam. It was her idea for us to start doing in 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. I caught Fay’s slight head nod.

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

Questions? About what?

Lily took a deep breath and stared at me blankly. “Most people still think I’m responsible for my husband’s death.”