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real cup of coffee sometime and tell you about it.”
    Neil gave me a wide grin. “No problem. Sounds good.”
    He took a step toward the door and turned on his heel. “Who is this Barry character, anyway, other than the sheriff’s son?”
    Why did everyone always have to see me at my worst, and why did all my deepest regrets have to be out on display for everyone to gawk at? How could I expect to start my life over if everyone kept dredging up my past?
    Reluctantly, I told him: “He’s my ex-husband.”
     

Chapter Eight
    I was plagued with dreams of fire and destruction. The nightmare was the same, but this time I could not wake from it.
    I tossed and turned, kicked the sheets off me, and moaned. My skin was hot and feverish. I clutched at my chest.
    “No!”
    There was a sound like logs cracking in a bonfire, and the glass on my nightstand shattered into a thousand pieces, splashing me with cold water. The shock woke me and I jerked to a sitting position.
    “It was an accident.” I breathed the words without realizing I said them.
    It took me a moment to orient myself, wondering why my sheets were wet, and I couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that someone was knocking impatiently on my door. A sliver of light penetrated through the drawn curtains of my room. A glance at my alarm clock told me it was still quite early in the morning.
    The knocking at the door persisted, so I swung my legs out of the bed and fumbled for my jeans and shirt.
    “What?” I barked.
    The only reply was another demanding thump.
    “Fine! I’m coming. Just hold your horses.”
    Realizing I had put my shirt on backwards, I twisted it around and slid my arms back through the sleeves. I didn’t bother with socks or shoes, and padded barefoot to the door.
    My stomach did a lazy flip-flop when I put one eye to the peep hole and saw Sheriff Burke.
    “Shit.”
    This was not going to be pleasant. I slapped the deadbolt back, cracked open the door and poked my head out.
    “Darcy Anderson,” said Sheriff Burke, puffing his chest out and giving me a stern disapproving eye. He stood in front of his car, hands on hips and feet planted shoulder-width apart. His uniform was one size too small and his hat was one size too big. If I wasn’t so nervous, I would have laughed.
    “I need to have a word with you,” he said, and I could hear the venom in his voice.
    “Sheriff?” I stepped outside my room, letting the door close behind me. The boards of the walkway were cold on my feet. “What’s this about?”
    I knew damned well what it was about, but ten years’ experience with prison guards and their leading questions had taught me that feigning ignorance was the best defense.
    “What’s this about?” he parroted. “Well, for starters, how about not coming by the station upon arrival in Middleton to check in? I received a very unpleasant phone call this morning wondering why I hadn’t filed my location report on you yet. I have to find out you’re back in town from some ass-jerk bureaucrat in Phoenix. You know how that made me look? I have half a mind to place you under arrest for parole violation and send you back for another ten years.”
    I had to bite my tongue. “Sorry, Sheriff. I guess it sort of slipped my mind.”
    “And secondly,” he continued, working himself up into a good rant. “I just spent the last half an hour listening to Frank Simmons tell me how you threw a pot of hot coffee in his face for no good reason.”
    “No reason?” I fumed. “Let me tell you—”
    He waved a hand to shut me up. “I ain’t interested in your lies. You’re on thin ice as it is. The only reason you’re not in lock-up right now is Frank and that half-wit Troy couldn’t get their stories straight.”
    “I didn’t throw any coffee at anyone.”
    “I said I don’t care.” He glared at me a moment longer to make sure I wasn’t going to talk back. I pressed my lips together tight.
    He pointed toward town. “All I care about is