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great-grandfather, had ended up as one of the local “mysterious” deaths. He’d disappeared one day and his body, sans head, had shown up a few months later. It was widely known around town that he was a petty kind of crime “boss” locally. People had assumed it was some kind of turf war casualty and not really bothered to look further.
    Of course, this time it was also former classmates. The once-great stars of Sweethollow High, the Saints. Which was one of those titles people don’t consider the irony of but probably should.
    They’d been, in descending order of popularity, Rob, Nick, and Greg. Tall guys, good-looking in a sort of conventional way that doesn’t tend to age all that well because it lacked character. She’d seen it in the obit photos. Most of them had looked like they’d kind of…shriveled, somehow. Though they’d all still had these drawn lines of meanness around their mouths and a hardness to their eyes. Maybe she was imagining it, but they didn’t look like they’d changed since high school in the ways that really mattered.
    Or maybe she just wanted that to be the case because of her history with the Saints. She didn’t really like being the kind of person who wasn’t sorry other people were dead. But try as she might, she couldn’t muster much sympathy. Maybe they’d really pissed off the wrong person this time.
    Taylor was just beginning to start writing about the different kinds of people you find in a local bar and the private things people will air out in a room full of drunk strangers when the door opened again. She looked up at who was entering on reflex…and froze.
    Anton Quinn. Alive and in the flesh. She immediately noticed that his hair was shorter, but still thick and dark and beautiful. Just like his face. There were a few more lines in it, the features were harder, but he still had those devastating blue eyes that pierced through you with dark, wing-like brows over them, pulled down in a serious expression at all times. And then the feature that softened all of the rest and had made her positive he wasn’t what he seemed; full lips, almost like a woman’s. They rarely smiled, but when they did? It was the kind of smile that could melt your heart. Or break it.
    It was like something out of one of her nightmares. She’d been so sure he wasn’t in Sweethollow anymore. That he must have moved on years ago. He was the last person she ever would have expected to become a “townie.”
    He hadn’t changed the way he dressed much, though it looked like he’d come up a bit in the world in terms of quality. The leather jacket he was wearing looked custom and, unlike in school, nothing was torn or had holes in it. And he wasn’t sporting any suspicious bruises these days, either.
    She watched him stride with an easy confidence to the bar and get something hard and amber colored which he downed straight away. The next one he held and drank more languidly, eyeing the room. Taylor could feel herself trying to shrink, pulling her whole body inwards, trying to melt into the shadows in the corner of her booth.
    Someone in the crowd distracted him with a congenial yell and he walked over to a bunch of guys who looked like the sort he had kind of hung around with in high school. Rough, blue collar, probably also into cars and bikes. She could see he had some new tattoos; just a hint of one was creeping up past his coat collar onto his neck. She wondered how much of the skin below was covered in ink and stopped herself. She was not going to revert to her stupid, naïve high school self, crushing so hard it was almost like being stepped on. She knew better. Much better. Only a complete idiot would ever look at Anton Quinn as anything other than a complete shithead after what he’d done.
    Taylor could feel her heart racing and started to map out an escape route. The only problem? The table with Anton and friends was right next to the door. Maybe he wouldn’t recognize her. It was