CHAPTER 1

The Last Stop

Sarah hunched on the bench at the bus stop, its steel frame unblemished by rust and wooden slats still varnished to a shine in factory green. It sat like a misplaced showroom model on cracked asphalt, a sun-bleached trashcan nearby, its plastic warped and lid half-missing. The street stretched empty, lined with dormant trees and precise rows of cedars clashing against wild brambles beyond the curb.

Wind snapped at Sarah’s silver hair, stinging her cheeks as dry leaves danced past her shoes. The chill wasn’t polite; it worked its way into her joints with persistence. Her old threadbare sweater, more sentimental than practical, did little to shield her against the wind’s bite. In a futile gesture, she pulled it tighter around her.

She scanned the road, searching for the familiar gleam of headlights, but there was nothing. Just that flat gray ribbon stretching into somewhere. The wait was dragging, each second ticking into the next.

Sarah smoothed the hem of her skirt with the familiar care of habit, the fabric worn from years of washing, the once bright floral print faded to pastels. Frank always said it brought out the green in her eyes. She could see his face, eyes twinkling, crinkled at the corners from a lifetime of laughter, his easy grin... He’d be expecting her soon.

 To distract herself from the cold’s insistence, she mapped out her evening. She needed to stop at the store for pecans. Frank loved her pecan bars, especially the ones with the hint of bourbon.  She beamed, as she imagined him sneaking one from the cooling rack. This weekend, they’d work on the screened lanai, finally patching that pesky tear. Frank had grumbled about it all week, but she knew he’d secretly enjoy the project, especially with the rose cuttings they would plant afterward. He always said her roses were the pride of the neighborhood.

Jessica drifted into Sarah’s thoughts. She had phoned just last week, her voice cheerful yet remote. “You and Daddy should come up,” she’d suggested. “Connecticut is gorgeous in the fall.” Sarah could almost hear the guilt in her daughter’s words, the careful balance between love and obligation. She didn’t blame Jessica for leaving.  We raised her to fly, she often told Frank. Still, the distance could feel oceanic.

She looked down at her calloused hands, roughened from years of tending her garden. She folded them over her purse, a habit born from years of waiting on cramped benches. There was a mature tenderness in her eyes, but they still sparkled with a hint of mischief. Sitting alone, Sarah still radiated a sense of comfort, which drew people to her. Not sugary or saccharine, just honest, slow-drawn Southern grace. She made anyone in her presence feel instantly at home.

She shivered as the chilled air cut through her clothes. From the corner of her eyes, she saw movement. A man approached.

He looked about fifty, maybe older, with broad shoulders, and a heavy coat that exaggerated his size. He walked with the confidence of someone familiar with the road, and there was something about him, possibly a self-assurance, that made Sarah feel slightly at ease, though a whisper of caution curled in a nook of her mind. She squinted at him, sizing him up as he drew closer.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked, gesturing to the space beside Sarah. His voice a deep bass.

Sarah blinked, then slowly shook her head in welcome. She offered him a polite smile.

He lowered himself beside her with a grunt, inhaling deeply, and rubbing his gloved hands together. “Thank you,” he chuckled, “It’s quite a wintry day for fall, isn’t it? I should have brought a heavier coat.”

Sarah nodded. “I know the feeling like I know my own kitchen,” she murmured, adjusting her sweater higher around her shoulders. “I forgot my jacket entirely.”

They sat in easy quiet, the wind teasing the pages of a discarded newspaper, pages flapping in slow-turning indecision. A few old cigarette butts rolled down the street.

“It’s biting today,” she said after a spell, her vowels stretching like molasses.

The man turned toward her, offering a sympathetic look. “My mother used to say that good conversation could warm your soul better than a blanket.” He paused, his gloved thumb rubbing absently over his knuckles, as if smoothing out a recollection. “Mind if I try?”

Her lips curved as she brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Why not?” she relented. “I don’t reckon we are going anywhere soon.”

The man dipped his chin in agreement and tucked his hands in the pockets of his coat. He studied the road contemplating what to say next. For a moment they sat in silence. Sarah kept her eyes on the asphalt, her shoulders stooped instinctively, drawing herself inward.

“You waiting for the bus?” he asked.

Sarah laughed softly. “Yes, sir.”

“Have you been waiting long?” he added, bumping the conversation forward incrementally.

“’Bout fifteen minutes,” she said, but then hesitated, frowning, doubting her own answer. “It should’ve been here by now.”

The man shrugged. “Schedules are always off. Especially when it’s this cold out.”

Sarah murmured in vague agreement, but nervousness prickled at the base of her neck. The man wasn’t threatening, not exactly, but his presence felt… intentional.

“If I’d known it’d be this brisk, I’d have tucked a quilt under my arm instead of this poor excuse for a sweater.”  

The man raised a blonde eyebrow, giving her a studious look, but didn’t press. Instead, he leaned forward, peering at the building behind them, a hulking brown structure that towered over the bus stop like a somber onlooker. “You know,” he said, “it’s warmer inside. They’ve got coffee in there too. We could warm up while you wait for the bus.”

Sarah looked over her shoulder at the building, her frown deepening. It stood like a warden, swallowing sound, stirring something restless in her, an unarticulated alarm that buzzed beneath her skin. Like the time she’d found a copperhead in her hydrangeas, still as death, but poison all the same. Still, the thought of warmth and the promise of a hot drink tugged at her resolve. She hadn’t realized how chilled she truly was until the heat of the idea made its way through her.

“What is that place?” she asked, eyeing it with suspicion.

“Just an office building,” the man replied lightly. “It has a café, we could grab a coffee, sit for a bit and warm up. Better than freezing out here, don’t you think?”

Sarah shifted in her seat, her arms wrapped snugly around herself. She wasn’t sure. Logic warred with instinct, but she couldn’t deny the iciness that was sinking into her. Her knees were aching, and her fingers were stiff with cold. As if on cue, the wind picked up. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to go in for a bit.

“I don’t know...” she murmured, her voice small, still staring at the building.

“You’d be able to watch for the bus from the windows, and would make it back to the stop in plenty of time,” the man proposed. “Just for a bit. You’ll feel better.”

Sarah’s indecision clung to the moment; she wanted to stay at the bus stop and wait, but the cruel wind pinched at her, making the prospect of warmth irresistible.

“Well, alright,” she relented, though her unease remained. “Just for a little while.”