Chapter 7
When Julia parked behind the cafe the next morning, she wondered how many people would stop in and ask about the coffee machine that day. It was ridiculous. In a town this size, everyone was focused on the sheriff and the preferred story of him shooting up her place. Her jaw ached from how tightly she had held it the day before, finally snapping at the last person to ask, ordering her to tell everyone the machine had malfunctioned and blown up. She hoped that would be the end of it, but somehow she doubted it; especially with the way Marion, the older, graying librarian, had clucked her tongue—her expression saying she didn’t believe Julia’s story.
Julia yanked open the door of her compact white Honda. She wore blue jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, pretty much what she wore ever
