Page 80 of Find You Again (Nashville Star 2)

Alabama sips the tea Holly’s made and swivels her eyes around the bedroom. The curtains are open, letting in a flood of sunlight, and while the house is a crumbling mess, it’s clean and sparkling.

Even just a little love and care has its old bones singing.

She shifts against the pillows propping her up into a rigid sitting position. Lying down kills, so it looks like she’ll have to get used to sleeping like an animatronic robot.

Holly comes sashaying through the door, Alabama’s belongings in hand. She tosses the suitcase on a chair, tosses the tabloids across the bed. “There,” she says, her lips curving in a faint smile. “It’s like old times, trashy gossip rags and girl talk.”

Alabama toasts her with her tea. “Only with chamomile instead of alcohol.”

A wiggle of Holly’s eyebrows. “I can spike it.”

Alabama chuckles. “And rile Griff up even more? Let’s do it.”

With a laugh, Holly climbs onto the bed and flips open a magazine. “Did you see these yet?” She flashes an apologetic smile. “I kinda peeked.”

Alabama’s eyebrows get higher and higher as she scans the headlines.

Ripped from the Lyrics of a Country Song!

Alabama Forester Gunned Down by Crazed Stalker

“And this one?” Holly pretends to gag at the cover of the Nashville Star. In her most dramatic voice, she reads: “Other Woman Alabama Forester Takes Bullet for Sal Kincaid.”

Alabama shrugs. “Drama sells.”

Holly wrinkles her nose. “All about Sal.”

“Come on,” Alabama says. While she appreciates her best friend’s fierce defense of her, she knows Sal doesn’t deserve the wrath. “All they wanna do is pit us against each other.” She shakes her head and sets her cup of tea down on the tray. “Sal saved my life. Honestly, she’s probably the one person who’s stood up the most for me in the press.”

Holly winces and glances down at the magazine. “Well, shit, don’t I feel like an asshole.”

A rustle of pages, and then, carefully, softly, Holly asks, “What about this photo?”

Alabama’s stomach dips.

The photo’s heartbreaking.

Still, she can’t pull her gaze away from the image of a distraught-looking Griff crumpled on the ground, his arms wrapped around Alabama.

But it’s his face that has tears springing to her eyes.

His face contorted into an expression she’s only seen once before in her life. That night on the Ridge.

“It’s awful,” Alabama whispers, suddenly chilled, suddenly hating how their tragedy’s been captured on camera for the entire world to see. “It’s an awful photo.”

A tear slips down her face, and then another.

Holly stares at her. “It says a lot, don’t you think?”

Alabama wipes her cheek and drops her eyes. Her friend’s asking her what’s up, calling her on her tears, on that photo, and she won’t let her get away with a bullshit answer.

Raising her eyes, Alabama licks her lips. “I did it on purpose.”

Holly’s brows lower as her gaze narrows. “You did what on purpose?”

“Getting shot.” She winces, whispers. “I took the bullet for Griff.”

“Alabama Grace.” Holly looks horrified.

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