Page 13 of Some Like It Fox

It’s quaint. It’s beautiful. It’s home.

It should be perfect. So then why do I want nothing more than to keep on driving, the urge an itch scratching under my skin?

At the gas station, I pull up to the pump and wave to Jake as he continues down the road back in the direction of home, plowing the road as he goes.

I fill up my tank and then jump back into the driver’s seat, but before I can put the bus into first gear, my phone dings.

I found you a potential lead out of northern California. Call me.

It’s from Georgia, a private investigator I hired last month.

She has a lead.

My heart jumps in my chest.

She’s been sifting through state and county vital records throughout the country, searching for women who legally changed their names from Rebecca Fox.

I stare at the text.

Two paths roll out in front of me.

If I leave now, I can make it to sunny California in a week.

Or I can spend Christmas with my family, including having to put up with more of Mindy’s apologies, forced good cheer, and sad eyes, not to mention Finley trying to maneuver us into getting along.

My stomach turns at the thought, the buzzing agitation increasing until it’s a swarm of wasps desperate to escape.

Ugh.

I scroll down my list of texts and click on Finley’s name, thumbs hovering over the keyboard, staring at the blinking cursor for a minute before typing.

I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m heading out west for a show. I’ll call tonight. I love you.

I click send, shut off my phone, and toss it into the passenger seat.

Grabbing my bag, I slip out the picture from the side pocket. It’s black and white and faded with age and the press of a thousand fingertips. The woman in the photo is laughing, her head thrown back, neck exposed, revealing a Phoenix pendant nestled against the lower part of her throat.

The only picture I have of our mom.

I tuck it back into the pocket.

I need music. Something happy and upbeat. After pushing some buttons on the iPod, Poor Man’s Whiskey fills the bus, the strains of “Lake County Lady” chasing away my lingering irritation.

Putting the bus in first gear, I turn my mind away from Whitby and toward California. The drive will be slow, impeded by the snow even with the plows out in full force.

But with each passing mile the itch ebbs, decreasing in strength until eventually, it’s just me and the music, and the rest is behind me.

ChapterFour

Atticus

Vibrations reverberate through the house, rattling the windows and rousing me from a dead sleep. I sit up and the distant hum recedes, leaving me staring blankly at the empty pile of ash in the fireplace.

I’m on the couch.

A wave of memories from last night crash over me.

Taylor.

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