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| The Faith Creek Mysteries |
Fifteen years after Lena Wyatt disappeared, the questions surrounding her case refuse to stay buried. As Tessa and Rae begin looking into the investigation that nearly cost their father his life, a knock at the door brings the past one step closer.
Episode 9 | The Sister Who Came Back
Mason sat across from his father in the church office, going over the plans for Sunday’s baptism service. Reverend Ford worked his way down the list of names while Mason checked them against the service notes, making sure nothing had been overlooked.
“That should take care of it,” Reverend Ford said, setting the list aside. “Now, how’s Jonah?”
“Better. I stopped by the hospital yesterday.”
His father nodded. “I plan to see him this afternoon.”
Mason closed the folder in front of him.
“Tessa’s back.”
Reverend Ford looked up. “Your Tessa?”
Mason gave him a look.
“She came in from New York yesterday morning.”
“I figured she would.” His father studied him for a moment. “Where did you see her?”
“At the hospital.”
“And?”
Mason leaned back in his chair. “And nothing. We talked. Small talk.”
Reverend Ford's expression told him that answer wasn't going to be enough.
“I invited her to church,” Mason said.
His father leaned back in his chair. “As her pastor or as an old friend?”
“Does it matter?”
“It always matters.”
Mason smiled and shook his head. “She's engaged, Dad. She has a life in New York, and from the sound of it, a good one.”
“That wasn't my question.”
Before Mason could answer, a knock sounded at the partially open door.
A woman stood in the hallway. Mason recognized her after a moment, although it had been years since he'd seen her.
“Tasha Wyatt?”
Tasha gave him a nervous smile. “Hi, Mason. Reverend Ford. I was hoping I could talk to somebody.”
Reverend Ford immediately stood. “Come in, Tasha.”
She entered but remained near the door, clutching the strap of her purse. Her eyes moved between the two men before settling on Mason.
“Mason, could I talk to you?”
“Of course.”
His father seemed to understand. He picked up the folder from his desk. “I'll give you two some privacy.”
After he left, Mason offered Tasha the chair across from him.
“I heard about Mr. James,” she said once she was seated. “About him getting shot.”
“He's going to be all right.”
“I know. I called the hospital.” She looked down at her hands. “I keep thinking this happened because of me.”
Mason frowned. “Why would you think that?”
“Because I went to see him.”
She told him about Lena. About coming back to Faith Creek and going to James Investigations because fifteen years hadn't stopped the dreams or the questions. Jonah had listened when she told him she couldn't shake the feeling that something had been missed. He had promised her nothing, but he'd started asking questions again.
“And then somebody shot him,” she said.
Mason sat quietly for a moment. “Tasha, Jonah spent most of his life investigating things other people wanted left alone. You don't know that his shooting had anything to do with your visit.”
“No. But you don't know that it didn't.”
She was right.
Tasha looked toward the office window. “I thought coming back here would make me feel better. It hasn't.”
“Maybe because you didn't come back for comfort.”
Her eyes returned to his.
“You came back because you want to know what happened to your sister.”
Tasha nodded.
Mason thought about Jonah lying in the hospital and the woman he'd unexpectedly encountered there.
“Jonah's daughter is in town,” he said. “Tessa.”
Tasha’s face softened. “I remember her. She’s a big-time lawyer, right?”
Mason nodded. “She was also a district attorney.”
Tasha studied him. “You think I should talk to her?”
“I think you should tell her what you told Jonah.”
___
Cozy’s Donuts occupied the corner, its windows fogged with sugar glaze and fry oil. Beside it, the gold-stenciled letters of James Investigations still clung to the building's glass entrance door—slightly faded, but intact. On the other side, the hum of hair dryers and the scent of perm solution drifted from Mrs. DeWitt’s Beauty Shop, where a wind chime tinkled above the entrance.
“This is the place?” Tessa asked, looking around, her heels clicking on the sidewalk.
“Don’t let the chipped paint fool you,” Rae replied, pulling a key from her purse. “Everyone in this building knows more about this town than the sheriff.”
As they passed the notary office, a middle-aged man stepped out through the open door and wedged a doorstop in place. “Hey! Rae. How’s your father?”
Rae waved. “Hey, Mr. Carmichael. He’s recovering,” she said, offering a faint smile. “The bullet missed all the vital organs.”
Mr. Carmichael nodded. “The Lord was with him. Tell him to stop chasing trouble. Ain’t worth it at his age.”
“I agree,” Tessa chimed in.
Mr. Carmichael gave her a curious once-over. Rae followed his gaze.
“This is my sister, Tessa.”
A slow smile spread across his face. “Ahh, the big prosecutor. I’ve seen your picture in his office. He talks about you all the time.” He extended a hand. “Don Carmichael. Notary public. This is my shop.”
Tessa shook his hand. “Tessa James, attorney-at-law.”
“You here to help your father?” he asked.
“More like help look after him,” Tessa said, offering a tight smile. “We’re just here to check on things.”
Mr. Carmichael gave them a final nod. “Well, don’t let me keep you. Tell your daddy I said to stop playing hero and start acting retired.”
“We will,” Rae said, her voice light, but her eyes more serious than before.
Tessa offered a polite smile and followed Rae toward the middle door. The James Investigations lettering looked smaller up close. Or maybe it was just the weight of everything that had happened.
___
They continued in the building up a short flight of stairs and down the hall. Rae used the key from her purse and pushed the door open to suite 207.
The office was exactly how Tessa imagined—plain and simple. Two desks, mismatched chairs, one corkboard, and a coffee machine that had been there since the Bush administration. Their father hated things complicated.
The blinds were half-closed, letting in pale afternoon light. Dust danced in the beams like secrets waiting to be stirred.
Rae dropped her bag on one of the chairs. “He hasn't been in for a few days. Before the shooting, I think he was here every night.”
Tessa wandered toward her father's desk, fingers trailing over the arm of his worn leather chair. She eased into it, noticing the cracked edges of the blotter pad and a legal pad scrawled with half-finished notes.
“Let's see what he was chasing in the Wyatt case,” she murmured.
A knock sounded at the door.
Rae glanced over her shoulder. “We're closed.”
The knock came again.
Tessa pushed herself out of Jonah's chair and crossed the room. A woman stood on the other side of the glass, one hand wrapped around the strap of her purse.
Tessa opened the door. “Can I help you?”
The woman hesitated. “Are you Tessa James?”
“Yes.”
“I'm Tasha Wyatt.”
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