Page 98 of Painted Scars
The trip stretches over cold highways, mountain curves, and the occasional pit stops for cuddle breaks. Each time, he leaves me wanting more of his lips and the face I still haven’t met.
I’m numb yet strangely happy when we reach the lake. Shadow Lake Mountain is postcard-perfect, a sheet of dark pines, hints of silver water, smoke curling from cabins, and a bustling little town that only breathes in the off-season.
Grumpy Daddy veers off the main road, winding us through forest until he turns up a long driveway cutting through snowflake-dusted pines. It’s not quite ski season, but give it another month, and residents and visitors will flock to the mountain for skiing and snowboarding. He parks beside a white pickup stacked with firewood. A man in his fifties unloads logs with the unhurried precision of someone who knows the land.
I slide off the bike and wobble on my frozen legs. Fun fact—denim is not ideal for riding in winter. I squat to coax bloodback into my thighs. My fault for clamping onto Daddy like a koala for warmth.
He removes my helmet, and I let the sweet gesture melt some of my lingering frost and spoil me in ways I’ve dreamed of.
The cabin he’s brought me to looms thirty feet away. Weather-darkened logs, a pitched roof shingled in cedar, lazy smoke rising from the chimney, and the mouth-watering scent of something baking.
Wood lands with a heavy thunk as the man returns, hefting more logs into his arms. He’s carved from the same forest—weathered, broad-shouldered, beard gone wild and sun-bleached. The rifle leaning against the porch doesn’t escape my notice.
“Can I help you?” His voice is an unwelcome gravel road.
I let Daddy handle this intro, because I don’t want a meeting with the rifle.
“We’re here to meet Sally-Anne,” he says. “Is she home?”
No “Good afternoon, sir.” No small talk. Blunt, classic Daddy.
The man squints into the winter glare, assessing us. “You the reporter?”
Time to deploy the friendly Kate routine. Smiling brightly, I step forward. “I’m Kate Williams.”
He stares at the hand I offer like it’s a trick. “She’s inside.” He goes back to stacking wood.
I squeeze Daddy’s hand tightly and follow him up the creaking steps.
A woman pushes open the fly screen door, a study in contrast to the grizzled man. Sleek, poised, and sharp in her oat-colored cashmere sweater and designer jeans with embroidered flowers hugging her lean legs. Her bob is cropped precisely to frame her pixyish features and bone structure. Everything about her says she’s been through hell but refuses to step out ofthe fire without her dignity intact, and I feel a small flicker of kinship.
“Mace, good to see you.” Her voice is warmer than I expect. “Bring your friend inside. You must be freezing. Warm up by the fire.” She waves us in with the practiced ease of a hostess who’s seen her share of guests.
She sits us down on the sofa by the flames in the stone hearth, and the warmth embraces me.
I examine the cabin’s interior. Polished honeyed wood walls glow under the soft lamplight. Woven chairs flank the porch window. Rustic charm and quiet luxury with hand-carved beams and delicate details. The homey scent of a rack of cookies cooling in the kitchen.
“You must be Kate.” Sally-Anne extends a long, elegant hand, tipped with pale cream nails.
“Nice to meet you.” I engage in a handshake. “Mom’s a huge fan.”
Sally-Anne Walters. Former evening news anchor of thirty-plus years. Vanished from TV and slipped out of the public eye. Her smile falters. The shadows behind her eyes comes from losing something that can’t be replaced. I see the same darkness every time I look in the mirror. The Romans got to her too.
“Funny how quickly you go from being part of that world to discarded like old furniture,” she says, her voice brittle.
She excuses herself and goes to the kitchen, returning with a plate of chocolate chip cookies, steaming and golden.
“Please, eat.” She holds out the plate, and I take one, even though my stomach flips.
Mom used to bake these when I was a kid. The first bite is pure nostalgia and quiet grief.
Daddy sits close, his hand resting on my knee, a silent reminder to breathe.
Sally-Anne gracefully folds herself into an adjacent armchair and clasps a frilled pale-blue pillow to her lap. “Thank you for agreeing to hear my story.”
“Only if you’re ready to share it,” I say gently.
“It’s never not going to hurt,” she admits. “But it’s time the world knew what they did to me.”
