Sanctuary Buried WITSEC Town Series Book 2 Page 2

  Her new last name had been used sparingly, but when he said it, Frannie felt like maybe she could actually be this person they’d created. Francesca had died when Uncle Benito was shot. This new girl, Francine Peters, could be strong. Independent.

  She hoped.

  Frannie sat up straighter. “So what is this place?”

  “Sanctuary is our first and only witness protection town.”

  Chapter 1

  Eight years later

  Francine Peters jerked awake. The crash came again, the sound of something heavy falling over and splintering on a hard floor. Like the cracked tile of her downstairs entryway.

  Her breaths came heavy, her mind flitting through the murder of the Mayor’s wife only weeks ago, the series of break-ins and thefts at the Medical Center recently and the missing drugs. But there was likely a far less sinister explanation for this noise.

  She glanced at the clock. 3:04 a.m. That was half an hour of sleep she was going to lose before she had to get up for work anyway.

  The front door slammed. Footsteps were followed by giggles and loud “shushing.” Frannie rolled her eyes and pushed back her comforter. In the dark she made her way to the door of her bedroom and down the stairs. Did they really think they were fooling her?

  Memories from years ago washed through her mind, and her steps faltered. An entirely different scene had met her at the bottom of the stairs of her childhood home that night. A night that led to her testifying against her own father and bringing down a Mexican cartel.

  Frannie blew out a slow breath and continued, gripping the stair rail to keep from rubbing the scarred skin on the top of her left shoulder. It wasn’t worth dwelling on. He would never find her here in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by mountains, in a town only accessible by military transport.

  Frannie’s mom, Mimi, wobbled across the entryway to their tiny three bedroom house on her stiletto heels. She was barely forty-five, but swore she was still in her thirties. She didn’t realize no one believed her, not when her daughters were adults. Mimi’s low-cut shirt had a wet stain on the front that tracked down to the lap of her short denim skirt. Her hair had looked better earlier in the evening, before Frannie went to bed.

  Frannie’s sister, Izabelle, was dressed in a matching outfit, with some of their natural blonde amid the streaks of her hair. Gone were the days of Francesca and Isabella Canetti. For years now, they’d been Francine and Izabelle Peters. Frannie would never have predicted her sweet little sister would turn into a mini clone of their mom.

  She stopped at the bottom step and folded her arms.

  Her mom looked up, not a shadow of remorse on her face. Instead her mouth morphed into disgust. “What is that hideous thing you’re wearing?”

  “My nightgown.” It was an over-sized T-shirt, XL being the only size Sam Tura had in stock when she’d registered for his gym, Sleight of Hand. She hadn’t been back there since the older woman she’d hired at her bakery had fallen ill and received a cancer diagnosis.

  Izzy, who was twenty-two, snorted. “I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing that.” She shot a smirk at their mom, and both of them erupted into giggles.

  It didn’t take a genius to figure out what their lazy limbs and slurred speech meant. Despite there being no alcohol allowed in the WITSEC town of Sanctuary, they seemed to have gotten their hands on some—or a substance which produced similar effects.

  Not that anyone had ever accused Frannie of being a genius, even though her mom always referred to her as the “smart daughter.” Mama had to tell people something when Izzy was the pretty one. Especially given the fact Frannie’s face looked more like her father’s, despite her inheriting her mom’s strawberry blonde hair. Still, Frannie was smart enough to figure this out.

  Instead of waiting for them to quit laughing, Frannie went to the kitchen and hit the button on the coffee maker. It wasn’t set to come on for fifteen more minutes, but she didn’t want to wait. She stared at the liquid dripping into the carafe and tried to ignore the sounds of her mom and sister following her into the kitchen for round two.

  Frannie grabbed the Ibuprofen from the top shelf of the end cabinet, got two waters from the fridge and set both on the breakfast bar’s stained linoleum surface.

  Her mom shook out the tablets. When she drank, water dribbled down her chin. Mimi lowered the bottle and swiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Thanks, darling.”

  Her mom’s gratitude was eclipsed by Izzy saying, “Yeah, thanks Cinderella.”

  Frannie poured her coffee, ignoring the clench in her stomach telling her to fire a quip back at her sister—whether it was words, or something more substantial. Too bad Izzy wasn’t ugly, or Frannie’s step-sister. But she was wicked.

  Mimi swatted Izzy in the arm.

  She shot her a look in return. “What? You’re the one who came up with it.”

  Mimi shot her a look that said, “Shut up,” her eyes wide.

  Why was mom worried about offending her now? That day had long passed.

  “I’m going to bed.” Izzy set her bottle on the counter and water sloshed over the top. “That was a great night, Mom.”

  Mimi grinned. “It was. I think Diego really likes you.”

  Hearing the name was like a blow to the face. Why did it have to be him of all people? So long as he didn’t come around, Frannie would be fine. She’d never cared for him or the way he looked at her—which was markedly different from the way he looked at Izzy.

  His brother Matthias, on the other hand, probably didn’t even know Mimi had two daughters. The brothers worked as hands at Bolton Farrera’s ranch. Nadia Marie, the salon owner who’d given up trying to get the ranch boss to notice her, had told Frannie there was a lot of ignoring going around at the moment. There was probably something in the water over at the ranch that made them oblivious to interested women. What other explanation could there be?

  Frannie pushed away all thoughts of tall men in chambray shirts, jeans and chaps. If she kept thinking about them any longer, she’d go into premature menopause. Her mom might claim their hair was “strawberry blonde” but that didn’t make Frannie’s propensity for blushing any better.

  “Nighty-nighty.” Izzy giggled, her unsteady footsteps retreating from the room.

  Frannie held her breath and turned. Sure enough, her mom was still by the breakfast bar. “You need something, Mimi?”

  It was by mutual consent that Frannie now called her mom by her given name, and it was not something she cared to dwell on. Not given everything else swirling around in her head.

  When her mom didn’t say anything, Frannie said, “You should probably get some sleep if you’re going to be in the bakery this afternoon.”

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, darling. I—”

  “Whatever it is, it’s not going to happen.” Frannie wanted to throw a fit. Why do I always feel like the parent? “With Stella in the medical center, I’m short-handed. I need you to come to work and do the job I pay you for.”

  Frannie was more than short-handed. Stella had, for years, been doing the work of two people, and she never said a word about it even though Frannie paid her for the work of one because she had no idea.

  Then Stella was diagnosed with terminal cancer, and she kept coming to work, even up until she had to spend the day in a chair while she manned the register. Like that was the obvious thing to do when she didn’t have the energy to walk up and down the space behind the display counter. Frannie never said a word, because she loved having Stella there. If the woman wanted to carry on as normally as possible, Frannie was going to give her that.

  Her mom’s face morphed into something meant to look either kind, or in need of sympathy. Frannie wasn’t sure which.

  “Darling, you work so hard. I love that you’ve found what makes you happy, I do. Sweet Times is a great success. Everyone says so. Especially when I tell them it was my daughter who set up the bakery. I know you need help right now, but I simply can�
��t come in today. I really would help if I could, but there’s something I’ve got to do. I’d get out of it if I could. You understand, don’t you, darling? I’d love nothing more than to be there to help you.”

  Like pushing Frannie, at sixteen years old, out of the walk-in closet just in time to witness her father murder Uncle Benito. Was that supposed to be helping? It was on the edge of Frannie’s tongue to pour the accusations out at her mother, but she held the words back. It wouldn’t change anything.

  “It’s not even really my thing, it’s Izzy. She has an appointment—” Mimi leaned close. “—with the doctor, you know?”

  No, Frannie didn’t know. Why did her mom think she would? The two of them kept only their own confidences, leaving Frannie to navigate life by herself. She lived in the same house with her mom and sister, but like they were the family and she was just a renter, despite the fact she paid the mortgage each month and did all the cleaning. The nickname Cinderella might sting, but it wasn’t entirely inaccurate.

  “Mom—” She was ready to launch into her speech about responsibility and earning the money Frannie paid her mostly out of obligation. Then her mom’s eyes would glaze over…

  Instead, her mom cut her off. “You’re such a good girl.” Mimi squeezed her in a hug with those spray-tanned, skinny arms. “So honest and strong.” She patted Frannie’s cheek a little too vigorously. “My brave one, taking care of us.”

  Unfortunately, Frannie had learned each of those weren’t necessarily good things. All it meant was she was the one picking up their slack, doing whatever they didn’t want to do.

  Mimi tottered to the door and glanced back. “I’ll make it up to you next week, when my schedule isn’t so busy.”

  Meanwhile, Frannie’s bakery hemorrhaged money paying salaried employees who barely came to work and when they did, were two hairs above useless. She needed to hire two people to replace Stella but could barely afford it, since her mom and sister were on the payroll. And she needed all her spare money to replace the broken second oven.

  In the real world, Frannie would fire them both and get herself a studio apartment, followed by hiring staff who were actually competent. But this wasn’t the real world, it was Sanctuary.

  The town was populated entirely by people in witness protection. All because forty years ago the Marshals Service decided to experiment and see if federal witnesses could live in their own community, tucked away in the mountains. This uninhabited portion of Idaho was perfect for protecting them. Surrounded entirely by mountains, the town sat in a basin only accessible by air in what had been designated a no-fly zone. Sanctuary was where the government hid their highest-profile witnesses, household names with recognizable faces.

  Which meant she was stuck with her mom and sister forever, whether she liked it or not.

  Frannie dressed in her work clothes and pulled her hair into a ponytail. She rode her bike from their street, which was on the south side of town and one of five major roads in town. The streets all ran parallel to each other so that the town was an oval with the ranch at one end and the farm at the other.

  Frannie pedaled along the deserted, darkened roads to Main Street, where Sweet Times was located on the east end, closest to the ranch. As she did every morning, Frannie locked her bike at the back of the building and glanced once in the direction of the ranch before going inside. Like always, the light at the ranch house was on, as was the light in the barn and the residence where the ranch hands lived—where he lived.

  There was a sense of solidarity, knowing he was awake, even though he’d never actually said anything to her but, “Two loaves of white bread, sliced, and a dozen chocolate cupcakes.”

  Frannie unlocked the back door and walked through the kitchen, flipping on lights. There was a faint smell of lemon scented cleaner, and the stainless steel surfaces gleamed. At least someone was still doing their job.

  She got started, measuring ingredients for three kinds of bread, sweet rolls, cinnamon rolls and the chocolate pastries one of her customers had requested yesterday. While the dough rose, she started a pot of coffee and scrambled herself two eggs. She ate standing up, trying not to let the fire her mom had lit in her stomach flicker to life. It always lived there, never really gone. Just embers, ready to flare up at any moment. She’d lived with it for so long that when the anger and frustration stirred up, it caught her off guard with its ferocity.

  She didn’t want to hate them, but the reality was...they were never ever going to change.

  Frannie grabbed her heaviest rolling pin and started to roll out the cinnamon rolls. Who needed therapy or a work-out? Her kitchen was the place where she could revel in the solitude. Here she didn’t have to be strong, or brave, or smart. It was just Frannie and her ingredients and the infinite number of things she could create.

  She rotated the board and continued to roll out the dough, over and over again.

  Why had her mom sent her downstairs all those years ago? Frannie didn’t have to ask herself what kind of mom did that to their child, because she knew. She lived it. For once Mimi could have stepped ahead of her children to accept what might come at them. But, no. Mimi only ever thought of herself. Izzy seemed oblivious, since she just went along with everything. And Frannie was beyond frustration, somewhere near exhausted with it all wondering why her life had to be like this.

  “Did the dough offend you?”

  The corner of Frannie’s mouth curled up. His voice sounded even better in her head than in person. Full and smooth, like hickory smoke. She had it bad if she was imagining him talking to her when she was alone in the bakery and the sun hadn’t even risen over the mountains yet.

  He cleared his throat.

  Frannie looked over at the door to the front of the bakery with just her eyes, seeing him there at the corner of her vision. Then she glanced at the clock. She should have already had the ovens on by now.

  Frannie looked back at him. “Two loaves of sliced white and twelve chocolate cupcakes?”

  She swiped her floury hands on the front of her apron. A strand of hair had come loose from her ponytail, making her itch to push it back.

  “Actually…” He paused. “Um…it’s Francine, right?”

  “Frannie.” She frowned. If the front door was still locked, how did he get in? “You’re in my kitchen—”

  She was struck again by exactly how dark his eyes were. He couldn’t be more than a couple years older than her, late twenties probably. His brother, Diego, was twenty-four like her; she knew as much from Izzy and Mimi’s conversations.

  Thick dark-brown hair fell onto his forehead in disarray, as though he simply smashed his hat on with no thought to what it would do. “You’re Matthias, right?”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled, and the color actually lightened. There was a moment of silence, and then he said, “Tias.”

  It sounded like Tee-yas. “I’ve never heard anyone call you Tias.” She liked the way it rolled off her tongue.

  He shrugged, apparently not noticing the comment made her sound like a stalker who followed him all day, listening to his conversations. “No one does. I just decided I wanted a shorter version of my name.”

  “And you gave it to me?” Great, now she felt even weirder. As if this whole thing wasn’t awkward enough. “Are you sure there isn’t something you need? Actually, why don’t you tell me how you managed to get in the locked door?”

  His dark eyebrows drew together, and he motioned to the front of the store. “You haven’t been out front yet?”

  Frannie shook her head, already moving toward him. Thankfully he got out of the way enough for her to push through the swinging door to the storefront. She stopped abruptly so Matthias—Tias—slammed into the back of her with an “oof.”

  Dishware she had painstakingly unpacked was strewn across tables. There was even a mug on the floor. Crumbs littered the scene, and coffee stains marked the surfaces along with other liquids. Frannie weaved between tables where cupcake casings ha
d been crumpled and tossed on the floor. Fabric she’d stretched on the seats herself was damp with spills.

  The fire in Frannie’s stomach ignited, flaring hot all the way out to her toes and the tips of her fingers. Even her hair felt like it was on fire. Boiling tears burned in her eyes. She lifted a plate and pitched it at the wall then bent double and set her hands on the table in front of her. The inferno rushed in her ears. She didn’t hear the sob when her body bucked, but she knew she was crying.

  “I can help you clean up.”

  She spun around. He was so close the heat from his body warmed her further, but the fire was excruciating. She moved back, clipped a chair with her foot and stumbled. Tias reached out.

  “No.” Her voice was high and shrill, and she winced. “Just go.”

  “I can help you clean up, or go get Sheriff Mason. He’ll want you to make a report about the break in.”

  A report? She had to clean this up and get ready to open the store, not face the sheriff’s uncomfortable questions. Matthias had already moved toward the front door. The door they’d left unlocked, leaving her livelihood in jeopardy. “I’m not making a report.”

  “The sheriff can find out who did this.”

  But she already knew who’d done this. “I don’t need your help.”

  His eyes softened, and she hated the sight of it. “Frannie.”

  She didn’t need his pity. This was embarrassing enough as it was. “Please just go.”

  “At least let me help clean up.”

  “Matthias, just go.”

  “Fran—”

  “GET OUT!”

  She grasped the hair on either side of her head, hard.

  They didn’t care about her or her life at all. They went where they pleased, when they pleased and did whatever they wanted. Broke into her store in the middle of the night and trashed the place like this was their house too, and she really was Cinderella cleaning up after them all the time.

  The front door shut, and she was blessedly alone. Terribly alone.

  If only.