Before

Chapter 21

Previously in Garden of Little Peace:

The search for Win Apperson’s missing assistant leaves Brennan, Fletcher, and their friends chasing answers through Ravina Springs late into the night. What begins as a simple effort to find Merritt only deepens the questions surrounding the murder investigation already hanging over the town.

The following day brings small victories, lingering doubts, and the sense that several pieces on the board have begun to shift. While the investigation continues in the background, friendships strengthen, old wounds show signs of healing, and relationships start moving in unexpected directions.

At the same time, Hurricane Fianna inches closer to the Carolina coast, giving everyone in Ravina one more thing to worry about.

Now we turn the clock back to Thursday morning and revisit some of those same hours through Fletcher’s eyes, seeing familiar events from a different angle and discovering what occupies his thoughts before the storm and the investigation gather new momentum.

Garden of Little Peace, Chapter 21.

Thursday Morning

Fletcher let himself out of Winston’s house before sunrise.

The lock turned with more noise than he liked, and he paused at the threshold, waiting to see if Win had heard. But nothing stirred up the stairs. He stepped off the porch and looked back; all the windows stayed dark behind the old bubbled glass.

Win had a class this morning, but they had agreed to meet for lunch. They’d made the plan late, after the crowded drive back from the bakery, after Win sent Merritt off with an uncharacteristic hug, after Brennan walked across the garden back to the bookshop alone.

The air hung warm and humid against his face even though dawn still hid below the horizon. Old trees arched over the street. Beneath them, the large houses along the near side sat like aging aristocrats at a banquet, taking up space as if nobody would dare object. Most stood above street level behind low brick or stone retaining walls capped with decorative fences and mature landscaping cultivated over generations.

The houses were old by American standards, though none looked old enough to impress an Irishman. Each house seemed determined to outdo its neighbor with tall windows, deep porches, and hand-pointed brick. The one next to Win’s had a turret and stained glass.

Win’s house was the grandest of all. It amused Fletcher more than it should, knowing how this place compared to the Apperson summer home back in County Cavan. He had never seen the family estate in England, but suspected this entire property was smaller than the dower house.

The street sloped away from the houses in one direction and bent toward downtown in the other. Fletcher chose the slope first. Below, Ravina Springs Park opened in a long band of grass and trees. A narrow stream ran through the middle, flashing silver where the first weak light touched it.

The park was longer than he expected, a mile of narrow green that followed a winding stream pinched between two ridges. Near one end sat an old-style pavilion in better-than-expected condition. A sign sat beside its entrance. Fletcher crossed the damp grass to read it.

RAVINA SPRINGS PAVILION
Built 1898
Restored 1998

Below the title, a paragraph explained how people had once come to take the waters here. Mineral springs drew visitors from across the country. Trains brought ladies with parasols, men with weak lungs, and children sent south to improve their constitutions.

Fletcher dismissed the claims immediately.

Still, Leah would have liked the idea that drinking from a muddy spring could make broken things whole again. He smiled to himself. She would have called it hopeful nonsense.

He rested one hand against a pavilion post and chuckled under his breath. The wood felt rough beneath his palm, swollen from years of weather. “Who are you to call it daft, man?” he muttered. “What’s daft is you being here at all.”

The amusement didn’t last long. Since arriving in North Carolina, he had kept moving. One conversation followed another. One distraction replaced the next.

Until now. His fingers tightened around the post.

“Alex. Our son’s name is Alex. I love you, James. I wish—” The voice came unbidden, a whisper pushing itself to the front of his mind.

Why had she never told him?

If he had known she was pregnant, he never would have let her drive alone on a rainy night. He would have been with her. He could have done something. And she would still be here.

His fist slammed into the post. The blow rattled through his arm. He hit it again, then again. The rough wood split his knuckles, blood smearing across the grain. He kept swinging, ignoring the pain as one raw sound after another tore out of him.

He shouted at the empty park. He shouted at the post. He shouted at God. He shouted at himself.

His arm gave out before his anger did. He staggered back and pressed his hands against his knees. Blood dripped from his knuckles onto the pavilion sign.

As the ringing in his ears faded, he realized he was no longer alone. A woman stood on the trail perhaps a hundred feet away. She wore running clothes, her hair pulled back in a high ponytail. She looked like a doe scenting hounds.

Fletcher straightened. “No. I...” He took a step toward her.

The woman turned and bolted down the trail.

Fletcher watched her go. Given the recent murder, he supposed her reaction made perfect sense. He lowered himself onto the pavilion step and picked a splinter from his shredded knuckle, wincing. Blood spotted the boards. He wiped his hand against the inside of his shirt and held the fabric there without giving it much thought.

Alex. Why had she chosen that name? Why name their child after his bastard of a father? But he couldn’t argue with her now, or stand beside a hospital bed and say “What are you thinking, love? No.”

Maybe she had meant to reclaim it. Leah believed in such things, in building over the hard and rotten stuff with the new and the better. It wasn’t foolishness or sentimentality on her part. It was more a stubborn belief that hope could always make things better.

A bird called from somewhere above the stream, sharp and cranky. The sound broke the spell, enough for him to stand and step away from the pavilion.

“Fine,” he said under his breath. “Point made.”

He climbed out of the park on the far side, choosing the direction away from where the woman he’d frightened had disappeared. Here the homes were low-slung brick ranches tucked beneath oaks and magnolias. Most showed careful upkeep. Others had grown in odd directions over the years, with sunrooms tacked onto the back or garages absorbed into living space.

He turned back toward town by a different street. As he walked, the sky lightened from pewter to blue. By the time he reached Main Street, Ravina Springs had shaken off the last traces of dawn. Cars filled the streets. People lined up for coffee and breakfast before making the daily drive toward Raleigh and work.

He came out onto the town square. A small park occupied the center, blooming around a statue of some locally famous person. Benches lined the brick paths. At this hour on a weekday, the park sat empty.

Main Street stretched in both directions, lined with brick storefronts. Goode Books sat a block away. From where he stood, Fletcher could just see the edge of the building and its large picture windows reflecting the first rays of morning sun.

He stood with his hands buried in his pockets and looked toward the shop. His shredded knuckles protested.

He hadn’t expected to like the bookstore so much. But the place invited people to linger. Nothing felt rushed, or performative.

Brennan would be there later. He wondered whether she had slept after the events of the previous night.

Without thinking, he started across the square. Half a dozen steps later, he caught himself. What exactly was he planning to do? Knock on the door and make sure she’d slept?

He stopped. “No,” he muttered, and turned back.

By the time he reached the opposite side of the park, his stomach had begun to complain. He sat on a bench, took out his phone, and searched for the nearest breakfast place serving real food.

The hiss of air brakes drew his attention across the street. A delivery truck had pulled up beside the bakery. CeCe stood in the doorway wearing a pale cardigan over a flowered dress, her hair already arranged for public viewing.

She leaned over the clipboard, signed the delivery slip, and rewarded the driver with a bright laugh. When he said something else, she swatted his bicep with easy familiarity before waving him toward the back entrance.

Fletcher watched while the truck circled the building. CeCe remained where she was, wearing the same cheerful smile. The expression held until the truck disappeared behind the bakery.

The smile vanished before the truck finished the turn. For the first time, Fletcher felt he was looking at the real CeCe. The charming bakery owner seemed to disappear with the truck. A cold, appraising woman remained. She turned and marched back inside.

He tucked his phone back into his pocket and waited. A young couple pushed through the bakery door, followed by a woman carrying a toddler. With the small line at the register distracting CeCe, he crossed in front of The Sweetery and headed for the diner at the end of the strip.

He knew it was his sort of place the moment he opened the door. The tables bore decades of scratches. The swivel seats at the counter sat on chrome pedestals bolted to the floor. Cracks spidered through the turquoise vinyl, exposing bits of yellow foam beneath, but the stools still looked comfortable enough.

Three men in work shirts sat at the counter behind loaded plates. A waitress poured coffee one-handed while arguing with someone in the kitchen.

Fletcher took a booth near the window. Before he had fully settled, the waitress appeared with a coffee pot and dropped a laminated menu in front of him.

“Coffee?”

“Please,” he said.

“You eatin’ this morning, hon?”

He glanced at the menu. “Once I decide on something, yes.”

She shifted her weight to the opposite hip and lowered the coffee pot a few inches. “You’re the Irish fella.”

Fletcher offered a half-smile. “One of several million.”

The waitress smiled back. “Mmmhmm. Not in Ravina Springs. You’re stayin’ with Win and Ms. Brennan.”

“Guilty.”

“Gossip spreads like wildfire in a small town, y’know.”

“I’ve heard.” He lifted the menu. She plucked it from his hand, her eyes catching for a fraction of a second on the drying blood across his knuckles.

“Don’t bother with that. I’ll bring you what you need. On the house.” She tapped her chest with one finger. “I’m Edith, by the way. Now drink up.” She nodded toward his mug. “I’ll keep that coming, too.”

Fletcher took a sip of coffee and looked out at the street. Morning settled over the town. Two first-year boys cut across a side street with backpacks slung low, moving toward another day trapped behind a desk. He could sympathize.

A glass packed with ice appeared beside his coffee cup. Edith set a folded dishcloth beside it. Her eyes flicked once to his knuckles, then she turned and headed back toward the kitchen.

“Tha—”

She waved him off without looking back.

Middle school, he corrected himself, pressing the ice-packed towel against his hand. When they had driven past the sprawling brick building, Winston had called it a middle school.

The thought of Win pulled him back to last night.

What did this woman’s death mean for him? The card with his name on it, and Merritt connecting them. Billy certainly hadn’t acted like a man investigating a murder. If anything, he seemed inclined to believe Winston’s innocence.

And what about Brennan, watching the bakery window with her arms drawn in against herself?

Then there was Winston at The Sweetery. Fletcher had known men who softened for an audience, but Win wasn’t one of them. Win would go cold and distant when cornered. Fletcher had seen it happen too many times when they were children, and he couldn’t see Win changing his core personality since.

Edith set some things in front of him. “There you go, hon. You need anything else?”

Fletcher looked down at the food. Scrambled eggs, bacon, home fries, sliced tomatoes, and a chicken-fried steak buried beneath pepper-flecked gravy crowded the main plate. Two red hots—bright red pork sausages seasoned with cayenne and other spices—filled the remaining space.

A small bowl of spiced apples sat beside the main plate. A second plate held two biscuits alongside butter, jam, and a ramekin of extra gravy, as though Edith had decided he should have choices. A short stack of pancakes occupied a third plate, along with additional sausage links.

“Is there anything left?” If he ate half of this, Winston would be having lunch without him.

“I saved the liver pudding and grits for another day. But I can run back and get you some—”

Fletcher wondered how closely the liver pudding might resemble black pudding. But he already had enough food to feed a village. “No, this is grand.”

Edith laughed. “Lord have mercy. You really talk like that.”

His mouth twitched. “I’m afraid so.”

“Boy, you tickle me.” She walked away laughing.

Ditto, he thought, but his mouth was too full to say it out loud.

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© 2026 Muirae D. Kenney. Garden of Little Peace is an original work of fiction. Please share links, not copies.

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Prologue: One for the road · Chapter 1: The kept knife · Chapter 2: The weight of silence · Chapter 3: What remains · Chapter 4: Where none can follow · Chapter 5: The only question · Chapter 6: Twice gone · Chapter 7: Worlds collide · Chapter 8: No more waiting · Chapter 9: After after · Chapter 10: The dangerous ones · Chapter 11: The witching hour · Chapter 12: Bright as a pin · Chapter 13: Wet clay · Chapter 14: The wrong answer · Chapter 15 pt 1: On solid ground ·Chapter 15 pt 2: On solid ground ·Chapter 16: Into darkness ·Chapter 17:The walls come down ·Chapter 18:The long way round ·Chapter 19 pt 1: The breaking point · Chapter 19 pt 2: The breaking point · Chapter 20 pt 1: The calm · Chapter 20 pt 2: The calm · Chapter 21 pt 1: Before ···