The First One

The First One Chapter 1

Flynn

MY EYES WERE BLEARY and dry as I sped along the two-lane road between newly plowed fields. I'd been back to Georgia twice over the past eight years, but never to this part of the state; I'd stuck to the high-rise build- ings and traffic-clogged streets of Atlanta. It was safer that way. But now here I was, hurtling straight back into the center of the town I'd run like hell to get away from. Straight back toward the girl I'd fought to erase from my mind and my heart. I could almost feel her now, like there was some odd super- natural connection between us. I wasn't far from her family's farm. If I made a left at the next intersection, I could be pulling down the long driveway that led to the Reynolds' home within ten minutes.

No way was that going to happen. My plan for the next few days was simple: get in, do what I had to do and get out. I had a commitment in a week in Los Angeles, and I was going to be there.

But first I had to bury my father.

My hands tightened on the steering wheel. The shock was still there, along with a sharp, keening pain. His death had been so sudden that I couldn't quite wrap my mind around the finali- ty. Part of me still expected to see him sitting on the porch when I drove up to the house, pipe in his hand. Mom never let him smoke it inside, so the porch was their compromise.

"That's what good marriage is built on, boy." He'd said it to me so often that I could hear his voice. "Compromise. It's about give and take, and often you think you're giving more than you take. But it all evens out."

If he were on the porch today when I climbed out of the car, he'd lift the pipe from his mouth, grin at me and call out, "Well, and if isn't Flynnigan Evans, come home at last."

He always called me that in playful moments, despite the fact that it wasn't my name. In fact, he'd used it so often during my early childhood that I'd given that as my real name to the kindergarten teacher, embarrassing my poor mother. Pop only chuckled and winked at me.

I couldn't quite believe he wouldn't be there today. Some- where in the back of my mind, I'd expected that I'd come home at some point. It'd never been a clear plan, but I figured eventu- ally, one day, I'd stop caring about Alison Reynolds and I'd feel comfortable returning to Burton. And when I thought about that vague day, Pop was always waiting on the porch.

I slowed and pulled the car to the narrow gravel shoulder of the road. Just ahead, a small green sign welcomed me to Burton, Georgia, population 2147. It'd been there, in its current incar- nation, since my freshman year of high school. I remembered that because I'd been the back-up photographer for the school newspaper. Kyle Durham, who was a senior and the paper's main photographer, usually covered every event, but he'd just been diagnosed with mono—coincidentally, at the same time his best friend's girlfriend had come down with it, too. To say Kyle had his hands full at the moment was an understatement. But apparently his screwed-up life was about to become my opportunity. The newspaper advisor, Mr. Wilder, grabbed me in the hallway after school and told me to meet Rachel Thomas out front, because we had a story to cover.

I knew Rachel because she was a friend of my sister Mau- reen; she'd been the one to suggest I join the paper. But when I spotted the tall junior leaning against one of the thick cement columns, she wasn't alone. I recognized the pretty girl standing with her from my own class, but I couldn't quite remember her name. She'd gone to junior high out at regional, as did most of the kids who lived on farms surrounding Burton. When we'd started ninth grade, the small class I'd been part of since kin- dergarten had swelled to twice its size. I still hadn't learned most of the new names. This girl, though, was in chemistry and English with me, and I was pretty sure her name was Alice or Alicia. Something that began with an A, anyway.