Sample Chapters of My Books

PROLOGUE

Friday, October 11^th–9:15 a.m.–Kendall Funeral Home

Patrice Cavanaugh pulled her dark blue four-door sedan into the parking lot of Kendall Funeral Home, selecting an empty slot with “VISITORS” painted in black block letters on the curbstone, parallel to the front entrance. She was tired and weary. Somewhat sad, but not grievous. Her eyes ached from lack of sleep; a luxury denied her since leaving the hospital earlier that morning. With the car idling, she adjusted the air conditioner vent, allowing the frigid air to blow directly in her face, trying to fight off the wave of nausea that’d suddenly swept over her, lying as heavy as a boulder inside her chest. Just when she was certain she was going to pass out, the sick feeling subsided, leaving her feeling weak and sweaty. Leaning back against the headrest, she exhaled a puff of breath as she stared at the front door of the building, dreading what lay ahead of her. “God, I hate funeral homes,” she said.

Gabby, her older sister, sat beside her in the front passenger seat, staring blankly through the windshield. “I know,” she said. “So do I, and for good reasons.”

Patrice glanced at Gabby. “Thank you for coming with me,” she said. “I know you didn’t want to, and you didn’t have to, but I appreciate you being here. It means a lot to me, especially considering your feelings for Brad.” Patrice knew how much Gabby disliked him. Hated him was probably a better way of putting it. And she wasn’t alone in her feelings. Everyone who knew Bradley Cavanaugh hated him, including herself.

“You’re welcome,” Gabby responded, squeezing her sister’s hand. “Come on, let’s go inside and get this over with,” she said, getting out of the car.

At the doorway, they paused momentarily beneath the green and white striped awning overhanging the front entrance, its scalloped edges flapping softly in the light fall breeze. “You okay?” Gabby asked.

Patrice nodded. “Yes,” she answered, opening the door, and stepping inside. Bells chimed as the door closed behind them.

The waiting area of the funeral home looked as though a pine tree had suffered an upset stomach and vomited, leaving a blanket of multi-colored greens in its wake. Forest green carpet, matching lime green sofa and chairs with tiny pink rose accents, grass green throw pillows with yellow fringe. Everything was green. The colors were meant to be cheerful for this otherwise sad environment, soft pastels to help the grieving cope with their losses and soften the hard blow of dealing with the reality of death. But Patrice found the variety of colors more than overwhelming, and frankly, quite sickening. Almost as putrid as the smell of gardenia scented room-spray that permeated the entire lobby. Paintings of serene settings decorated the lobby walls. In one, a lakefront with calm, still waters and an angler casting his rod from a canoe; a country cabin with a dirt path and quaint white cottage in the other. Autographs from artists she’d never heard of were scrawled in the bottom right of the paintings. In the corner next to the front entrance stood an upright metal bookrack filled with flyers and pamphlets offering self-help advice on how to deal with grief. Various magazines and newspapers were scattered across the glass-top coffee table in front of the sofa. Organ music played softly from overhead speakers, reminding her of old Ms. Petty, the church organist from her childhood, whose long pencil-like fingers plucked away at the keys while she rocked back and forth to the sounds coming out of the pipe organs. “For fuck’s sake, turn off that funereal dirge and put on some good old rock-and-roll.” Patrice thought, feeling guilty for having such thoughts while standing inside a funeral home. She stifled a giggle at the thought of hard rock blasting from the sound system inside a death chapel.

“May I help you?” asked the elderly lady at the reception desk, whose short hair was a light shade of purple that could only be the result of using too much color rinse. Her cat-eye shaped glasses sat perched on the end of her beaked nose, looking over them as she spoke.

“I have an appointment with Mr. Kendall.”

“Your name, please?”

“Patrice Cavanaugh.”

The receptionist, whose name she later learned was Gladys, picked up the phone and punched in an extension number. “Patrice Cavanaugh is here for her appointment.” She paused, listening to the voice on the other end of the line. “Yes, sir,” she said, hanging up the phone. “Follow me, Ms. Cavanaugh. I’ll show you back.”

Gladys led Patrice and Gabby down a short hallway with three doors, two on the right and one on the left, the latter having a restroom sign over the top of the door. A faint odor of formaldehyde filled the hallway, causing Patrice to shudder. She suddenly wished she were back in the lobby smelling gardenias and admiring the art. She was more than familiar with the procedure of embalming and what it entailed. Not that she’d ever performed or witnessed one personally, because she could never do that. But because the funeral director who’d overseen the arrangements for their parents had explained it to her and Gabby, at their request. There wasn’t a need for the procedure to be explained to them. They only wanted to know what their mom and dad would be subjected to. It was a decision they’d both come to regret, because once the procedure was described, it’d created mental images that would forever haunt them both.

At the end of the hall were double wooden doors with silver thresholds on the bottom and matching silver push bars with an “Authorized Personnel Only” sign posted on the left doorway. “I can only imagine what’s beyond there,” Patrice thought. “Is that where Brad is?” she wondered. “Lying on a cold morgue table waiting to be dressed and put into his coffin? Good. I hope you freeze your ass off in there.”

Gladys led them to the last door on the right, stopping just outside the office. “Here we are,” she said, smiling and motioning Patrice and Gabby into the office. Patrice thanked her and stepped through the door. A munchkin of a man who was as big around as he was tall greeted them. Patrice expected him to dance and sing a chorus of the lollipop guild. Instead, he extended his pudgy hand with its sausage-like fingers and introduced himself. “Ms. Cavanaugh, I’m Miles Kendall,” he said, smiling and revealing tiny, doll-sized teeth. “Please allow me to extend my deepest condolences for your loss.”

“Thank you,” she answered softly. “Mr. Kendall, this is my sister, Gabby. She’s assisting me with making Brad’s arrangements. I hope it’s okay for her to be here.”

“Of course, of course,” he beamed. “It’s always nice to have someone to lean on, especially at a time such as this.”

He shook Gabby’s hand as well and then motioned for them to sit in the two brown leather chairs across from his desk. Gabby grimaced at his sweaty touch, wiping her hand on her jeans before sitting down, wondering if he’d noticed her reaction. If so, he showed no indications of it. Immediately, he began his spiel about finalizing funeral arrangements.

“Ms. Cavanaugh…” Miles started.

“Patrice,” she insisted. She felt no need to tell him why. Frankly, it was none of his business.

“Very well. Patrice,” he said, shuffling through papers on his desktop. “Have you given any thought as to what type of service you’d like for your husband? I have several plans I can go over with you,” he said, opening a black notebook, its pages separated by colored tabs. “Is there to be a memorial service or a funeral only?”

“Neither,” Patrice quickly responded, eliciting an inquisitive raised brow from Miles. “Something simple and inexpensive will be fine.”

Miles remained silent, glancing back and forth between the two women, completely perplexed by her request.

“What my sister means to say, Mr. Kendall,” Gabby offered, as though reading his thoughts, “is that she and Brad discussed this type of situation in the past, as I’m sure most married couples do, and both decided on what each would want in the event of the other’s death. Brad made it perfectly clear to Patrice he didn’t want a funeral.” You can put him in a cardboard box and toss him in the ocean as shark bait for all I care. She thought. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say. “He didn’t want anything fancy, expensive, or overly extravagant. He told Patrice he didn’t want all that attention lavished upon him or people coming to gawk at him while he lay in his casket. He was extremely adamant about it. So,” she said, turning to Patrice. “My sister doesn’t need to go into debt to pay for something Brad didn’t want. I’m sure you understand that.”

Miles appeared to be disappointed. She wasn’t sure if it were because of all the money he wouldn’t be making, or because Patrice’s request was so strange. Whatever the reason, his displeasure was clear by the scowl that’d replaced his smile.

Patrice reached into her purse, took out an envelope and handed it to Miles. “His life insurance policy,” she told him. “The face value is ten thousand dollars. That should be enough to take care of everything. He already has a pre-paid tomb at Greenview Cemetery, so there shouldn’t be a cost for burial. If there’s any money left over after expenses, you can send me a check.”

Miles stared at her momentarily, said nothing, then opened the envelope and removed the policy. Quickly scanning over it, he said, “Yes, I’m sure this will be enough. But shouldn’t we at least discuss the type of coffin you’d like for your husband? I can take you to the display room and show you…”

“No, no,” Patrice said hastily. “I’ll trust you to make that decision, based on everything Gabby has told you. Again, nothing overly expensive.”

Miles wasn’t sure how to respond to her wishes. Most people he dealt with wanted the best for their loved one’s last farewell, but hers was strange, and more than a little unnerving. He’d been in the mortuary business for over twenty years and had never been asked to do such a thing. Family members usually took pride in choosing the right casket for their dearly departed–the right service, the proper music, everything. Obviously, Patrice Cavanaugh wasn’t like most people. She seemed to be a mousy, timid woman, and fragile, as though she might shatter into a million tiny pieces at the slightest of touches. “Yes, I suppose I can take care of that as well,” was all he could think to say.

“And Mr. Kendall,” Patrice continued. “I’m not sure whether the hospital staff told you when they released Brad to you, but I want to clarify that he is not to be embalmed.”

“But, Ms. Cavanaugh,” he protested. “That’s simply not…”

Patrice held up a hand, cutting him off. “I know it’s probably unorthodox compared to what you’re used to. But it’s his request, Mr. Kendall, not mine. All I’m doing is honoring his last wishes, which is exactly what I would’ve wanted him to do if the tables were turned.” She supposed she could’ve lied and made the request sound more viable by telling him it was for religious reasons, but she feared God himself would strike her down with a powerful bolt of lightning for telling such an extravagant falsehood because Brad had never stepped foot inside a church in his entire life. She knew as she spoke the words to Mr. Kendall how strange they sounded, but Brad had made her promise more than once that she wouldn’t allow him to be embalmed upon his death because he was terrified at the thought of having sharp probes punching holes in his body to drain him of his blood, although she’d assured him that he wouldn’t feel a thing. Yet he was adamant about it, and she’d kept her word like any good wife would.

“I see,” he said, nodding. But he really didn’t. This lady is nuttier than a fruitcake. What kind of person doesn’t want their loved ones to be embalmed?

“Is there a problem, Mr. Kendall?” Patrice asked. “You seem unsure of my request.”

Miles fixated on her, his mouth agape. “It’s just…” he began, but Patrice interrupted before he could say anything further.

“I can take my business elsewhere if there is.”

“No, Ms. Cavanaugh. That won’t be necessary. I’ll honor your husband’s wishes.”

“Good,” Patrice stated. “Then that’s settled.”

“Yes,” Miles stammered. “I suppose it is.”

“I brought clothes for him,” she said, placing a brown paper bag on top of his desk. “I’m sure he wouldn’t appreciate being buried in bloody clothes.”

Miles stared thoughtfully at the bag. Did this woman care so little about her husband that she couldn’t even take the time to put his burial clothes on a hanger? A bag was all he was worth to her? He didn’t want to think about it anymore. All he wanted was to finish his business with this cold-hearted woman and get her out of his establishment.

“Ms. Cavanaugh,” he began, refusing to call her by her first name. “I’m sure you understand if there’s to be no embalming, Mr. Cavanaugh will need to be laid to rest right away, for reasons I’m sure I don’t need to explain.”

“I understand,” she replied.

Miles rose from his seat and picked up the bag with Brad’s clothes in it. “Would you like to see him so you can say your last goodbye?”

“No,” she answered hastily, realizing she’d probably stunned him with her abrupt answer. “What I mean to say is, I saw him this morning at the hospital, and that vision of him was enough to last me a lifetime. I said goodbye to him then.”

“Very well,” he huffed. “I assure you I will conduct your husband’s services accordingly and in agreement with your wishes, and with Mr. Cavanaugh’s wishes as well.”

“I appreciate that,” Patrice said.

“Thank you,” Gabby added.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Patrice said, reaching into the left front pocket of her black Capri pants. “Can you please put this in his hand and bury it with him?” she asked, placing a bronze coin into his palm. “It’s a token of good will to guide him on his journey into the afterlife,” she explained. Or Hell. I guarantee you that’s where he’s heading.

Miles took the coin and cupped it in his hand. “Yes, of course, Ms. Cavanaugh. I’ll see that it’s entombed with him.”

At the doorway of his office, Gabby turned to Miles and said, “Mr. Kendall, I’m sure Patrice’s requests and behavior might seem somewhat strange to you, but they’re really not. Everything she requested was exactly what Brad wanted. Nothing more, nothing less.” Pausing for a moment, she then continued. “My sister is having a trying time dealing with his sudden death, then having to make all these spur-of-the-moment decisions. She’s extremely stressed, so please forgive her for any improprieties.” If you only knew about all the bruises he gave her, every bone he’s broken, every bloody nose–then you’d understand. Because if you knew all these things, you’d probably want to dump him in the ocean yourself.

“I understand, Gabby,” he said as he ushered her away from the door and into the hallway where Patrice stood patiently waiting for her.

But that was a lie.

He didn’t understand any of it at all.

Present Day

Chapter 1

The Mistress was ready.

Hell, she was more than ready. After all, she’d spent the past year planning and preparing for this moment to arrive. It would be spectacular, a coming out celebration for her, and every step had been planned meticulously. It would be glorious to behold. Too bad she and Bradley Cavanaugh would be the only two people who would know about it.

She was both nervous and excited; slightly worried, yet not afraid. The thought of going through with her plans to get even with that piece of shit was a level of courage she would’ve never in a million years thought she had. Butterflies danced in her stomach, flitting, and fluttering in spasmodic arcs, their tiny wings tickling her insides and sending a thrilling chill up her spine. The feelings she was experiencing could only be described as ecstatic and electrifying, the way eating too much chocolate made her feel, or the anxiousness a teenage girl might encounter when that special boy she has a major crush on finally asks her out on a date. It was totally arousing, a complete rush of adrenaline, like plunging down the first drop on a roller coaster.

She giggled delightfully, clapping her hands together, pleased with herself for concocting such an extravagant plan without anyone knowing about it. Because if anyone did find out, she’d be labeled completely insane and locked away for all eternity.

And she would never go back to that place, or any other like it, again. No siree, Bob.

What she couldn’t deny was that there’d been moments when she’d experienced apprehensiveness about moving forward with her strategy. However, once she focused on all the hurt, anger, frustration, betrayal, and pure hatred she’d carried inside for years, those feelings of uncertainty had quickly dissipated. In their place was born a gut-wrenching desire for vengeance against a man she absolutely loathed.

She wasn’t entirely sure it was going to work. She’d never tried the spell on a human before. But she had performed the same ritual on a cat with success. Well, sort of.

The little gray ball of fur came into her possession courtesy of the local animal shelter adoption program. He was a cute little thing, too. Friendly, and affectionate, eyes the color of topaz. If he hadn’t been meant to fulfill a higher purpose, she may have considered keeping him as a pet. She let it enjoy three days of freedom before sacrificing it, which she considered generous since he could’ve lived the rest of his life trapped in a cage. And when the time came to say goodbye to Mr. Kitty, she’d shown him mercy by making his death quick and painless. She’d been mesmerized by the bubbles that’d erupted from his nose and mouth as she held him under water and had even felt a little sad as she watched the life drain from his tiny body, his bright, topaz-colored eyes going dim.

Running her hand down his limp body, she squeezed the excess water from his fur, then laid him outstretched on the ritual cloth, preparing him for resurrection.

It took less than an hour for his rebirth. At first, he was dazed, as though he’d just awakened from a catnap. But then he became violent, hissing and snarling at her. He wasn’t the same sweet kitten she’d drowned in the bathtub. When he lunged at her, attacking with his claws and teeth, she put him down with one stab from her ritual dagger. Instead of burying him, she wrapped his tiny body in a towel, tied them both up inside a plastic garbage bag, and put the bundle outside in the trashcan for the sanitation workers to pick up.

At the time she’d performed the resurrection spell on the cat, she didn’t know she’d need to perform it again in the future. She’d only done it then to see if she could. The experience helped her improve and enhance her craft.

All of that was about to change.

More than a year ago, she’d decided to kill Bradley Cavanaugh and had planned his death perfectly. How and where she’d do it, and how she’d dispose of his body. It’d be done in such a way that no one would ever suspect her of committing the crime. If questions ever arose about his whereabouts, the authorities would simply think he’d absconded without telling anyone. Liars, abusers, and cheaters always operated that way, walking away from relationships without giving explanations. Or screwing every woman who said yes to their sexual advances. They were like alley cats, always on the prowl for their next unsuspecting victim, wooing and showering them with gifts until they snared them in their webs of deceit. All her life she’d known men just like Bradley Cavanaugh, and they were always the same.

Users and losers.

Ready to make her move by kidnapping him at gunpoint and bringing him to her cabin, the stupid son of a bitch got himself killed in a car accident. The nerve of him. Who did he think he was to try spoiling her plans? He wouldn’t. She wasn’t going to let him.

Discarding her original idea because she couldn’t kill a man who’s already dead, she was forced to think of another way to fulfill her desire of annihilating him and making him suffer as much as he’d made her suffer. But she’d had to think, and move, fast.

Producing a replacement strategy hadn’t taken long. She’d figured out the perfectsolution. One that no one would ever figure out.

She already had everything she needed for the spell, having collected potions, herbal ingredients, and even bones and other body parts, over the years. With all the necessary ingredients, perhaps she could kill a dead man, afterall. It truly wasa brilliant plan.

Raising her glass of Merlot towards the ceiling, she shouted, “Hallelujah. Let the games begin.”

Chapter 2

“Come on, Riley,” Frank Rowan said to his trusty Labrador. “Let’s go out there and make our final rounds before we lock up the joint for the night.”

Grabbing his key ring from its hook on the kitchen wall, he headed towards the front door of his one-bedroom bungalow he shared with his dog. It was only six hundred square feet, but it was home, and they lived there rent-free. It was just one benefit that came with the job. Landing the position wasn’t much of a competition. It wasn’t like applicants were knocking down the door to apply. This job wasn’t for the squeamish or faint-hearted, and certainly not for someone who scared easily. Not too many people were cut out to be groundskeeper at a cemetery. Frank had no qualms about taking the job. How hard could it possibly be to walk around and check on gravesites, keep the grounds clean, and make sure no one accidentally got locked in after closing? It took guts and nerves of steel to walk through a graveyard at night, especially when there was no moon, and it was dark AND quiet. He understood why some people might be scared, especially if they let their imaginations run wild. If they did, they probably would see a ghost or two, or imagine the hundreds of towering, looming tombstones bathed in silver moonlight were stone soldiers, standing erect and ready to do battle.

At six feet, five inches and weighing two-hundred-fifty pounds, Frank Rowan didn’t scare easily, nor was he afraid of much… except spiders. The eight-legged freaks gave him the willies, especially the gargantuan ones, with their long prickly legs and gazillion eyes staring at him. Damn, how he hated those things. Most people found his size intimidating, so they avoided him. He’d overheard whispers from town residents and the names they called him – Digger, Weirdo, the tall dude, to name a few. He’d even heard the occasional “wow, you’re a tall drink of water,” when someone did take the time to speak to him. Frank had never responded or reacted to the name-calling, giving only a slight nod as he passed them by. He never understood why they called him Digger though, for he certainly didn’t dig graves. And even if he did, didn’t the bozos know there were machines for that kind of work now? He had no clue why they called him names at all, since no one personally knew him. He’d only been in town for the past year and had taken the groundskeeper job at Greenview Cemetery a few weeks after arriving. It was exactly what he’d needed after suffering through, and unfortunately surviving, his worst nightmare. Horrible and tragic losses he preferred not to think or talk about. A secluded place seemed like the perfect medicine for a broken man. Somewhere away from everyone and everything, where no one would bother him. It was easier for the townsfolk to gossip about him and believe what they wanted to believe rather than knowing the truth about the man he was. A small town was what he’d been looking for when he’d discovered Peach City. Located fifty miles north of the Florida state line, it seemed peaceful enough to settle down in. So, he had.

Frank also didn’t believe in ghosts. He’d certainly never seen one. And if there was such a thing, he was in the perfect place to observe them. He’d always believed when you’re dead, you’re dead. Plain and simple. No Heaven, no Hell, no Purgatory, and certainly no lingering spirits who had a problem moving on to their next realm because they had unfinished business on earth. He’d admit, however, on a couple of occasions, he’d gotten spooked. Like the time he’d been making his nightly rounds and heard what he thought was whispering. Since the entrance to the cemetery closed at ten p.m. and cars had no way in or out other than the front gate, he knew he was alone. Except for Riley, who stood loyally by his side. And since Riley could neither talk nor whisper, he’d concluded it was the wind rustling through the leaves. Then something unexpected happened that’d scared him so badly he’d almost pissed his pants. The bushes began shaking and rattling. A deep growl emanated from beneath the brush. Inching slowly and carefully, he squatted and shined his flashlight through the gap between the branches. Two glowing silver orbs stared back. He’d anticipated being mauled to death by a vicious bobcat or rabid raccoon. The mere thought caused a ripple of fear to slither through his belly, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. As he scrambled backwards, the creature sprang from the safeness of its cover. Frank lost his balance, falling backwards onto his rear end. The feral cat lunged onto his chest, burying its claws into his skin, hissing and growling, breathing its rotten, foul breath into Frank’s face. The odor had been overwhelming and suffocating, making him nauseous. Clutching the cat by the nape of its neck, he yanked it off, his skin tearing as the cat’s razor-sharp claws broke free, taking out chunks of his flesh. Quickly getting to his feet, he was gasping for breath. His heart pounded as he kept a watchful eye on the cat, hoping it wouldn’t pounce on him again. Thankfully, it hadn’t. It hissed at him, released a guttural growl, then ran into the woods, back to its filthy way of life and smorgasbords of decaying animal carcasses.

The puncture wounds in his chest stung and burned. He’d known he was bleeding because he could feel the wetness soaking through his shirt. Picking up his flashlight, he turned to Riley and said, “Thanks for the help, pal.”

He could laugh about it now, especially when he thought about how he must’ve looked. A mountain of a man thrashing around on the ground while wrestling a defenseless cat. It’d delivered several nasty injuries, and it hadn’t been funny when he’d nursed all his wounds… including a slightly bruised ego.

Opening the door, he turned to Riley. The dog remained on the couch, glancing back and forth from Frank to the door. “Are you coming or not?”

Riley licked his chops and answered with a whimper.

“What’s wrong, buddy?” Frank asked. “You scared?”

Riley whimpered again, glanced momentarily at the front door, then laid his head back down on his paws.

“You’re not going to make me go out there by myself, are you?” Frank asked as he kneeled beside the couch. Scratching the dog behind the ear, he said, “I don’t blame you, boy. I don’t care much for it myself, but I have to do it and make sure everything’s secure. Come on. I promise it’ll be over with before you know it.”

Without lifting his head, Riley cast a furtive glance at Frank, then the front door. Reluctantly, he left the safety of the warm couch and sauntered toward the door, his tail tucked firmly between his legs.

“What gives?” Frank thought. “Why the sudden strange behavior?”

Chapter 1 – The Accident

Summer vacation of 1977 started out like any other summer but ended with me losing every close friend I had. Not because of death or anything tragic, but because they became afraid of me, of the uncanny abilities I inadvertently came to possess after a freak accident.

Before going any further, allow me to introduce myself and provide you with some vital information so you can have a better understanding of who I am and where I came from.

My name is Diedre Kay Olsen, but I prefer to be called DeeDee. I don’t much care for my true name. I was born and raised in Pahokee, Florida, a small, rural farming community founded in the 1900’s. The Seminole translation is grassy waters, which happens to be quite fitting. Pahokee is located in western Palm Beach County, on the east side of Lake Okeechobee. With a population of less than twenty thousand residents, my hometown sits in the heart of an area known as the Glades – not to be confused with the Florida Everglades. That part of the state is much further south and a whole lot swampier.

The nutrient-rich muck used for planting and growing sugar cane and sweet corn is referred to as black gold and is so revered by farmers that it’s honored annually with a parade and festival that attracts residents from all over the state of Florida to visit the Glades and take part in the multitudes of celebrations and festivities.

Sugar mills and vegetable packing houses are prominent in the Glades. Celery, radishes, and lettuce get processed and packaged inside regional facilities and shipped out to grocery stores and markets across the United States.

Anglers come from all over the world to take part in fishing tournaments held on Lake Okeechobee, including prominent government figures and well-known celebrities. Large-mouthed bass and crappie are the most popular for tournaments and sport fishing, but the lake also has blue gill, speckled perch, and the tourists’ favorite–alligators. Visitors to the area pay substantial fares for an opportunity to go on a nighttime cruise on the lake, hoping to get a glimpse of the large reptiles in their natural habitats, or hear their deep grunts and snorts as they communicate with each other. Their eyes glow red in the dark and look like dozens of rubies floating on the water’s surface. I can understand the enthusiasm of tourists because it truly is a sight to see. While alligators are entertaining to watch, never make the mistake of approaching one. They are not docile creatures that take kindly to the human touch. They are meat-eating creatures who are fast on their feet. Females are extremely protective of their nests and will aggressively attack anyone who comes near her eggs. These reptiles are land and water predators that can, and will, leave their victims limbless or dead.

It’s common to see airboats speeding noisily through the water or cutting through marshes, reeds, and grassy areas like a warm knife slicing through butter. I’ve seen skilled airboat pilots race from the water, glide up the side of the grass levee, and then shoot back down into the water, performing spectacular stunts for spectators.

If you’re wondering why any of this is relevant to my story, it’s because I believe it’s important for you to see, feel, and understand how life was growing up in a small town where everybody knew everybody–and knew about their personal business as well. If you wanted to know which couples were divorcing, all you had to do was ask Ms. Jones at the bank. Curious to know who was expecting a baby, sick, or having surgery? Ask Nurse Mayfield at the hospital. That’s how life was in my hometown.

Both of these ladies knew me and my mom, but they didn’t know about me. In time, they and every other citizen in Pahokee would come to learn my secret whether I wanted them to or not. And I would become the prime target for a vile and vicious fellow schoolmate who made it his personal goal to shut me up permanently to keep me from revealing the dark secret I knew about him.

Before everything in and about my life changed, I was an average, typical teenager with future dreams of becoming a veterinarian. As with every other aspect of my life, those plans would be shattered as well.

Pahokee had no large department stores. There was no mall, no shopping plazas, no multiplex theaters, and only three restaurants, unless you counted the hole-in-the-wall diner next door to the eye doctor that served more cockroaches than they did customers. To enjoy any “big city” amenities, a fifty-mile trip to West Palm Beach had to be made.

Even with the absence of metropolitan luxuries, we Pahokee kids never suffered from a lack of fun or from boredom. We always found something to do to keep us entertained and occupied, and sometimes those “other things” didn’t end well for the daredevil who was brave enough to try something new. Like me, for instance, when I jumped off the roof of my house with a towel tied around my neck because I believed I could fly like Superman. Or when I got the ridiculous notion to jump from a tree branch to see if I could land on my feet like a cat, but instead caught the seat of my shorts on a limb and dangled in midair until my friends came along and helped me down. They got a good laugh out of that fiasco, and never let me live it down.

When I stop and think about some of the things I did as a kid, it’s truly a miracle that I’m still alive. Fortunately, the only harm done by my pathetic acts of bravery was to my ego, and to the crack of my butt when my shorts held on to that tree limb for dear life.

Typical summers for me comprised a variety of activities that were sometimes shared with the company of friends and at other times, I preferred doing things alone, like using my cane pole to fish off the marina pier and not having to worry about a companion talking constantly and scaring the fish away. I never believed that fish could be so frightened to where they would pass up a delicious, fat worm, but there were plenty of older fishermen (and women) along the dock that would argue otherwise. I also enjoyed going to the city park and sitting alone on a swing while I gathered my thoughts and wondered about life. Not that a fourteen-year-old had much to worry about, but I did an awful lot of thinking. Momma always told me it was good to exercise my brain as often as possible to keep it from getting rusty. I knew brains didn’t rust, but they can be like an empty stomach that isn’t completely satisfied until it’s fed, and I was constantly feeding my mind. I loved reading books of all kinds and learning whatever I could about anything worthwhile. I knew that knowledge was the power I would need one day when furthering my education was just around the corner instead of being what felt like light years away.

I spent many afternoons at the Prince Theater, the town’s one-screen movie house, where I paid a dollar for admission and could sit there all day long if I chose to and watch the movie, sometimes double features, over and over without being kicked out. Try doing that these days and you’re likely to get escorted out by an usher or told that you have to buy another admission ticket if you choose to stay.

Swimming parties at the public pool were always fun, although any amount of extended time in the sun always resulted in the same thing for me–a nasty sunburn because of my fair complexion. After the burn healed and the redness faded, peeling would follow that left even more freckles on my shoulders, nose, and cheeks.

One of my all-time favorite things to do on a Saturday night was make a pallet on the living room floor where I’d lay on my stomach eating popcorn and watching monster movies on television. The blankets of the pallet came in handy if I got scared, because I could cover my head and not look at the gory creature that was about to devour me whole. When I thought it was safe to uncover my head, I’d always look over my shoulder to make sure there wasn’t a vampire, mummy, or werewolf lurking in a dark corner of the living room. If I needed to change the channel to continue my horror fest, I had to get up to do it. Our television had no remote control. I dare you to try that with monsters in the room watching your every move.

During the day, I stayed outside from the time the sun rose until it said goodnight, painting the evening Florida skies with magnificent hues of oranges and pinks. If I got thirsty while playing, I took a drink from the water hose because there was no running in and out of the house lest you “let the flies in,” and we didn’t have bottled water back then. One of the biggest reasons I loved summer so much is because my birthday is in July, and that always meant having friends over for cake, ice cream and opening presents. That summer I was on the cusp of turning fifteen.

I was small for my age, less than five feet tall, petite, skinny as a twig, and a late bloomer with a chest as flat as a two by four. Why mom ever made me wear those ugly training bras with the large triangular shapes on the cups I will never understand, because other than the two marbles barely poking through my shirts, there wasn’t anything there to train. I kept my auburn hair cut in a short pixie-style because I didn’t want it hanging in my eyes, and I also wasn’t keen on being bothered with the monotonous chore of pretty hair maintenance.

In case you haven’t figured it out yet, I was a tomboy in every sense of the word. Dresses were out of the question for my attire. All I ever wore were jeans, shorts, t-shirts and either sneakers or flip-flops. It was a simple and easy style without looking too girlie and perfectly comfortable for me.

Although these things were loads of fun, and activities that I looked forward to every summer, what I loved more than anything else was playing softball. A bunch of us project kids, (that’s what we were called because we lived in a housing authority), would get together in the afternoons to play in the extensive field behind our apartment houses. Short, tall, skinny, or fat, we didn’t care. If you could play ball, you’d get picked for a team.

We used personal items as makeshift bases. A pair of shoes for first, a shirt for second, and so forth. Then we proceeded to picking team captains and making our choices for players, leaving no one out. If there were more players than needed, they got scattered in the outfield. If we were short a few, then the available players covered multiple positions.

I was a mean right fielder with a powerful throwing arm, and I’m not too shy to say so. You know the adage about girls not being able to play ball? Anyone that ever felt that way would have changed their minds if they’d ever seen me play. As I said, I was a hard-core tomboy, and I was more than capable of playing with, and better than, most of the boys my age.

It was my great love for the sport that would make this the summer that would differ from any other, the one that would change everything about me and alter the course of my life forever. The reason my friends ostracized me and kept their distance was because they became afraid of the new DeeDee Olsen. For them, that was the safest and most logical option, and the only one that seemed workable to them.

On this particularly scorching hot June afternoon, our first week out of school for the summer, it was the bottom of the sixth inning, and I was up to bat. With bases loaded, my team was ahead by one run. My intention was to get a walk because the worst pitcher out of all our players was on the mound, and I knew from experience that he threw either high or outside balls. Unless you were a tennis player attempting to return a lob, there was no use taking a swing.

My feet were dug into the ground at home plate, a piece of cardboard taken out of the neighborhood dumpster, an aluminum bat gripped tightly in my hands, knees bent, eyes forward and focused.

I was ready.

As usual, Ricky threw a high ball. Obviously, our umpire, Chubby, was blind.

“Steeeeee-rike one!” he called. We assigned him to the position of umpiring because he was asthmatic and unable to run. Not wanting to prevent him from being able to take part, we compromised.

“Are you stupid or something?” I yelled, turning to face him. “That ball was as high as an airplane!”

“I calls ‘em as I sees ‘em,” he said, grinning and pushing up his black-rimmed glasses, then retaking his umpire stance. His curly red hair looked like a fire on top of his head in the bright glow of the afternoon sun. His face was so red that I couldn’t see a single one of his dozens of freckles through his flushed skin. Back in position, I waited for the next pitch. It went to the right of the plate by about three feet.

“Steeeeee-rike two!” Chubby called, holding up two fingers and casting out his arm like a professional umpire.

“You seriously might want to consider getting new glasses!” I retorted. “The ones you have on don’t work.”

Frustrated by his rotten play calling, I dug in even deeper and choked up on the bat, figuring I might as well swing because if I didn’t, Chubby would call it strike three, regardless.

Except that it was a perfect pitch that came straight across the plate. I swung hard, walloping the ball past center field. Opposing players, Jake and Timmy, ran for the ball while team players on second and third bases ran across home plate, scoring runs for our team.

For reasons only he knew, Johnny made a horrible mistake in his decision to change course. While I ran past first and second, then touching third heading toward home plate, he turned around and ran back toward third base, moving as fast as lightning while looking back over his shoulder. I presumed he was making sure he wasn’t being chased by the catcher for fear that he’d get tagged out and cost our team a run.

Even if I hadn’t been so focused on making a home run, I could not have prevented what was about to happen because we were both going at full throttle in our momentum, and it happened so fast that neither of us could have put on our brakes and prevented it.

We collided head-on with a forceful impact, his chin striking me on the upper left side of my forehead, right above my eye. The crash sent me flying backwards to the ground, knocking me unconscious.

I don’t know how long I was out, but when I opened my eyes, I was lying on the grass flat on my back with all the other kids bent over, staring down at me. Johnny held a bloody rag to his lacerated chin. I later learned it took six stitches to close the wound.

“Are you okay?” “How many fingers am I holding up?” “Man, look at the size of that knot on her head!” I didn’t know who was saying what. They all seemed to be talking at once. All I could hear was a cacophony of jumbled noises.

I groaned and tried to get up, but the movement made me nauseous, so I sat back down and waited for the queasiness to pass. When it finally did, I stood up and said, “That’s enough for today.”

“DeeDee?” It was Johnny, my friend who I collided with. “I’m really sorry,” he said, a deep look of concern on his face. “I hope you’re not hurt too bad.”

Touching my head and feeling the lump, I said, “I’m okay, Johnny. I need to go show this to my mom.”

To say the swelling on my forehead was a goose egg would be equivalent to comparing a twenty-carat diamond to a pebble. It was huge and covered the entire left side of my forehead and growing in size by the second.

Mom was sitting on the side of her bed talking to one of her friends on the telephone when I went inside. Not wanting to disturb her, I stood in the doorway waiting for her to either turn around or hang up. After a couple of minutes of waiting and she did neither, I quietly said, “Mom?”

In one swift move, she leaped from the bed, dropping the phone to the floor with a loud PING! “Oh, DeeDee!” she cried. “What in the world happened to you?”

I was trying to explain when the nausea hit me again. I knew I was going to throw up this time. I tried to get to the bathroom, but I didn’t make it. The vomiting started in her room, and I left a trail from there all the way to the toilet.

The next thing I remembered was lying on an examination table in the emergency room waiting for a doctor to come in. Mom stood beside me, worry furrowing her brow. Never before had I seen such an expression of concern on my mom’s face. When I asked her how I got to the hospital, she told me I passed out in the bathroom. She carried me to the car, and an emergency room nurse brought me inside on a stretcher. To this day, I do not remember any of that.

“How do I look?” I asked quietly. My mouth felt as dry as cotton and my throat was sore and burning.

“Like you’ve been in a fight with a semi-truck and the truck won.”

Funny thing is it didn’t even hurt. It tingled and throbbed, kind of like a bee sting, but there was no pain. I reached up to touch it and suddenly understood why mom looked so worried. It had grown to the size of a grapefruit and was soft in the center.

“Don’t touch it, DeeDee,” mom scolded, nuzzling my hand away. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay,” I answered. “A little lightheaded, but I don’t feel nauseated anymore.”

The door to my examining room opened and in walked the most handsome man I had ever seen in my life, and I didn’t even like boys. Tall and tanned, with wavy blonde hair and eyes so piercingly blue that I could almost see right through them.

“I’m Dr. Montgomery,” he said, taking my chart from the clear plastic door pocket. “Diedre Olsen?” he asked, opening the file.

“DeeDee,” I corrected him as I continued to stare. I did not like being called by my proper name but hearing him say it somehow made it okay.

“DeeDee, it is then,” he said, stepping up to the side of my bed. “Whoa! What happened here?” he asked, softly probing my forehead.

“I ran smack into somebody while we were playing softball,” I answered.

“Judging by the size of this lump, I’d say you two rammed each other fairly good. Would that be an accurate assumption?”

I nodded. I was afraid to open my mouth. The nausea was coming back and the last thing I wanted to do was hurl on his pristine white coat.

“Can you tell me exactly how this happened, DeeDee?” he asked. “How did you feel afterwards? Did you pass out, vomit, anything unusual?”

I knew Dr. Montgomery was talking because I could see his lips moving. Yet his voice was muffled and sounded far away. Whatever he was saying, his words were incoherent, as though he was speaking a foreign language that I didn’t understand.

A flash of bright white light blinded me. I thought Dr. Montgomery was examining my eyes with his flashlight. Suddenly, I was overcome by the sweet smell of burning sugarcane, followed by a horrendous wave of nausea.

When I came to, I wasn’t in the emergency room anymore. I had been admitted to the hospital.

Mom was sitting in a green leather chair in the corner, her arms folded across her chest as she stared at me, looking more worried than she had before. When she saw my eyes flutter open, she sprang from her chair and came to my bedside, grabbing onto my hand and crying.

I didn’t know what had happened that warranted the need for two doctors to attend to me, but I figured it must’ve been serious. Dr. Montgomery stood directly beside my bed, an expression of concern clouding his face. Behind him was an elderly gentleman with white hair and a thin white mustache, smiling at me. He kept his arms folded behind his back, grinning and nodding while Dr. Montgomery spoke, occasionally glancing at me, winking, and then returning his attention to the chart in Dr. Montgomery’s hand.

“Glad to have you back with us,” he said, bending over me and shining a light into my eyes.

“What happened?” I asked, attempting to sit up.

“Take it easy for now,” he said, dabbing my shoulder and laying me back down onto the pillow, then writing in my chart. “You gave us quite a scare.”

Mom nodded in agreement, as did the older doctor.

“Well?” I asked. “Will one of you please tell me what happened and why I’m in the hospital?”

“You suffered a seizure while you were in the emergency room,” Dr. Montgomery explained. “I admitted you so I can monitor you. It’s only for observation, DeeDee, so you probably won’t be here for more than one night. You have a mild concussion. I believe that’s what caused the seizure. Not that it will happen again,” he said, patting my leg. “But if it does, I’d rather you be here close to medical staff instead of at home. If you do okay during the night, and by that, I mean no more seizures, then you can go home tomorrow.”

“It takes two of you to tell me that?” I asked, puzzled as I glanced back and forth between him and the elderly doctor.

Dr. Montgomery looked bewildered by my question. “Do you mean me and your mom?”

“No,” I said, pointing. “Him.”

Dr. Montgomery swiveled and looked behind him. Slightly cocking his head he asked, “DeeDee, do you see someone else here besides me and your mother?”

“Of course, I do,” I said, nodding. “Don’t you? How can you not see him when he’s standing right beside you? He’s a doctor, too.”

The glances exchanged between mom and him were ones of total confusion.

“Probably double vision,” he said calmly to mom. “It’s common for a patient to experience it as a side effect from seizures and head injuries. I wouldn’t worry too much about it right now. It’s likely only temporary.”

That last statement of his would be one of the biggest falsehoods I have ever been told.

I knew what I was seeing wasn’t double vision.

I was young, but old enough to know the difference between an elderly doctor and a young one.

The physician that stood at Dr. Montgomery’s side was different in every way imaginable, and they looked nothing alike.

What I didn’t understand at the time was why mom or Dr. Montgomery couldn’t see him. He was standing right beside my bed, as clear and plain as they were.

However, it wouldn’t take long for me to find out why. Unfortunately, I’d have to be put through pure hell before learning the answer.

This episode was only the beginning of what was still yet to come.

Chapter 2 – Who Are All These People?

My overnight stay in the hospital was anything but restful. Between the nurses coming in and out of my room, the constant chattering at the nurses’ station and in the hallway, as well as the little girl who continuously called out for her mommy, I couldn’t sleep. I turned on the television to drown out the noises, but there wasn’t anything on that I wanted to watch on the few channels that were available. However, it was fun getting to use the remote control to channel surf without having to get out of bed.

Why was no one helping that little girl? Why didn’t someone answer her? Didn’t they hear or see her? She was absolutely driving me nuts. She sounded like she was standing right outside my door.

Tossing the covers aside, I got out of bed and stepped barefoot onto the cold tile floor. The coolness was comforting and felt good against my hot skin. When the sudden dizziness struck me, I clung to the side rail of the bed and steadied myself to keep from falling.

Once the lightheadedness completely subsided, I wheeled my I.V. pole up to my left side, using it for support, walked to my door and opened it. As I suspected, she was standing in the middle of the hallway, wearing a pink floor-length nightgown with white daisies and a lace collar, clutching a rag doll with yellow pigtails and red button eyes. Her long black hair was in braids, one hanging over each shoulder. “Have you seen my mommy?” she asked. “I can’t find her anywhere.”

“No,” I snapped, immediately ashamed of myself for being so harsh to a small child. She couldn’t have been more than six years old. Toning down my voice, I asked, “Who is your mommy? Is she here in the hospital?”

“I don’t know,” she answered, peering up at me through tear-soaked eyes.

“You don’t know?” I asked with surprise, her remark confusing me. How could she not know where her mother was? The ward wasn’t very large, so she couldn’t be too far away. Why wasn’t her mother searching for her? Surely, she realized that her child was missing.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Amy,” she answered, wiping away a tear on the sleeve of her gown.

“Tell you what, Amy,” I said, offering her my hand. “Why don’t I help you find your mommy?”

“Thank you,” she answered, placing her tiny, frail hand in mine. Although I could clearly see her hand in mine, it was weightless with no solidity to it at all, as though I were holding a feather.

We began our walk down the hallway. Most of the doors were closed, and the ones that were open contained empty beds. An elderly woman with a walker made her way toward us. Beside her, an elderly man kept a slow pace next to her, his hands jammed into his pockets. They smiled politely as they passed by.

“Let’s try another hallway,” I told Amy. “Maybe she’s in a different section.”

We were still holding hands as we turned around to make our way back. I stopped in the middle of the hallway when I saw my nurse standing in the doorway to my room with her arms crossed, a scornful look clouding her face. “Miss Olsen, what are you doing out of bed at this hour?” she asked, totally ignoring Amy.

“I heard a little girl crying in the hallway,” I answered. “I came out to see if she needed my help.”

Nurse Simmons frowned, staring at me discontentedly.

“Didn’t you hear her?”

“Can’t say that I did,” she answered. “There are no small children on this floor. There haven’t been any for several years now. At one time, this was the Pediatric ward, but it moved upstairs two years ago.”

That’s why Amy was lost and confused. She was on the wrong floor. All I needed to do was get her to the elevator and send her up one floor, back to the proper ward and to her mother. Problem solved.

“Come on, now,” Nurse Simmons said, placing an arm around my shoulder and leading me away from Amy. “Let’s get you back in bed.”

Amy reluctantly let go of my hand as I was being led away. “It’s okay,” she said sadly.

“What about her?” I asked.

“What about who?” Nurse Simmons replied, giving me her strange look again.

“Her,” I replied, turning back to Amy.

She was no longer there. In a split second, she’d vanished.

“But, but…” I stammered.

“You probably had a bad dream,” Nurse Simmons soothed. “Would you like me to call the doctor and get you something to help you sleep?”

“No,” I said, crawling back into bed and pulling the covers up snugly beneath my chin. “I’ll get to sleep on my own.”

“Stay in bed, now. We can’t have you roaming the hallways in the middle of the night. If you need anything, use your bedside intercom,” she said, turning out the light and closing the door.

As I lay there in the dark, I wondered if Nurse Simmons had been right about my experience being nothing more than a dream. While I knew it was completely possible, I didn’t really believe it because it’d all been too real to be a delusion. One thing was certain. Whatever I’d seen left me completely baffled, confused, and I’ll admit, frightened because I didn’t know how to explain what had happened to me in the hallway.

I knew Amy was there because I saw her with my own eyes, for heaven’s sake. Not only had I seen her, but I had touched her. Yet Nurse Simmons didn’t see or hear anything. How was that possible when me and Amy were both standing right in front of her, hand in hand?

I didn’t hear Amy calling out anymore that night, but I heard my door open and the sound of soft footsteps crossing the floor. I cracked my eyes open and saw a different nurse standing beside my bed, smiling down at me. I figured shifts had changed, and she was the new nurse assigned to care for me. She quietly checked the flow of the I.V. fluid I was receiving, gently touched the lump on my forehead, grimacing when she did, patted my arm, then left the room. Not giving it another thought, I fell back to sleep.

By the time Dr. Montgomery came in the next morning to check my status, and hopefully discharge me, mom had returned to the hospital, taking the day off from work so she could take me home and spend the day with me to make sure I was okay.

I could tell by his worried expression that something was bothering him. Since it was my chart that he was reading, whatever he was frowning about involved me.

Instead of standing at my bedside to talk, he pulled up a chair and sat down beside my bed with my file open on his lap.

“Would you like to tell me about what happened last night?” he asked. “Or should I say, this morning at two thirty a.m.?”

“Uh-oh,” I thought, swallowing hard. “I’m in big trouble.”

“What do you mean?” I asked innocently, picking at a hang nail so I wouldn’t have to look at him.

“According to the nurse’s report, she found you roaming the hallway this morning.”

“Am I in trouble for that?” I asked, thinking I was about to be handed my head on a silver platter by Dr. Handsome.

“No, you’re not in trouble,” he said. “I am concerned about what she wrote in her report.”

“What did she say?” I asked, looking over at mom. Her attention was acutely focused on what Dr. Montgomery was saying.

“I’ll read it to you,” he said, flipping over a page in the file. “At two thirty a.m. while en route to answer a call button, I discovered Miss Olsen walking in the hallway, going from door to door as though she was searching for someone. Although Miss Olsen was alone, she had her arm and hand poised in such a manner that she appeared to be holding someone’s hand, as well as conversing with them. She reported hearing and seeing a girl child in the hallway and asked me if I had heard her, to which I replied no, and explained to her that there were no children assigned to this ward. I escorted Miss Olsen back to her room and put her to bed. There were no further incidents.”

Dr. Montgomery closed the file and looked at me. “This is extremely disconcerting, DeeDee,” he said, leaning forward in his chair. “Especially considering that you’ve suffered head trauma and a seizure. I need to ask you some questions, and I can’t stress to you enough how important it is that you answer them truthfully. Do you understand that?”

I nodded.

Mom had taken a stance next to my bed, eager to hear what the doctor had to say.

“Is the nurse telling the truth about what happened? Did you see or hear someone in the hallway?”

I didn’t know whether I should tell him the truth or not. What level of discipline would I receive for lying? If I told him about Amy, should I also tell him about the old lady with the walker, or the nurse that came into my room that I hadn’t seen since? I knew better than to lie, so I didn’t.

“Both,” I replied before relaying my encounter with Amy.

“Was that the only time you’ve seen her?”

“Yes.”

“Have you seen anything else strange? Objects or apparitions that you can’t explain, or that don’t make any logical sense to you?”

“No, only Amy.” That was only a half-truth, not a lie. “Maybe I was sleepwalking,” I offered.

“Is that really what you believe, DeeDee? Are you prone to sleepwalking?”

“No,” I answered. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t do it this time. Like you said, I suffered a serious head injury. Maybe that’s what caused me to sleepwalk.”

“I suppose that’s possible,” Dr. Montgomery agreed with a nod. “How about smells? Any unusual scents that seem to appear out of nowhere and without a reason?”

“Just the one time in the emergency room,” I answered.

“What did you smell?”

“Burning sugar cane,” I said.

Dr. Montgomery studied me for a few seconds. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to figure out whether I was telling him the truth or deciding what his next move was.

“The good news is that the skull x-rays were normal, meaning there are no fractures. However, there is significant swelling and bruising, not only to the surface of your skin, but to tissue as well.”

“Dr. Montgomery?” Mom interjected. “Why did you ask her about strange smells? What is the significance of that?” she wanted to know.

“There have been cases where patients who have suffered seizures reported peculiar odors right before the onset of the convulsion. Different patients report various scents,” he explained. “Not everyone smells the same thing.”

“I see,” Mom said. “Is that something we should be concerned about?”

“I don’t think so, not at this point. Peculiar odors don’t always occur before a seizure. In fact, most of the time a patient won’t even know they’re about to have one until it happens. Since her x-rays are normal, I’m hoping her seizure was a one-time thing that was related to her serious head trauma.”

“Do I get to go home?” I asked, hoping he wouldn’t keep me another day.

“Let’s talk about that for a second.”

My heart sank. I didn’t even want to think about spending one more night in the hospital. I wanted my bed, in my house, where I could rest and actually be able to sleep without being woke up every five minutes.

“I’m going to be honest with you,” he said, looking first at me, then at mom. “I don’t like that you’re seeing things that aren’t there, DeeDee. Perhaps it’s a temporary affliction caused by your injury. On the other hand, it could be a condition that’s quite serious. If that proves to be the case, then you’ll need further evaluation. Here’s what we’re going to do for now,” he said, laying my chart on the bed and folding his arms. “I’m going to let you go home,” he began.

I clapped my hands joyfully at those words.

“Not so fast, young lady,” he said in an intense tone. “There will be requirements and limitations for you to follow.”

“Okay,” I replied eagerly. “Whatever you say.”

“Absolutely no softball. I don’t want you doing anything strenuous at all. You need to rest as much as possible. If you continue to have these…” he said, waving his hand in the air. “We’ll call them temporary hallucinations for now. If they continue, you are to let your mother know immediately, then you are to contact me,” he concluded, looking at mom. “This is not an issue to be taken lightly. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” we answered in unison.

“Alright. Get your things together while I fill out your discharge papers. It shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes.”

He didn’t have to tell me twice. I was changing my clothes before he exited my room.

True to his word, an orderly came in twenty minutes later. “I hear someone’s ready to go home,” he said cheerfully.

“That would be me,” I said, plopping down into the wheelchair. Mom carried my personal belongings, walking beside me as the orderly wheeled me toward the elevator.

Amy was leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the hallway, clutching her doll and waving goodbye.

She wasn’t alone.

The hall was buzzing with people I didn’t know and had never seen before. Some smiled as they stood as still as statues. Others paced anxiously up and down the hallway. All were talking over each other so loudly that I couldn’t make out anything any of them were saying. The deafening voices sounded like a roaring crowd cheering at a sporting event.

Several wore hospital gowns, which indicated to me that they were patients. Others were dressed in everyday attire. I assumed they were there to visit a friend or relative who was hospitalized. The nurse that had come into my room the night before was standing outside the nurses’ station with one arm propped on top of the counter, beaming at me as I wheeled past. There must have been fifty people there, but the hospital staff was completely oblivious to their presence.

That could only mean one thing. Every person I saw was nothing more than a product of my imagination. In other words, I was experiencing more hallucinations. “Remember what Dr. Montgomery said,” I told myself. “It’s caused by the injury. It’s only temporary.”

I wanted to plug my ears to quiet the dissonance of voices. I was afraid if I did that, mom would stop the orderly and tell him to wheel me back to the emergency room instead of out the front door.

I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t have to look at them and kept them closed until I heard the swishing of the automatic door and felt the warmth of the sun on my face.

Outside, believing I was safe from the mirages, I opened my eyes. I was awestruck when I realized that seeing unfamiliar faces wasn’t confined only to the interior of the hospital.

They were everywhere.

In the parking lot, walking up and down the sidewalks of the hospital perimeter, sitting on benches drinking soft drinks and coffee from Styrofoam cups. I truly didn’t know what to think. The mild fright I’d experienced the night before developed into bona fide fear.

My mind raced with illogical thoughts, wondering if I’d have these visions for the rest of my life, or if my illness was only momentary as Dr. Montgomery suspected.

I wanted them to stop. To go away forever and never bother me again.

Then another thought struck me. Should I tell mom what I was seeing or ignore it and hope it was nothing to worry about? Dr. Montgomery had made it perfectly clear how important it was to tell her if the visions persisted.

I decided not to say anything, basing my decision on the fact that I’d only gotten released a few minutes earlier. Having more episodes in that brief span of time certainly didn’t qualify as persistent.

I did, however, promise myself that I would tell her if they didn’t go away, or if they got worse.

One persistent thought kept resonating through my mind. It was a question really. One that I didn’t have an answer to.

If the condition I was experiencing turned out not to be visions, hallucinations, or whatever other fancy word there was for what I was being subjected to, and the hordes of unknown people I kept seeing were real, then why was I the only one who could see them?

Chapter 3 – Am I Hallucinating?

Within three weeks of going home from the hospital, and strictly following doctor’s orders, most of the swelling on my forehead had subsided. The green, blue, black, and yellow bruise was still visible; however, the discoloration was slowly fading. Once it was gone, there would be no physical trace to remind me of my horrible, life-changing accident. I didn’t give much thought to my appearance. Vanity had never been a trait I obsessed over. Although the injury site itself didn’t hurt, it remained tender to the touch, and the lump beneath my skin continued to be prominent. I couldn’t resist constantly touching it because it was so soft and squishy, like pushing on a block of gelatin. If I pressed hard enough, my fingertip left an indentation in the skin that I found fascinating. Yet, when my friends came to visit and asked if they could feel my newfound deformity, I told them no. I developed an unmerited fear that they’d press too hard and cause me to have another seizure, which would put me back in the hospital.

None of my friends knew about my other problem because I hadn’t told them and had no intention to. The last thing I wanted was to drive away what few friends I had by making them think I was cuckoo by telling them I could see people that no one else could.

Being home alone during the day gave me time to think, and I did plenty of that. I replayed the day of the accident over and over in my mind, wondering how it happened. Why did Johnny turn and run back to third base instead of crossing home? I often wondered if I could have prevented the accident by reacting sooner and moving out of his way. The answer was always the same. No. I couldn’t have prevented it. We were both running too fast to stop. I’ve always been told that hindsight is 20/20, and although the accident happened, and I suffered the consequences, I still couldn’t help but wonder about those things. I suppose it’s only human to ask why, and I did that as well.

Why was I only seeing people in my so-called visions? Why not other things like purple elephants, or polka-dotted trees, or little green men? If what was happening to me truly resulted from my head trauma, then why were my hallucinations limited to only seeing human beings?

Mom didn’t know I was still experiencing visions. I hadn’t mustered enough nerve to tell her. I also didn’t let her know about the headaches I was suffering daily. They never lasted more than an hour before completely dissipating, and the pain was always present in the same place. In and above my left eye. I dismissed any notion of the headaches being associated with anything other than my injury, and that they were likely caused by the lengthy healing process. I saw no need in giving her a reason to worry over nothing when all my symptoms would eventually heal.

At the time, I was keeping a lot of secrets from mom, even though Dr. Montgomery had warned me not to. I did it not to be sneaky or cagey, but to spare her from fretting over me about things neither of us could change. That’s why I didn’t immediately tell her about the man I’d begun seeing inside our home. He was mostly present whenever mom was there, seldomly when she wasn’t. He never spoke a word, never moved around, and made no type of gestures. He materialized in various locations, always wearing his military uniform and looking as stiff as an ironing board. He could’ve easily been mistaken as a cardboard cutout propped against the wall. I didn’t know who he was, or why he was in our house.

Why didn’t I freak out when I saw people who weren’t really there? Because they were people, and I’m not afraid of humans. But mainly because I knew seeing them wouldn’t last forever. If my visions had been of monsters from the movies I’d watched, or giant cockroaches or spiders, then I absolutely would have gone berserk, and would have never opened my eyes until I knew absolutely and without a doubt that I wouldn’t be seeing them anymore.

It was the second day of July and a little over four weeks before I turned fifteen. Mom and I were sitting at the table eating dinner when she asked if I had any plans for my birthday that year.

“Not really,” I answered. “I haven’t thought much about it.”

“Do you want to have a party? Or don’t you feel like it yet? If not, then perhaps you can invite a couple of your friends over to spend the night.”

Because my appetite hadn’t returned to normal yet, I picked at the food on my plate, shoving a heap of disgusting Brussel sprouts away from my slice of meatloaf. Shrugging, I said, “I don’t know. Can I think about it?”

“Of course,” she said. “It’s your birthday. The final decision is up to you.”

The uniformed man returned. He was leaning against the wall to mom’s right. I glanced up at him and saw him smile for the first time. Reflexively, I smiled back.

“DeeDee?” Mom noticed my distraction. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, why?”

“Are you seeing someone right now?” she asked, putting her fork down on her plate.

Should I tell her the truth and risk getting swept up immediately and taken back to the hospital? I didn’t want that, so I thought of a different way to approach the subject that didn’t involve having to lie.

“Can I ask you something, mom?” I asked, taking another peek at the military man, who was now laughing and making funny faces. I tried so hard not to laugh, but I simply couldn’t help myself. The guy was hilarious.

When I looked back at mom, she was giving me one of her strange looks, the one that says, “straighten up!” Clearing my throat, I asked, “Do you know anybody that’s in the Army?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head after giving it considerable thought.

“How about any other branch of the military?”

“Why are you asking me that?” she said, getting up from the table and taking her plate to the kitchen. It was obvious that something had upset her, but I didn’t know what.

When I returned my attention to the military man, his bottom lip stuck out in a pouting gesture. He then placed his right hand over his heart and patted it.

What was he trying to tell me? Stand up and recite the Pledge of Allegiance? That his heart hurt? Never having been good at charades, I didn’t understand what he meant.

“Do you see someone, DeeDee?” Mom asked quietly, turning to face me as she leaned against the sink.

“Yes,” I said, nodding. I couldn’t lie to her. Not anymore.

She returned to the table and sat back down, folding her arms across the Formica top. “Tell me who,” she said. “Describe him to me.”

So, I did. “He’s wearing a military uniform. I think it’s called camouflage.” Military man was nodding, his way of telling me I was right. “He’s kind of tall, maybe about six feet, dark hair and eyes, good-looking.” He pursed his lips as he made a rocking “so-so,” motion with his hand. “He keeps touching his heart, but I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.”

Mom covered her mouth with both hands as tears streamed down her face. “My God in Heaven,” was all she could say.

“Do you know him, mom?” I asked.

Doing her best to speak without sobbing, she cleared her throat and said, “Yes, I think I do.” She paused for a moment, dabbing at her eyes with the paper towel she held in her hand. “You just described your father.”

My father? But he’s…

Have you ever seen one of those cartoons that shows a lightbulb above someone’s head when they’ve suddenly gotten a bright idea? I imagine that’s how I looked at that exact moment. Add in wide eyes and gaping mouth, and I probably did look like a cartoon character.

My father died before I was born, so I never knew him, and had only seen pictures mom had shown me. None of them showed him in a military uniform, so it was no surprise that I didn’t recognize him. Now that I knew who the strange man was, I understood what he was expressing by tapping his heart.

He was telling me that he loved us.

With what I can only describe as feelings of shock and startled awareness, another thought occurred to me, and it was something I would’ve never imagined in a million years.

If the man standing at our table was indeed my deceased daddy, and I could see him as clearly as I was seeing mom, didn’t that mean I wasn’t having visions or hallucinations, and that whatever was happening to me was something much more extraordinary?

“Sunny beaches,” I breathed.

I didn’t want to say it aloud. What I was thinking was ludicrous and so bizarre that to acknowledge that it was true was the equivalent of signing my admittance papers for a long-term stay in the nearest nuthouse.

It suddenly dawned on me exactly what was going on. I may have been young, but I was neither stupid nor immature.

The people I’d been seeing since my hospital stay were all ghosts.

Amy, the nurse in my room, the old couple in the hallway, the multitudes of people outside the hospital. They all had something in common. They were all dead.

“No!” my mind screamed. “That’s impossible. There’s no such thing as ghosts. I don’t believe in them, so why would I be seeing them?”

Yet, there stood my dad, the man who’d gotten killed fighting in the Viet Nam war. There simply wasn’t any other explanation. It would explain why no one else saw the other doctor standing beside Dr. Montgomery or any of the other people I’d seen, and why I only saw humans and not inanimate objects. To say there was confusion is an understatement. How do you explain something like that to anyone, much less a doctor, someone who bases their beliefs on science and medicine and not the paranormal? The mere thought of that word flashing through my mind was enough to convince me I possessed a secret that could never be told to anyone without an exceptional reason, and even then, revealing it would be questionable.

Strangely enough, I wasn’t the least bit scared, maybe because it was my daddy and I knew he meant no harm, so there wasn’t anything to be afraid of. Plus, I thought it was a blessing to have the opportunity to see him in the flesh, so to speak, instead of looking at old photographs. I’d never had that privilege before.

Startled, I nearly jumped out of my chair when he suddenly spoke. He’d never said a word before, so I wasn’t expecting to hear him speak. “Tell your mom I’m okay and that I love her. I love you, too, DeeDee.” I clearly heard him say those words, yet his mouth never moved. Weird. “Tell her to always remember Paris.” He then saluted and disappeared. I never saw him again after that night.

“What is it, DeeDee?” Mom asked. “You scared me.”

“Sorry, mom, but he scared me when he talked,” I said. “He has a deep voice.”

“What did he say?” I couldn’t believe mom was taking his presence so casually. I had been afraid to tell her anything because I didn’t want to find myself locked away in a rubber room, yet there she was, wanting to know what her long-dead husband had said to me.

When I delivered his message, she smiled and wiped away her tears.

“What did he mean about Paris?” I asked.

“Maybe one day I’ll tell you. For now, let me hold that memory in my heart, okay?”

“Okay,” I nodded.

We made a trip to the grocery store the next day to buy food for our Fourth of July indoor barbecue, an event we held every year. I called it an inside barbecue because that’s exactly what it was. We didn’t own a grill, so mom cooked barbecued hamburgers on the stovetop, and we ate inside, which was fine by me. Eating outdoors in Florida in the summer was a battle royal with flies. Inside, we weren’t forced to constantly shoo them away from our food.

After dinner, we’d sit on the front porch and watch the fireworks being launched from the Pahokee Marina, less than a mile away. It wasn’t the best view, but it definitely beat having to battle our way through a crowd to get a lakeside seat.

Our trip to the store was the first time I’d gone out since being released from the hospital. I was eager to go, to get out of the house and feel the sunshine on my skin.

The market was full of shoppers who were filling up their buggies with cookout items for their own barbecues. I recognized several people from around town, but there were many others I’d never seen before.

To keep from embarrassing mom or myself, I didn’t speak to anyone. I couldn’t distinguish between who was real and who wasn’t, and I didn’t want anyone to stop and stare at me while I conversed with thin air.

By the time Independence Day arrived, my appetite had returned to normal. After enjoying our hamburgers and potato salad, we settled onto the porch, oohing and aahing at the colorful display of fireworks while swatting away swarms of hungry and annoying mosquitoes.

When the show ended, we gathered our folding lawn chairs and went back indoors. We were both tired from the day’s events. Neither of us wanted to watch television, so we went to bed. It didn’t take long for me to fall asleep while listening to the constant whirring of my electric fan.

At two a.m., a loud BOOM! awakened me. Disoriented, I sprang up in bed, believing the sound had come from neighborhood kids setting off firecrackers. I heard it again, only this time, it sounded like it was coming from inside my room. Blasts fired repeatedly, one after the other, filling the surrounding air with the smell of sulfur and gunpowder. I was on the verge of sheer panic, terrified that the strange smells were a warning that I was about to suffer another seizure. I covered my ears, trying to block out the sound, but it was useless. It was as though I’d stepped into the middle of a battlefield.

Then I saw him, standing in the corner next to my closet with his back to me. Every time a blast rang out, he ducked as though he were dodging incoming enemy fire. When he finally turned to face me, my heart fluttered, then pounded as fast as a galloping racehorse, keeping time with the never-ending rounds of ammunition being launched. I stared wide-eyed in horror, confused about what I was seeing.

He was a soldier, dressed in camouflage like my dad, except that his were blue and white instead of the green that my dad had worn. Stitched over the right pocket of his shirt was his last name. Cunningham. I had never seen him nor heard his name before. He was young, probably in his early twenties. It wasn’t his name, his uniform, or even the constant sound of gunnery that made me scream.

As I watched in terror, he opened his mouth to speak, but never got the chance to say anything before being struck in the side of his face by a bullet. It ripped his left cheek to shreds, exposing bone, teeth, and tissue beneath the fatal wound.

The scene unfolded before my eyes in a permanent loop, playing and replaying his death repeatedly.

Paralysis froze me to my bed, incapacitating me. I had never been so frightened in all my life.

Mom rushed into my room when she heard me screaming, flipping on the light as she entered. My head bowed, I covered my face with my hands, crying and shaking uncontrollably. When she sat down on the bed, I grabbed onto her as tightly as I could and sobbed into her shoulder.

“It was awful, momma,” I cried. “He was horrible to look at.”

She wrapped her arms around me and pulled me close. I felt safe and reassured in her warm embrace. When I finally calmed down and stopped weeping, Mom said, “It’s time to see Dr. Montgomery.” I nodded. She was right. I couldn’t bear the thought of ever seeing another image like the one I’d seen with Cunningham.

“Seeing your dad is one thing, DeeDee,” she said. “But when you see someone who scares you this badly, it’s time to get help.”

That night, I did something that I hadn’t done since I was a small child.

I crawled into my momma’s bed and that’s where I stayed for the rest of the night.

Chapter 1

Friday, October 25^th – Nanette, Palm Beach County, Florida

“You guys getting excited?” Kayla Woodbridge asked her two teenagers as she sat a plate of pancakes down on the table in front of them.

Kelly, her sixteen-year-old daughter shrugged and mumbled, “I guess so. Anywhere is better than here.”

Kayla wanted to believe that Kelly’s recently developed sour attitude could be attributed to her age, the “know everything better than anyone else” stage of her life, but her gut told her it was more than that, and it was something Kelly either didn’t want to talk about or couldn’t. She needed to sit her down and have a heart to heart with her and get to the bottom of what was bothering her so much lately.

“I’m excited, mom,” Kyle stated. “I love going to the beach.”

“I know you do,” Kayla responded, tussling his blonde hair. “Are you packed?”

“Almost. I only need to put a few more things in my bag.”

“Kelly, how about you?”

“Getting there,” she answered without looking up.

“Clint, I’ll start packing our bags today,” Kayla said to her husband, whose mind seemed to be far away from the family conversation. “Anything in particular you want me to include?”

Clint took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” he began.

“Here we go,” Kelly said, shaking her head. “Should’ve known.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, young lady?” Clint snapped.

“Nothing, dad. Forget I said anything. You never listen anyway.”

“Dad?” Kyle said, glancing at his father. “Aren’t you going?”

Clint opened his mouth to answer, but Kayla cut him off. “You finished eating, sport? If so, why don’t you go to your room and get the rest of your things together? You, too, Kelly. Please.”

“I should’ve known you’d do this,” Kayla stated sharply once the kids were out of earshot. “Clint, you know good and damn well I’ve been planning this vacation for over a month now and you wait until the day before we’re scheduled to leave to tell me you’re not going?”

“I never said I wasn’t going,” Clint replied. “You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“What are you saying then?”

“Only that I won’t be leaving at the same time as you and the kids,” he answered. “I have some last-minute things to do at the office before I can go away.”

“On a Saturday?” Kayla huffed.

Kelly and Kyle stopped mid-hallway. The packing they needed to finish could wait a few minutes longer. They stood silently with their backs against the wall as they listened to their parents’ acerbic exchange of unpleasantries, careful to stay out of sight and not be caught eavesdropping.

“Yeah, I’ll bet he’s got things to do alright,” Kelly whispered.

“Like what?” Kyle asked.

Kelly glanced down at her younger brother. “Nothing you need to know about.”

“I hate it when they argue,” Kyle said. “They sure seem to be doing it a lot lately. Do you know why?”

Of course she knew. She’d known for months but hadn’t told anyone. Especially not her mother. The only other person who knew was Chloe, and that was only because she’d been her taxi, chauffeuring her around town so she could spy on her father. Surely her parents had noticed the dour change in her attitude towards her dad. Either they were oblivious to it, or they preferred not to broach the subject.

“No,” she finally said. “But I don’t like it, either.”

Kyle was a sweet kid most of the time. There was no reason for her to spoil his good mood or adoration for their father by telling him why their parents had been arguing so much. Even if she tried to explain, chances were that he didn’t even know about sex yet. The only things that interested him were baseball and video games. “We’d better get started on our packing like mom told us to.”

“Kelly? Do you think she’ll still go even if dad doesn’t?”

Kelly shrugged. “Beats me, squirt. I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”

“Nothing you can’t finish up today so you can leave with us in the morning?” Kayla asked, frustrated with his timing on announcing his decision.

“I’ll only be there for a few hours then I’ll drive over there. What’s the big deal? It’ll be more convenient if we have two cars, anyway.”

“What’s the big deal?” Kayla blurted. “I’ll tell you what the big deal is, Clint. You knew we were taking this vacation to the beach and instead of spending it with your family you’d rather make up excuses by saying you have to go to work? Not that you haven’t had a month to plan ahead and make sure you didn’t have to.”

“For God’s sake, Kayla, don’t start with me,” Clint said, rising from the table and placing his coffee cup in the sink.

“You always do this,” Kayla argued, tossing the dishrag onto the countertop. “I don’t know why I expected this time to be any different from the others.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Making plans then reneging,” Kayla answered. “You seem to be doing that an awful lot lately.”

“I have no idea what you’re referring to,” Clint said, leaning up against the counter to face her.

“Really? How about Kelly’s awards program you were supposed to attend last week? How many of Kyle’s baseball games have you been to? Shall I keep going?”

Clint glared at her angrily. “You’re something else, you know that?” he spat. “Even if there’s nothing for you to bitch about, I can always count on you to find something. Look around you, Kayla. Do you enjoy living in a nice house? Driving a new car? Wearing decent clothes? Do you know why you’re able to have all that? It’s called working, remember?”

“Damn you, Clint, don’t you dare go there with me,” Kayla seethed, waving a finger at him. “I work, too. Stop acting like you’re the sole provider around here.”

Clint slipped on his jacket, picked up his briefcase and headed to the door.

“Absolutely unbelievable,” Kayla said, shaking her head in disgust. “Don’t expect me and the kids to sit around here waiting for you to make up your mind. I still plan to leave first thing in the morning, with or without you. I have no intentions of letting the kids down, not when they’ve been looking forward to this just as much as I have. I thought you were, too, but I guess I was wrong.”

“Isn’t that what I just suggested you do? Some things are more important than a trip to the beach, Kayla,” he said, walking out the door without kissing her goodbye.

“Obviously, there are also things that are more important than your family. Glad you have your priorities straight, Clint,” she said to unhearing ears.

Clint Woodbridge entered the lobby of the Chalfont Hotel, making sure the front desk clerk wasn’t on duty yet before entering the lobby and taking the elevator to the fifth floor. Clint glanced around furtively as he made his way towards his destination, making sure he was alone before lightly tapping on the door.

“I thought you’d stood me up,” Mona pouted seductively, clutching his tie and pulling him into the room.

“I almost did,” Clint confessed.

“Well, Mona’s mighty glad you didn’t,” she purred.

Dressed in a black lace teddy, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately, leaving a smear of orange sherbet colored lipstick on his face. Clint quickly wiped it off with the swipe of a thumb.

“You seem a little tense this morning, baby,” Mona cooed. “Want me to soften you up?” she said, kissing him again.

“I love starting my day off with a fight,” Clint remarked, his tone sharp with sarcasm.

“Want to talk about it?” Mona asked, running her fingers through his thick brown hair.

“Not really,” he replied, undressing and laying his clothes across the back of a black leather chair. Pulling Mona close to him, he kissed her lightly on the side of her neck. “Mmm, you smell delicious,” Clint whispered, running his tongue gently down her cheek and across her lips. “Let’s get you out of this thing,” he said, removing her teddy and letting it fall to the floor.

After an intense round of lovemaking, they cuddled beneath the covers, Mona gently stroking Clint’s chest with her fingertips. “That was certainly different,” she said. “A little on the rough side, but still satisfying. I like the animal in you,” she teased.

“Sorry,” Clint said. “I guess I’m more uptight than I thought.”

“What did you get into a fight with the bitch about?”

“I’ve asked you not to call her that. Kayla’s not a bitch. And it wasn’t a fight,” Clint corrected. “More like a heated exchange of words.”

“Over what?”

“Our family beach trip. She’s pissed because I told her I have to work and wouldn’t be leaving with her and the kids.”

“That’s right,” Mona said, raising up on an elbow and looking at him. “You were supposed to leave tomorrow. Are you still going?”

Clint shrugged. “I’d rather stay here in bed with you, but if I don’t at least show my face, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Mona was quiet for a moment, then laid back down beside him, gently gliding her fingertips up and down his inner thigh, intentionally allowing her fingers to brush against his manhood, lightly enough to excite, but not arouse him. “I don’t know why you continue to stay with her,” she said. “If she makes you so miserable, why don’t you leave her?”

“I’ve told you before,” he answered, kissing the top of her head. “She would take me to the cleaners and leave me with nothing but the shirt on my back.”

“So,” Mona said. “It’s only material possessions that can all be replaced. Isn’t your happiness worth more than that?”

“It’s not worth losing everything I’ve worked my ass off to accomplish,” he snapped. “As long as she stays off my back, I can’t handle the situation.”

Mona sat up and stared down at him. “You should divorce her and marry me. I’d treat you the way you deserve to be treated.”

Clint burst into laughter. “Marry you?” he shrieked. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Don’t laugh at me,” Mona remarked irritably, crawling out of bed. “And yes, I’m serious.”

“Baby, if I ever get out of this marriage, making that same mistake again will be the furthest thing from my mind. Once bitten, twice shy.”

Mona huffed, snatching her teddy from the floor and redressing. “What you’re saying is that I’m decent enough for you to fuck but not good enough for you to marry.”

Clint threw the covers back and stood up. “That’s not what I said. When you say stupid shit like that, you sound just like Kayla. Trust me when I tell you that one of her is more than enough.”

“Oh, so now I remind you of your wife?”

“Good God, Mona,” Clint exclaimed. “Give it a rest, will you? I’m not in the mood for more bullshit this morning.”

She stared at him disbelievingly. He’d never talked to her like that before and had certainly never compared her to his wife. He seemed like a different man today, on edge and ready to crack as easily as an eggshell.

“Tell you what,” she said, turning away and going to the nightstand where the phone was. With the receiver in her hand, she said, “I can make this easy for you. Why don’t I make a call and tell your precious wife all about us?” she asked, dialing a zero to get an outside line. “I’m sure she’d love to hear all about our hot, steamy love affair.”

“You stupid bitch,” Clint spat, snatching the receiver from her hand and slamming it back down into the cradle. “What is wrong with you?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” she remarked bitterly, turning away from him.

Clint grabbed her by her upper left arm, digging his fingers into the soft flesh and spinning her around to face him. Mona slapped him hard across the face. “Don’t you ever put your fucking hands on me again!” she yelled in his face. “So help me God, if you do, I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch!”

Clint clutched onto both arms and shook her hard.

“Let go of me, you bastard!” Mona panted, struggling to free herself from his grasp. His fingernails dug so deeply into her skin, his grip so tight, that his unexpected assault would leave bruises on her pale flesh.

Weary of holding her off to prevent her from striking him again, and angry over her threats, Clint shoved her away with more force than he’d intended to.

Mona stumbled and fell, her left temple striking the corner of the wooden desk next to the bathroom door with a loud thwack!, the force of the blow propelling her onto the ceramic tile of the bathroom floor. A sickening cracking noise erupted when her head struck the tile.

Mona lay motionless on the ground, a puddle of bright red blood beginning to form beneath her head, long red tendrils running into the cracks of the tile, turning the grout a dark shade of brown.

Clint stood frozen, his mouth agape in shock, as he stared down at Mona lying unmoving on the floor. “Mona?” When she didn’t respond, he called her name louder. “Mona!”

“Oh, my God!” he gasped, kneeling beside her. “Mona, wake up!” he pleaded, nudging her, but she didn’t move. “Mona, please get up!” he wept. “I didn’t mean it. I’m so sorry. I’m begging you to open your eyes.”

Clint sauntered rearward, away from the bathroom, until he felt the backs of his knees collide with the foot of the bed. He plopped down heavily, horrified at what’d just transpired, and at the sight of Mona’s dead, bloody body lying on the bathroom floor. He squeezed his eyes shut so he wouldn’t have to look at her, hoping that when he reopened them, he’d realize it’d all been a terrible nightmare, and that Mona would wrap her arms around his neck like she always did while kissing him deeply and passionately. But she didn’t. And she wouldn’t. Never again.

Clint sprang from the bed, clutching his head as he paced back-and-forth. “Oh, my God,” he repeatedly muttered.

How could such a stupid and petty argument have escalated so quickly and resulted in a sudden and violent death? All he’d done was push her away. Perhaps a little too boorishly, but it wasn’t as if he’d struck her intending to kill her. Was this what was referred to as a crime of passion? A regrettable act of violence from a normally calm and non-violent person carried out in the heat of the moment? He’d never hurt anyone in his life, much less caused another’s death. If only he could take it back. But he couldn’t. What was done was done.

Should he call the police and tell them what happened? Afterall, it was an accident. Surely, he wouldn’t go to jail for that. Or would he? The only information the cops would have to go on would be his account of what’d transpired. Mona certainly wasn’t able to tell her side of the story. Would they believe him or charge him with murder and throw him in prison for the rest of his life? He couldn’t go to jail. Kayla and the kids needed him. They depended on him and he couldn’t let them down.

There was only one thing he could do.

“I have to get the hell out of here,” he said, quickly dressing and gathering his belongings, checking, and double-checking the room to ensure he hadn’t left anything behind that could lead the cops to him. With a wet rag, he wiped down all the wooden surfaces, doorknobs and anything else he thought he may have touched, wiped down the sink, took the glass he’d drank out of from the bedside table, stuffed the wet rag inside the glass and put it inside his suit coat pocket. Later, he’d find a dumpster to dispose of them.

Careful not to touch the faux leather of Mona’s purse, he used a hand rag to grip it from the bottom and turned it upside down, dumping the contents onto the bed. He didn’t see anything that could incriminate him. She didn’t carry an address book, and he’d never written her any notes. All that was in her purse was a tube of lipstick, a travel-sized bottle of perfume, a wallet, and her car keys. Quickly thumbing through her wallet, he was relieved to see that it didn’t contain any information about him. In fact, it barely contained anything other than driver’s license and a couple of credit cards. To be safe, he took the keys and dropped them into his pocket, surmising there couldn’t be anything in her car belonging to him since he’d never been in it. Without the keys, even if the police found her car, the only way they’d be able to gain access would be by breaking a window. That maneuver might slow them down some. Then again, maybe not. Regardless, he wasn’t willing to take any chances.

At the door, he glanced back at Mona, shook his head sorrowfully, peeked into the hallway to make sure no one was there then exited the room, closing the door quietly behind him, hastily making his way toward the exit. Forgoing the elevator, he took the stairs to the lobby, leaving the hotel through a side door to keep from having to pass by the front desk. Clint hurriedly made his way to the car and drove away, leaving Mona and the hotel in his rearview mirror.

He was in no shape to go to work, and he couldn’t go home and face Kayla. She’d immediately know something was wrong with him and she’d start grilling him for answers. He was in no mood to be interrogated by his wife. After placing a call to his secretary and informing her he wouldn’t be in because of a family situation, he drove around for hours before deciding to find a hotel room for the night. From there, he’d call Kayla and tell her he’d been called out of town unexpectedly for a business matter and wouldn’t be home and would see her and the kids at the beach in a couple of days. It sounded reasonable enough, but he didn’t foresee any such trip taking place at all.

As he’d told Kayla that morning, some things were more important than a trip to the beach. Staying hidden to keep from being arrested and charged with murder was one of those things.

He had important decisions to make, and he needed to make them quickly and with a clear head. He’d start by calling the hotel and disguising his voice, pretending to be an acquaintance of Mona’s and provide some feeble excuse for why she hadn’t checked out personally, then offer profuse apologies for her unintended oversight. At least that way, the room would show up in the registry as available and when the housekeeping crew cleaned, they’d find Mona’s body. He didn’t know how long she’d booked the room for, but he couldn’t imagine it was more than a day or two like she normally did.

With that out of the way, a more important decision needed to be made.

The way he saw it, he had one of two choices. He could either turn himself in to the police and admit what he’d done, or he could run and get as far away from Nanette as possible.

The latter sounded like the smartest choice.

Chapter 2

Saturday, October 26^th – Chalfont Hotel, Nanette, Florida

Detective Zavier Crenshaw stepped out of his canary yellow convertible, tucked the tail of his red hibiscus-print Hawaiian shirt into the waist of his white gauze pants and made his way into the hotel lobby, flashing his badge at the front desk clerk without stopping, his huarache sandals squeaking on the freshly waxed tile, and took the elevator to the fifth floor.

Two uniformed officers were present, one inside the room and one in the hallway, posted there to ensure that rubberneckers and gawkers didn’t impede the investigation. The crime scene crew was also present, each technician busy with their specifically assigned duties. One was collecting evidence and labeling the plastic bags, another was photographing the crime scene, and the third was dusting the room for fingerprints.

“What have we got, DeSoto?” he asked as he approached the officer inside the room.

“Deceased female, Mona Newbern, twenty-six years of age according to the identification found inside her purse. Cause of death appears to be from blunt force trauma to the left side and back of her head. Doc’s not sure yet if it’s a homicide or an accident,” he said, nodding towards the bathroom. “So far, we haven’t located anything that could’ve been used as a weapon. Doc thinks she might’ve slipped on the wet tile floor and fell, the fall resulting in her head injuries.”

“Is she local?”

“Not from Nanette, but not far away.”

“Has the next of kin been notified?”

“We don’t have that information yet,” DeSoto answered. “No one’s reported her missing, but I’ll keep working on it and let you know what I find out.”

“They may not realize she’s missing yet, especially if she lives alone. Do we have any other information on her? Family? Job? Anything?”

“No,” DeSoto answered, shaking his head.

“Have we got her address?”

“There’s one on her driver’s license,” DeSoto answered. “If it’s accurate.”

“You know how to find that out?” Crenshaw smiled.

“You want me to follow up on it?”

“No, I’ll take care of it. Just make sure I get a copy of everything you have for my investigative file.”

“Will do.”

“Thanks, DeSoto,” Crenshaw said as he headed into the bathroom.

“Got a cause of death for me, Tony?” Crenshaw asked, squatting down beside the victim, observing as Tony Prescott, the Chief Medical Examiner for Nanette, examined the woman’s wounds.

“Nothing definitive, other than to say she died as the result of extensive head injuries.”

“DeSoto said no weapon was found,” Crenshaw said. “Any idea what might’ve caused them?”

“Direct contact with a hard-tiled floor would be my best guess,” he said, peering over the top of his glasses.

“Don’t be a wise ass,” Crenshaw said. “I know you don’t like speculating, but let’s go over a couple of possible scenarios.”

“You talk, I’ll listen.”

“Alright,” Crenshaw said, cocking his head as he surveyed Mona’s injuries. “How’d she manage to sustain head injuries severe enough to cause her death? What’d she do, walk in here and decide to take a fatal spill onto the floor for no logical reason? Did she faint? Have a coronary? What’s your take?”

“I don’t know yet, Zee,” Tony answered, calling him by the nickname he’d given him because of the numerous times he’d heard him tell people his name was Zavier with a zee and not an ex. “Those are things I won’t know for sure until I can get her on my table and complete an autopsy.”

“Surely you have a theory,” Crenshaw pressed. “Go ahead and share it with me. It’s just me and you in here.”

Tony sighed and nodded. “I suppose it’s possible she could’ve slipped on the wet floor.”

Crenshaw rubbed his chin and stood up. “Maybe,” he said. “If that’s what happened, then where’s the water? It’s as dry as the Sahara Desert in here.”

“It could’ve dried up during the time she’s been lying here,” Tony answered.

“How long would that be?”

“Judging by her body temperature and lividity, I’d say somewhere between fifteen and twenty hours, give or take a couple of hours.”

“You’re right,” Crenshaw pondered. “That’s certainly more than enough time for small amounts of water to dry up. For instance, a wet towel or spilling coffee on a cloth sofa. I’m of the opinion that’s not what we’re looking at here.”

“Meaning what, exactly?” Tony asked, looking up at Crenshaw.

“Meaning that the tub is bone dry,” he said, shaking the linen curtain. “That tells me she didn’t take a shower. Cloth curtains like this take forever to dry. Trust me, I know. I remember staying in a roach motel once when I had to attend a conference out of town,” Crenshaw began.

“A roach motel?” Tony laughed. “Are you referring to what I like to call a seedy joint?”

“Same thing,” Crenshaw stated. “It was filthy and not well maintained. I’d never been so disgusted with a motel before. Learned my lesson about booking my own reservations with that one, I’ll tell you. Anyway, back to my point. That shower had a linen curtain as well. After taking one shower, I could’ve wrung a full glass of water out of it. It was still soaked the next night. Hadn’t dried at all. Like this one, it didn’t have a plastic liner to shield the fabric from absorbing the water from the shower.”

“I see your point,” Tony agreed. “Here’s my counter explanation. The water could’ve easily come from another source. Or it could be that it wasn’t water at all, but another liquid. Soda, wine, iced coffee, to name a few.”

“Are there any stains on the floor to indicate that might be what happened? Is there a sticky residue left behind?”

“Not that I’ve discovered so far.”

“Then I’ll continue with my hypothesis,” Crenshaw said. “The sink isn’t wet. There aren’t any glasses on the vanity, there’re no dirty towels on the floor. In fact,” he said, examining the towel racks. “Unless this hotel provides more than two towels per room, they’re both hanging right here. Along with the two hand towels. What appears to be missing is a washcloth. I’ll speak to housekeeping to confirm the number of bathroom supplies provided, but that’s unimportant right now. Tell me, Tony, taking everything that I just told you into consideration, where could the water have come from?”

“Melted ice or water bottle?” Tony suggested.

“Could be,” Crenshaw said, removing the lid from the brown plastic ice bucket. “If it was melting ice, it didn’t come from this. Like everything else in here, it’s as dry as your humor,” he chuckled. From the bathroom doorway, Crenshaw called out, “Excuse me? Did any of you find or bag any empty water bottles, drinking glasses, or soda containers? Any kind of vessel that could’ve held liquid?”

“There was only one glass on the bedside table,” one of the male technicians answered. “It was still sealed in plastic.”

“And that’s it?” Crenshaw asked. “No paper cups from fast food restaurants or convenience stores? No personal coffee mugs?”

“No, sir,” the technician answered. “Just the one hotel issued glass.”

“How about a washcloth? Any of you come across one yet?”

“No, sir.”

“Let me know if you do.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thanks,” he said, returning his attention to Tony. “Any other suggestions?”

“Not at the moment.”

“I think we can rule out the possibility of a slip and fall,” Crenshaw said. “Furthermore, I don’t believe she was alone in this room.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Her clothing,” Crenshaw said, smoothing down his gray, walrus-style mustache. “Or lack of it, I should say. I’m finding myself wondering why she would be wearing such a sexy-looking nightgown.”

“It’s not a nightgown,” Tony corrected. “It’s a teddy. Women’s lingerie. You’d know that if you had a life outside the police force.”

“Whatever,” Crenshaw said, waving it off. Tony was right, though. There wasn’t much in his life these days other than his work and he dedicated himself to that as much as he could. The truth was that he hated going home to an empty house every day. He had no interest in dating or having any other type of contact with another woman because it would be senseless to do so. He’d never commit himself to anyone else, nor would he involve himself in any kind of relationship other than being a friend. There would never be another who would take the place of the love of his life, and he’d never even consider trying. After losing her, nothing else mattered to him anymore except for his work. “Back to my point. Based on my experience with situations such as this, a young woman only wears something like that for one reason, and it wasn’t for her own satisfaction, if you know what I mean.”

Tony smiled and shrugged. “I do know what you mean,” he said. “The wife wears one for my benefit every now and then.”

Crenshaw shook his head and smiled. “You’re a mess, you know that?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Anything else you can tell me before I go?”

“There are two cranial wounds. One here,” Tony said, pointing to Mona’s left temporal area. “And one to the back of the head. I’d say that when she fell, her temple struck something sharp. The corner of a piece of furniture perhaps.”

“Like the desk right by the bathroom door?”

“Could be, yes. After initially striking her head, the impact likely caused a rebound action, propelling her in the opposite direction, which caused her to fall backwards onto the floor. That would explain why her body is half in and half out of the bathroom.”

“Did you toss your water theory out the window?”

“Not completely. Something, or someone, caused her to fall. You were right about her not being here alone, unless she did this to herself,” Tony said, pointing out the bruises and scrapes on both arms.

“Looks like she was forcefully grabbed,” Crenshaw said. “Are those fingernail marks?”

“Seems to be.”

“What’s the likelihood of getting prints off her skin?”

“Not likely, but I’ll try it anyway. I’m always thorough.”

“I know you are,” Crenshaw said, clapping Tony on the back. “You’ll figure it out, just like you always do. Thanks, Tony,” Crenshaw said, exiting the bathroom and rejoining DeSoto in the outer room. “Who found the body?”

“Lady from housekeeping.”

“Did you take her statement?”

“Yes, sir. Want to read it?” he asked, holding out a memo pad.

“No, I’d rather talk to her myself.”

“That’s her right there,” DeSoto replied, pointing to a middle-aged woman standing up against the wall across from the room.

“What’s her name?”

“Rickie Sellers.”

“Miss Sellers?” Crenshaw said, approaching her with an extended hand. “Detective Zavier Crenshaw with the Nanette Police Department. I’d like to ask you a few questions if that’s alright.”

“I already gave a statement to the other police officer.”

“I know you did, and I appreciate it. This won’t take long.”

“Okay,” she replied, folding her arms across her chest. She was shaken by the incident and anxious to get away from the scene. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you,” Crenshaw, taking an ink pen and small notebook from his pants pocket. “What time did you come on duty this morning?” he asked, flipping the notebook open.

“Six am.”

“How soon after that did you find the body?”

“Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes,” she answered. “Shortly after I started my rounds.”

“Did you not know the room was occupied before entering it?”

“No, sir. The do not disturb sign wasn’t hung on the door and checkout time was three p.m. yesterday. This room was on my list of rooms to clean. It’s not up to me to determine whether someone has checked out or not. I can only refer to my daily roster.”

“Did you knock before entering the room?”

“Several times. I even called out to announce that I was here, but no one answered, so I went inside.”

“Did you use a key card to get in?”

“Yes, I have a master for all the rooms on this floor.”

“And you discovered the body immediately after opening the door?”

“Not immediately,” she said. “When I opened the door, all I could see were her feet. I thought maybe she was experiencing a medical episode, like fainting or suffering a seizure. That’s when I went inside. I was going to try to help her. When I got a good look at her, I knew she was dead.”

“Did you touch her?”

“No.”

“Not even to check for signs of life?”

“No. I could tell she was gone.”

“How so?”

“The color of her skin. She was so pale. And the blood on the floor had turned black.”

“Did you touch anything else in the room?”

“Only the phone. I used it to call the front desk clerk to tell him to notify the manager, then the manager called the police.”

“Did you stay inside the room until law enforcement arrived?”

“No, I waited out here in the hallway.”

“Did anyone else go inside the room before law enforcement arrived?”

“The manager, to confirm what I reported.”

“Did you go into the room with him?”

“Yes.”

“Did he touch anything?”

“No.”

“Great,” Crenshaw said, flipping over the page. “A few more questions then I’ll be done.”

“Okay.”

“I know you were probably terrified and nervous when you found Ms. Newbern lying on the floor.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“And you were probably more focused on her than anything else, right?”

“Right.”

“Ms. Sellers, I know this may be hard for you to do right now, but your answer is important, so I need you to think about it really hard before you give me an answer, okay?”

She nodded.

“Did you observe, or find anything in the room that might’ve indicated someone other than Ms. Newbern may have been there? Anything unusual or out of place, perhaps?”

“No,” she said. “Nothing at all.”

“Did you do any cleaning in the room? Maybe throw something away?”

“No.”

“One last thing then I’ll be done. How many bathing supplies are provided to each room, and how often are they provided?”

“Bath and hand towels, washcloths, soap, shampoo and conditioner” she said. “Two of each unless a guest requests extras. Used towels are collected daily and fresh ones supplied.”

“Did you collect or resupply any to this room?”

“Neither.”

“That’s all I have for now,” Crenshaw said, closing the notebook and returning it to his pants pocket. “Here’s my card. After a day or so of clearing your head and getting your thoughts together, if you think of anything that might be helpful, give me a call.”

“Did you guys check every nook and cranny in this room?” Crenshaw asked the forensics team. “Did you pull out every drawer, check both closets, look under the bed?”

“Can’t look under the bed, Detective,” DeSoto told him. “It has one of those solid baseboards that nothing can get under.”

“How about between the headboard and the mattress? In between the covers? I see they’re still on the bed. Why hasn’t it been stripped?”

“I did all that,” one technician said, raising her hand. “But I didn’t find anything. The bed was next on my list.”

“How about the toilet?”

“I checked. Nothing there, either.”

“Give me a pair of those gloves, will you?” he said to the evidence technician. “And come help me for a minute.”

Gently lifting the top spread by the corners, they gave it a shake. When that didn’t produce any results, they tossed it aside and moved on to the next layer of bedding, a soft white cotton blanket.

“Hold on, Detective,” the technician stated, running her hand across an area near the foot of the bed. “There’s something here,” she said, reaching beneath the blanket. “Aha,” she said, retrieving an object that was caught on the inside fibers of the blanket. She passed it to Crenshaw using a gloved index finger.

“Well now, this isn’t something you find every day,” Crenshaw said, taking the gold and diamond watch from her and examining it for a name or at least a monogram, anything that would help identify its owner. “This is definitely a man’s watch, and it isn’t a cheap one either,” he said. “I want this dusted for prints and inspected for any trace evidence. Maybe there’s some arm hair stuck between the links.”

The technician placed the watch in an evidence bag, labeled it, and placed it inside her silver suitcase with all the other evidence. “I would’ve found that, Detective,” she said. “Once I got to the bed.”

“I’m sure you would have since you all do excellent work. I meant you no disrespect so I hope you’re not offended.”

“I’m not,” she said.

“Where are we on surveillance footage, DeSoto?” Crenshaw asked.

“Donovan’s downstairs viewing it now.”

“Is that housekeeper still out there in the hallway?” Crenshaw asked. There was one more thing he needed to ask her. The answer she provided could prove to be quite significant.

“Yes.”

“Ms. Sellers,” Crenshaw said as he approached her. “I apologize for bothering you again, but I need to ask you one more question.”

“Alright.”

“Does your cleaning routine include polishing the door handles on the stairwell exits?”

“Yes.”

“Did you work this floor yesterday morning?”

She nodded.

“The same shift? Six am?”

“Yes.”

“Did you polish them yesterday morning?”

Another nod.

“How about this morning?”

“No. I do it after all the rooms are cleaned.”

“Great, thank you very much.”

“Ms. Technician,” Crenshaw called, poking his head inside the room. “Grab your dusting powder and brush and come with me.”

He knew it was probably a long shot considering how many patrons may have used the stairwell in the past twenty-four hours, but no murderer in his right mind would take the elevator down after killing someone and risk being seen. That left the stairwell as his only exit. Whoever had been inside the room with Ms. Newbern would’ve had to touch the handle in order to turn the knob. All he had to do now was hope that the mystery man’s prints were the only ones on the door, or at least be present and discernible. If so, he could compare the prints on the handle to the ones on the watch, if there were any, to obtain a match.

“DeSoto, were statements taken from the front desk clerk as well?”

“Yes, sir, but he said he didn’t see anything or anyone that looked suspicious during his shift.”

“His shift?” Crenshaw asked. “Does that mean someone’s on duty at the front desk twenty-four hours a day?”

“Yes.”

“What time does the morning staff come on?”

“Eight. Between seven thirty and then, the staff meets to discuss any ongoing events or activities.”

“Then whoever was here with Ms. Newbern knew no one would be on duty during that time period, meaning he took advantage of the absence of front desk personnel to enter the hotel. My guess is that this wasn’t the first time they’d gotten together at this hotel for a sexually romantic tryst.”

Whoever that person was had made damn sure not to leave anything behind that would prove he was there.

Except for the watch. Crenshaw wondered if the mystery man had noticed yet that it was missing. When he did, would he return to the hotel hoping to retrieve it? That possibility was more of a long shot than getting readable prints off the doorknob.

There was only one jewelry store in Nanette. Unless he ordered it off the Internet or purchased it out of town, it shouldn’t be too hard to find out if the local jeweler sold such expensive and intricate watches. With any luck, he might even be able to tell him who purchased it.

“Good work, DeSoto,” Crenshaw said, patting him on the shoulder. “See you back at the station.”

Chapter 3

Marcum Island, Martin County, Florida

Of the fourteen other hotels on the beach strip that she’d researched, Kayla had been more impressed with the Tahitian Paradise than any of the others, mainly because of all the amenities it boasted, including a gift and coffee shop, medical clinic, diner, and game room. Comfort and convenience only a few steps away without having to leave the island.

All the other hotels each had one or two of the same niceties, but none of them had all like the Tahitian did. The price wasn’t bad, either, especially considering that October was a prime month for beach vacations, which meant the hotel costs were usually doubled or tripled. That’s why she’d booked the reservation over a month in advance.

It was the perfect time of year for enjoying the beach. Not too hot. Not too cold. Water always pleasantly warm.

After crossing the causeway bridge, the only access road on and off the island, Kayla turned onto Hotel Row Boulevard, drove two miles down the two-lane road then turned left into the parking lot of the Tahitian Paradise Hotel.

The exterior was painted a bright shade of hot pink, making it the most noticeable along hotel row, sticking out like a sore thumb compared to the others, coated either in neutral colors or lighter pastels.

Entrance to the hotel lobby was accessible from the parking area. Because the resorts practically abutted each other, leaving no walking space between the buildings, the only way to get to the beach front was through double sliding glass doors on the posterior side of the hotel, located next to the check-in counter in the center of the lobby. All the rooms were situated in the hotel’s interior with no outside entrance, accessible only by using elevators or stairs. A hundred feet beyond the double glass doors was a row of six cottages painted the same hot pink as the hotel. Lounge chairs and tables with umbrellas surrounded the kidney-shaped swimming pool in the courtyard.

Children squealed with delight while playing in the kiddy pool, the overflowing water forming various shapes and silhouettes on the concrete patio. On the diving board at the adult pool, an overweight, red-headed boy yelled, “mom, watch this!” before springing from the board and performing an enormous cannonball splash, eliciting a round of applause from his mother.

The suite she’d reserved was much bigger and nicer than what she’d expected, looking more like an apartment than a hotel cottage. With two large bedrooms and a kitchenette with a stove, microwave, and refrigerator, it was perfect for her and the kids. Not that any of those things mattered, because she had no intentions of spending her vacation in the kitchen cooking. The kids would be fine nuking frozen meals for a few days or being treated to restaurant food. This was their vacation, too, and they deserved to have as much fun as they possibly could, with or without their dad.

The living room was furnished with an over-sized beige cloth fabric sofa and matching armchair. Walls were painted a light shade of coral with lime green trim, typical colors for beach hotels. Framed artwork of seashells and beach scenes adorned the walls. Sliding glass doors opened from the living room onto a small patio. Beyond that, there was nothing but sand and the shoreline. Kayla watched as a flock of seagulls cawed and fought over a tasty morsel that’d washed ashore, laughing when one of them grabbed the entire treat and flew off with it, leaving his opponents to fend for themselves.

“Mom, will you please tell your son that I get the bedroom, not him?” Kelly stated commandingly.

“What makes you so special that you think you get it?” Kyle retorted.

“Come on, guys,” Kayla said. “It’s not even ten o’clock in the morning. We’re here to have fun and enjoy ourselves, not fight with each other.”

“Well?” Kelly pressed.

“Why can’t you share the room?”

“Because there’s only one bed, duh,” Kelly remarked with a shake of her head. A natural blonde who wanted to do something different with her hair, with Kayla’s consent she now wore her short bob haircut in a light shade of blue. She’d even agreed to let her get a small stud nose piercing. But when she’d asked permission to get a tattoo, Kayla had put her foot down and told her no, resulting in a debate over her answer. Not wanting to bicker with her daughter over body ink, she’d called a truce and told her she could make her own decision when she reached adulthood; however, as long as she was a minor and her responsibility, the answer would continue to be no. After that exchange, she’d never asked again. Kelly had always been a good kid. Witty, outgoing, and smart, popular among her peers with many friends, both male and female. Lately, she hadn’t been her usual happy-go-lucky self. She seemed distant and distracted, as if something were weighing heavily on her mind. Kayla figured it best not to press too hard because she knew Kelly well enough to know that when she was ready to talk, she would. “And I’m not sleeping with that little creep.”

“Spaz,” Kyle retorted.

“Booger eater.”

“Ew, I don’t eat boogers you fart sniffer.”

“Jackass.”

“Hey, hey, guys, that’s enough, knock it off,” Kayla warned. “Let’s not start our family vacation with hateful words and name-calling, alright?”

“He started it,” Kelly remarked, folding her arms across her chest.

“Did not,” Kyle said.

“How about I settle this right here and now?” Kayla stated. “Kelly gets the room. Kyle, you get the couch. It folds out into a bed. You’ll have the whole living room to yourself, including the TV.”

“But mom…” Kyle groaned.

“It’s settled, Kyle. I don’t want to hear anymore arguing about it. Besides, you can see the ocean through the glass doors. Kelly nor I have that luxury.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Kyle said, sticking his tongue out at Kelly.

“You’re such a dweeb,” Kelly replied, going into the bedroom and closing the door.

“Kyle, you can keep your things out here but put them in the corner. I don’t want to see clothes and shoes strewn all over the living room. Got it?”

“Got it,” he replied. “Can we put on our swimsuits and go down to the beach now?”

“Sure,” Kayla told him. “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

Chapter One

Two words.

That’s all it took to unlock the vault inside Joey Sheffield’s mind that held old, painful memories that she’d struggled for years to put away and keep hidden, finally succeeding after what had seemed an eternity and an endless number of attempts. And years of therapy. In the few short moments that it took to answer the phone and hear her sister’s voice, every single scab from every single wound was picked away, reopening old sores, unleashing a flow of painful memories like raging flood waters crashing through a broken dam, recalling dark secrets she’d rarely spoken of and had willed herself not to dwell on.

As a child, she’d been helpless in fighting against the wrongs levied upon her, while her own mother stood idly by and allowed it all to happen without lifting a finger to help or protect her because she’d refused to believe what she’d called lies coming out of her daughter’s mouth, dismissing the allegations as made-up fairy tales and imaginative fabrications. Joey supposed the fairy tale part was certainly true because there was a beast involved, a monster who’d robbed her of her childhood and innocence, never regretting an ounce of the pain he’d caused her.

As a teenager, she’d been stronger and brave enough to speak out against the personal violations thrust upon her, but not strong enough to ward off the evil that resided inside her home, an evil that’d targeted her, never letting a day go by without reminding her of it. To avoid having to face her tormentor or be in the same room with him, she’d hung out with friends as late as she could without suffering dire consequences for failing to adhere to a set curfew. Her favorite hangout had been Nat’s Diner, a replica of what Nat referred to as “the old fifties burger joints.”  It was the one place she could relax without dwelling on the lecherous activities that took place in her bedroom at night. A temporary safe haven where she could laugh and have fun. But the joy and happiness were always short-lived and diminished the moment she stepped over the threshold into that ice-cold mausoleum called home.

With money she’d saved up from working nights and weekends at the concession stand in the local movie theater, and the part-time job Nat had given her after she’d begged him to let her work at the diner, she left home the day she turned eighteen, never looking back or lamenting her decision, vowing that if she ever had to face her tormentor again, she’d kill him.

She’d spent months on the road taking buses from town to town, staying only a few months in each one then moving on to the next. Rat and roach infested motels served as home in each city. Even those unpleasant conditions weren’t enough to make her rue leaving home. For the first time in eight years, she was able to lay her head on the pillow at night without worrying about Mac invading her privacy or making unwanted and unwelcome visits to her room while she slept. Waitressing jobs came easily wherever she was, thanks to the training she’d received at Nat’s, but serving patrons wasn’t always pleasant. From experience, she’d learned that no matter where she was or what size restaurant she worked in, there would always be a certain type of male who thought it acceptable behavior to slap her on the ass every time she walked past his table, then hear him laugh about it to his friends while she gritted her teeth and fought against the urge to slap their faces or drive a fork through their hand in retaliation. No matter how uncomfortable or vile she found their actions to be, she’d tolerated it. Between her small salary and the tips she’d collected, it’d given her the opportunity to save up enough money to get even further away, finally settling down in a small rural town in southern Indiana, working a full-time job during the day and attending college classes at night, determined to make a better life for herself. After four years of arduous work and late-night studying, she’d earned her degree in nursing and was now employed in the cardiac care unit of the local hospital, where she was highly regarded and respected by all her co-workers for her attentiveness and expert care of the patients under her charge.

She no longer had to live in disgusting, filthy motels, eating ramen noodles and crackers because she didn’t have the funds to buy anything else, or having to take buses or taxis to work and school because they were the only transportation available. After years of struggling to land on her feet with a fresh start at life, she was finally comfortable and happy, living in peace in her small, one-bedroom apartment.

All those hardships could’ve been avoided if she’d chosen to stay at home and remain in daddy’s will, obeying and bowing to his every demand like a good daughter should. If remaining an heiress meant continuing to tolerate his abuse and sacrificing her own well-being for his demented pleasure, then she didn’t want a penny of his filthy blood money. No amount he could ever bequeath would be enough to make up for the childhood he stole from her and as far as she was concerned, he could take all his money and everything else he owned and shove them all up his ass. Her life, mental and physical health weren’t up for sale, regardless of the amount written on a check.

He was the reason she had little trust in men. Over the years she’d been on multiple dates, never forming a lasting relationship with any of them. Once they expressed a desire for a more serious relationship, she ended it. She wasn’t interested in committing herself to any man.

She’d been in love once, long ago, and had promised to marry him. Instead of tying herself down to Mason Abernathy and remaining in a town where she’d continue to have to see her father, she’d chosen instead to leave and did so without telling Mason goodbye, breaking his heart, and her own. Hurting him wasn’t her intention but choosing to leave was an important step she felt was necessary to take. Leaving Cornish was the only way she could ever completely rid herself of Macarthur Sheffield.

She hadn’t been back home since leaving but had kept in phone contact with her two sisters. Physical visits with them were rare; however, when they did get the opportunity to see each other, it was always somewhere several miles away from home and without the knowledge of their parents. As far as she was concerned, never seeing her mother again was fine with her. It’d be better for them both if she didn’t. She had nothing to say to her and shuttered at the thought of what she might do if she ever had to face her again. Unfortunately, that’s exactly what her sister was asking her to do.

“Joey, did you hear me?”  It was Rosemary, her oldest sister, who’d called her with the news.

“I heard you,” Joey answered groggily, glancing at the clock on the bedside table. She’d heard everything her sister said, but everything else after her first two words was meaningless, her initial statement ringing in her ears, hanging over her head like a thick, black cloud.

“Are you coming?”

Joey hesitated momentarily before answering. “Rosie, I can’t believe you’d even consider asking me to come back there, especially with all the bad blood between me and Helen. I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing that.”

“He’s your father, Joey,” Rosemary stated flatly.

“I happen to know who he is,” Joey snapped. “Being my sperm donor doesn’t change my stance.”

“I really wish you’d reconsider, Joey. Robin and I are staying with mom temporarily to help her get through this. We’ll both be there, and we need you. Especially Robin. She isn’t coping well with this and I’m afraid the stress might cause her to digress and pick up her addictive habit again. I don’t believe either of us wants to see that happen, do we? We could use the moral support from our sister, but if you have more important things to do, then by all means, do them. Let me know if you change your mind.”  She hung up before Joey could respond.

Rosemary Van Allen, always the uppity one with the condescending tone who could make saying good morning sound like kiss my ass. Even her last name sounded snobby. She was her older sister, and she loved her, but God knows the woman had always thought her shit didn’t stink.

Joey sat on the side of the bed, the phone still in her hand as she stared into the darkness of the room. Rosemary, like her mother, knew about the abuse she’d suffered. Also like her mother, Rosemary refused to believe a single word of it, always mentioning that daddy was a good man, an excellent provider for his family and would never do something so atrocious. So much for familial support in a time of crisis.

And no, she didn’t want Robin to return to her opioid addiction since it’d damn near killed her before she sought professional treatment for her problem. But if she did resort to bad habits, it sure as hell wouldn’t be her fault now any more than it was the first time around. She resented Rosemary insinuating that it would be if she failed to go home as she’d requested.

Joey shook her head as she got out of bed, placing her phone on the bedside table before going into the bathroom. Fresh memories flooded her mind once more as she stared at her pale reflection in the mirror, closing her eyes tightly as she tried to put them all back inside the boxes of her mind where they belonged, swearing to never again allow them to rise to the surface and cause her any more agony than they already had. If only she could be so lucky.

With a single phone call and two spoken words, her routine life was upended and thrown into chaos as she again was forced to face the hateful demons of her past, memories put there by the very man she was being asked to honor. On the bright side, if she did go, she might finally be able to bury the past and finally put it to rest. Or at least that’s what she told herself as Rosemary’s words played repeatedly in her head.

“Daddy’s dead.”

Chapter Two

“I don’t know what surprises me more,” Ellen Jacoby said, glancing over Joey’s leave request. “That you’re asking for time off or that you have a family.”

“Did you think I was laid by a chicken and hatched by a buzzard?” Joey asked, smiling as she watched her various facial expressions.

She and Ellen had been friends since she’d settled down in Jeffersonville, having met as they waited in the lobby of the same hospital for job interviews, but for different positions. Ellen, already a nurse, had encouraged her to go into nursing as well, seeing potential in her she didn’t know she had. Besides leaving Cornish, it’d been one of the best decisions she’d ever made. She absolutely loved the career path she’d chosen.

On the job, they acted professionally, never letting their relationship interfere with duties or responsibilities. Offsite, however, Ellen was a riot to be around. She had a comical sense of humor and was excellent at telling corny jokes. Her charming personality and contagious laugh were an excellent duo. Whenever they were together, laughter could always be heard. Oftentimes, Ellen had told her it was medicine for the soul and a wonderful detoxifying cleanser.

“Never really thought about it,” Ellen replied, glancing up. “In all the time I’ve known you, not once have you ever talked about your family. Guess it was presumptuous of me to think you didn’t have one.”

“There’s not much to talk about,” Joey said, never having shared much of her past with Ellen, other than trivial things like the popular town diner she and her friends had spent a lot of time at, that she’d left home at eighteen while withholding the reasons why because they were too shameful to talk about, and her relationship with Mason. Ellen also wasn’t aware she’d come from an extremely wealthy family or that she had two sisters. To divulge any of that information would lead to question after question about her home and family life. As much as she loved Ellen, there were still some things that didn’t need to be discussed; therefore, she’d remained silent.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry to hear about the loss of your father,” Ellen said, signing the form and handing it to Joey.

“Don’t be. I’m not.”

Ellen looked puzzled by her comment, her brows questioningly raised. “Care to elaborate?”

“No,” Joey answered, realizing how short and tart her response had been to Ellen’s condolences. “Only that I’ve never been close to my father, that’s all.”

“I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me. Am I right?”

Joey hesitated, not wanting to lie but also not wanting to tell her why she’d made such a remark.

“Joey, you know you can tell me anything. I’m a good listener and I never judge.”

“I know you are, Ellen.”

“If you ever need to talk, I’m here for you. No matter what.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Where is it you’re going?”

“Alabama.”

“Alabama?” Ellen asked with surprise. “I thought you were from Georgia with that southern twang of yours. I could’ve sworn you told me that’s where you were from. Guess I was wrong again.”

“No, you weren’t. That’s where I’m originally from. Mac relocated us to Alabama when I was a little girl.”

“Mac?”

“My father.”

Obviously, discussing her father was uncomfortable for her, so Ellen didn’t press any further. “Are you flying down?”

“No. I’m going to drive. It’ll give me some time to clear my head and prepare myself before I get there.”

“Are you expecting it to be that bad?”

“With my family, who knows? Sometimes the drama gets so bad that it’s like living in a soap opera.”

“Do I detect a note of apprehension about making the trip?”

“Dread, maybe. You’d know why if you knew my family.”

Ellen gave a short laugh. “When do you plan on leaving?”

“Early in the morning. I’m going home now to pack.”

“Other than attending a funeral, what other plans do you have while you’re there?”

“Right now, none. I don’t intend to stay any longer than necessary.”

“Planning on looking up any old friends?” Ellen asked, smiling slyly.

“If you mean Mason, the answer is no. If I run into him, it won’t be intentional,” Joey said, returning the smile.

“Sure it won’t,” Ellen winked. “Okay, come here and give me a hug. You drive safely and let me know the minute you’re back. And don’t forget to drop that leave form off at human resources if you don’t want your paycheck docked.”

“Thanks, Ellen, I will,” she said, hugging her friend goodbye. “Sorry about the short notice.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s not as if we can plan death, right?”

“See you when I get back.”

Ellen stood in the doorway of her office watching Joey as she walked away, unable to shake the feeling of unease that suddenly washed over her. It was apparent that Joey wasn’t thrilled about attending her father’s funeral or being around her family, which could explain the reason she had a nagging feeling that Joey was in danger, but from what or who she couldn’t even begin to guess. Surely her family would watch over her and protect her, keeping her out of harm’s way. Afterall, they were her family.

“Stop being so paranoid,” she muttered, returning to her desk. Joey said she was leaving the following morning, so she’d give her time to arrive at her parents’ house and get settled in, then she’d call and check on her.

Until then, she knew the gnawing feeling she had wouldn’t go away.

Chapter Three

Joey slumped down on the couch, staring at her packed suitcases sitting by the front door. She was having second thoughts about making the trip, not at all eager to face her mother and listen to her bitch about every little thing that didn’t go her way or hear her preach about all the mistakes she’d made over the years and how ungrateful a child she’d been.

Not once had Helen told Joey she loved her. She wasn’t the type of person who expressed any kind of emotions. Joey was taken by surprise when she’d started receiving letters from Helen within a year of settling down in Indiana. She’d tossed them all in the trash bin unopened because she had no interest in anything Helen had to say. By then, she’d started her therapy sessions and was on the road to healing, so the last thing she’d needed was interference from Helen that would surely lead to a relapse.

Pissed after receiving the first letter, she’d called the one she knew was guilty of disclosing her location.

“What the hell, Rosemary? Did you give Helen my address?”

“Hello to you, too, Joey.”

“It was you, wasn’t it? After I specifically instructed you not to.”

“Relax, Joey. It’s not like I started the apocalypse.”

“You went against my wishes, Rosemary. Why?”

Rosemary sighed heavily. “You know how mother is. Extremely insistent and persuasive. I gave it to her to get her off my back. What’s the big deal? It’s only your address.”

“I asked you not to tell her where I was. If I’d wanted her to know, I would’ve told her myself.”

“I don’t understand what you’re so upset about. It’s not like she’s planning a trip to come there and see you.”

“I suppose you gave her my phone number, too.”

“No.”

“Good. Keep it that way. And tell her to lose my address.”

Rosemary obviously hadn’t delivered her message to Helen because the letters continued to come for several months thereafter, then abruptly stopped. Helen had finally gotten the message.

Against her better judgment and after much consideration, she decided to make the trip home, knowing her sisters would be disappointed if she didn’t show up. To ignore the death and funeral of her own father would drive an uncomfortable wedge between them. As badly as she didn’t want to go, she also didn’t want to hurt her sisters or destroy their relationships.

Joey exhaled heavily, leaning her head on the back of the couch. “God, give me strength to do this,” she said.

The drive was a little over six hours. CD’s and audio books would make the trip bearable and help keep her mind off where she was going and why.

She’d packed lightly, not intending to stay long, knowing beforehand she’d be ready to leave within the first few hours of getting there. Hopefully, her sisters would keep her occupied so her interactions with her mother were limited. The less she had to deal with her, the less chance there’d be of her lashing out at her for all the years she’d let her needlessly suffer. If confronted, Helen would still swear it was all a lie or that she knew nothing about what was going on under her own roof. Six of one, half a dozen of another, the result was still the same. Complete and total denial, something Helen Sheffield was a professional at. God forbid any type of scandal should upset her perfect, idealistic world and lifestyle. Pity that her standing and reputation in the community, her afternoon Bridge clubs, her rich, socialite friends had all been more important to her than facing the truth about the horrors taking place inside her cherished mansion.

No matter how many times Joey had tried to forgive her, she couldn’t. Her injured heart wouldn’t allow it.

With a deep sigh, she rose from the couch and for the third time checked to make sure all the locks were secure and electrical appliances turned off, picked up her suitcase and headed out the door.

Chapter One

From the oculus attic window, fiendish and inquisitive eyes suspiciously watched the commotion taking place on the sidewalk below, infuriated that strangers would dare to trespass on his property, and wondering why they were being so ridiculously loud. It wasn’t the first time his privacy had been invaded, but after exacting his revenge for their profane intrusions, they’d all run away with their tails tucked between their legs like the terrified cowards they were. These newcomers would be no different than the others. He’d send them running and screaming, too.

This was his house, and he wasn’t leaving. Nor would he allow uninvited outsiders to cohabitate with him.

There were three of them this time. A petite, fair-haired woman, a taller, blonde teen-aged girl, and a younger boy with hair the color of fire. Accompanying them was a filthy, disgusting black and white dog that the boy called Conroy. The mutt sat as still as a statue on the sidewalk by his master’s side, staring up at the window, unmoving and silent. Sensing his presence, not even his tail wagged. He hated dogs more than he despised humans. He’d extinguish this one exactly as he had the last one who’d dared to cross over his threshold. He knew that like their predecessors, their intentions were to come in and completely take over his entire domain by obstructing his personal space, getting in his way, and doing everything within their power to drive him out of his own home if they ever discovered he was around. He’d kill them all without an ounce of remorse before allowing that to happen.

Whatever they were doing, it involved using a gadget he’d never seen before. Repeated flashes of bright, white light continually blinked as the three of them posed, smiled, and stared at whatever the woman was holding in her hand.

He had no time to be bothered with this pathetic nonsense.

The girl was pretty though. So was the woman. What an exhilarating thought imagining the fun he could have with them before completely crushing them. He’d have fun with the boy, too, if he were lucky enough to capture and keep his attention long enough to make it worth his time. That atrocious dog would be the first to go. He’d eliminate the problem as quickly as he could. He had no particular order for destroying the three humans, but with the fleabag out of the way, access to them would be a lot easier.

As he slinked back into the confines of the house’s dark interior, he was making plans to ensure the humans’ stay in his home was short-lived. But not before making them regret the moment they’d ever crossed his path.

* * * * *

“Well, what do you think?” Joan Buchanan asked, dropping her phone into her purse after her kids protested that she was taking too many pictures. This was a big event for them, and she wanted to ensure she had an adequate amount of keepsakes to remember the special occasion.

“Kind of creepy if you ask me,” her daughter, Pietra replied. “I hope the inside looks better than the outside does.”

“Don’t be such a negative Nellie. I know it’s different than what you’re used to, but it’s home. What do you say we make the best of it?”

“I think it’s kind of cool,” Chandler responded. “It’ll be fun pretending we live in a haunted house.”

With all the sagging trees and dead shrubbery in the front and back yards, the house had a certain eerie characteristic. It was easy to understand why Chandler would consider it haunted. Only the wild imagination of an adolescent teenaged boy could concoct such a thought.

Pietra rolled her eyes. “Of course, you’d like it. Why wouldn’t you? You’re a weirdo.”

“What’s that up there?” Chandler asked. “I’ve never seen a window that looks like that. It kind of reminds me of the kind of windows a church has.”

“It’s called stained glass, you idiot.”

Ignoring her daughter’s demeaning remark, Joan answered, “The loft, I suppose. Round windows like that are commonly used in attics, although I’ll have to admit I’ve never seen one with such a strange looking design.” 

She’d inspected the inside and outside of the house when touring it with the real estate agent, but she hadn’t been heavily focused on the windows, other than to ensure that none were broken, and that all were in working order. This was the first time the kids had seen the house, and there was a reason for that. Pietra’s obvious disdain for its unkempt appearance and not measuring up to the standards she was used to or expected only confirmed she’d made the right call about keeping them away until the house was ready to move into. If Pietra had been allowed to see it beforehand, there would’ve been a verbal spat, and one or both of them would’ve said things they’d later regret, and they’d been through enough in the past several months to last them a lifetime. Besides, nothing positive could ever come from pouring gas onto an already burning fire.

“Reminds me of a ship’s porthole,” Pietra stated.

“Yeah,” Joan agreed with a nod. “It kind of does.”

“How do you know what the address is?” Pietra asked.

“The numbers are above the door. Six-six-nine.”

“No, mom. Look at the door. It’s facing the corner where the two streets intersect. I’ve never seen that before. Half of the house is on one street, the other half of the house is on the other street, like it’s split down the middle. Weird.”

“I didn’t even think about it. Good thing the address was pre-decided before we got here.”

“Which is it then? Nightfall Avenue or Shadow Street? Both are creepy names, by the way.”

“Either one will be great when Halloween rolls around,” Chandler added.

“Nightfall Avenue,” Joan confirmed, mentally comparing the differences between her son and daughter. Chandler, the horror movie lover who didn’t seem to be afraid of anything, including snakes and bugs; and Pietra, the Diva who would rather die than be seen in public without perfect hair, make-up, and clothes. God knew how much she loved them and how badly she felt about their current situation because they didn’t deserve it. Hell, who was she kidding? None of them deserved it, and they’d certainly not done anything to warrant being in the predicament they now found themselves in.

In only six short months, they’d gone from living in an upscale house in a gated community to calling a ramshackled, almost eighty-year-old rundown structure their home.

It wasn’t until after the sudden death of her husband that all the dark secrets he’d been hiding came pouring forth like a flash flood. Rumors of multiple extra-marital affairs, falling behind on and refusing to pay the mortgage, allowing every insurance policy they owned to lapse for non-payment of the premiums, and discovering he was thousands of dollars in debt to bookmakers and loan sharks for gambling losses.

Looking back, she should’ve known something wasn’t quite right when she received a phone call from the funeral director informing her that the policy she’d turned over to him the day before to cover expenses wasn’t worth the paper it was written on, prompting her to place a phone call to the insurance company, only to learn the policy had expired six months prior. By the time she found out about that little gem of information, Burt’s funeral and cremation had already been scheduled, so there was no way she could back out of the services. It wasn’t like she could take his body home and bury it in the back yard, erect a cross made of sticks and call it a grave. She could, however, make extreme changes to the arrangements, and that’s exactly what she’d done.

The life insurance policy she’d paid for through her employment could’ve easily paid for his funeral if she’d gone the traditional route. Because of the debacle with the lapsed policy and not knowing the status of the second one he’d had, she opted instead for the least expensive plan available. Money saved was money earned, and she and the kids would need it a hell of a lot more than he would. He damned sure hadn’t deserved a luxurious funeral, and in hindsight, she was glad she hadn’t given him one.

Four months after his death, the bank foreclosed on their home, the finance company repossessed both cars, and since there was no other policies to provide her and the kids with monetary support, she’d need every dime she could raise to be able to start over. She’d kept the essentials, like the stove and refrigerator, beds, and a few pieces of furniture, sold what she could at a yard sale, then donated everything else to a local charity.

Between the embarrassment and the town gossip, it was more than she could endure, and also more than she was willing to allow herself or her children to be subjected to. Therefore, she’d packed what few items they had left, stored the furniture and appliances, bought a decent used car, and hit the road with no regrets, and no looking back.

Her goal had been to put at least a hundred miles between their old town and new destination, but when she’d driven through the small, northern Kentucky town of Castleton only seventy miles away, she’d fallen in love with it and decided that’s where they’d settle down. With a population of less than fifty thousand, it was large enough to avoid small-town gossip, yet small enough to feel cozy.

The drive from Killene was beautiful, and she’d found it amazing that although she’d lived in Kentucky all of her life, there were so many places she’d never been and multitudes of towns and cities she’d never seen. Burt had never been one to take vacations or weekend jaunts, preferring instead to spend his weekends at home with a can of beer in one hand and a remote control in the other. The few trips she’d taken over the years had been with the kids, and it was usually to theme parks and zoos.

Landscaping along I-65 abounded with rolling green hills and white picket fences surrounding acre upon acre of horse farms, their breeders hoping to yield the next winner of the Kentucky Derby, as if they weren’t rich enough, considering the multi-million-dollar mansions sitting atop hills overlooking the sprawling properties.

“Must be nice to be that wealthy,” Pietra chimed in each time they passed another farm.

“Being rich doesn’t necessarily refer to money,” she’d told her. And that was true. She considered herself richer than some. Not monetarily, but because of good health, an excellent education, and two great kids she adored. Those were unique gifts not everyone was blessed with.

“Can we get a horse, mom?” Chandler asked.

“Not likely, son. First of all, we’d have nowhere to put it. Second, none of us knows a thing about taking care of a horse.”

“Didn’t hurt to ask,” he replied, hugging his dog, Conroy, close to him. “You’re all I need anyway,” he told him.

Main street of downtown Castleton was lined with older, brick-constructed buildings and storefronts with large-paned glass display windows. A candy store, pawn broker and coffee house were only a few of the shops that caught her eye as she passed through town.

“There’s probably nothing to do here in Hicksville,” Pietra said as she stared out the window. “I’ll bet there’s only one school here that houses every grade, like it was back in the olden days.”

“Don’t be so judgmental,” Joan told her. “Let’s check the town out before condemning it. At first glance, I have to say the scenery is lovely.”

“Mom, what are we going to do?” Pietra asked tartly. “We have nowhere to live, you don’t have a job, and we have no money. How are you planning on pulling this off?”

Her daughter’s first two observances were correct. The last one, not so much. She hadn’t shared that bit of news with her kids. If she had, then she’d need to explain where the money came from, which would lead to a conversation about the cost of their father’s funeral, and that was a discussion she didn’t care to have. In reality, the face value of the life insurance policy she’d paid for through her job was fifty-thousand dollars, double indemnity in case of accidental death. Fortunately for her and the kids, Burt dying of auto-erotic asphyxiation in a hotel room while pleasuring himself was ruled accidental by the county coroner because law enforcement couldn’t prove whether Burt was alone or had assistance tying himself up. She hadn’t wanted to spend a dime of the hundred thousand on the lying, cheating bastard who’d left her indigent. So she did the next best thing by spending the least amount possible, opting for a rental coffin for his viewing and funeral, then returning it to the mortuary after his cremation. No way in hell was she spending ten grand on a coffin that’d be incinerated and reduced to ashes. Not when that amount of money could be spent elsewhere and on much more important things, like getting the hell out of town and away from backstabbing people she’d thought were her friends. Her actions might’ve seemed cold and disconnected to most, but when she’d made the decision, she’d been unsure about the futures of her and her children. Anger and devastation were the two driving forces behind her decision. She was furious with Burt. Not because he died, but because of the embarrassing manner in which he’d died. The more she learned about his secret life, the less she regretted the choices she’d made. She hadn’t expected to put out any more funeral or burial related money than she already had, until Pietra and Chandler questioned her about his ashes. To appease them, she’d purchased a small display case inside the funeral home’s mausoleum where his urn would be interred, telling them it was the respectful thing to do because they’d never have to worry about accidentally breaking the urn and spilling his ashes. In reality, she hadn’t wanted them anywhere near her where she’d have to look at them every day and constantly be reminded of his betrayal.

Had she been wrong for keeping all that information from her children? Maybe. But she didn’t regret it at all because life for them went on, and since she had no one who could help her out financially, she did what she’d thought was best for her and her children.

“I’ll find us a place as quickly as I can, Pietra. I know this is hard on you, honey, but it is for me and Chandler, too. Please be patient and give me a chance. Is that asking too much?”

“I guess not,” Pietra shrugged. “What do we do in the meantime?”

“Find a motel for starters,” Joan replied. “We may have to stay in one for a week or two.”

Pietra grunted and threw her head back against the seat. “Seriously, mom? I have to sleep in the same room with him?” she said, thumbing over her shoulder.

“Not only him. I’ll be in the room, too. It’s only temporary.”

“Can you at least make sure it’s not a roach motel or one of those pay-by-the-hour ones?”

Joan laughed. “How do you know about anything like that?”

“I’m sixteen, mom, not six. I know about sex and hookers.”

“Pietra! Let’s not talk like that in front of Chandler.”

“It’s okay, mom,” Chandler called from the backseat. “I know about sex, too.”

Joan glanced through the rearview mirror at her son. “Exactly what’s being taught in school these days?”

“I learned from the Internet. There’re all kinds of stuff to look at there,” Chandler said.

“Remind me to set parental controls on your computer, will you?”

“Sure, mom, whatever you say.”

“It’s not the Ritz-Carlton, but this one looks clean and safe,” Joan said, pulling into the parking lot of the Castleton Hotel.

“Can’t I have my own room?” Pietra asked.

“No, you can’t, not here. When I find a house, I’ll make sure there are enough bedrooms for you and Chandler to have your own,” she said, unbuckling her seatbelt. “You two sit tight while I go in and see if they have a vacancy. I won’t be long.”

“Are you mad at mom?” Chandler asked as Joan entered the lobby door.

“Not mad. Upset maybe.”

“Why?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Nope.”

“You’re not angry we left Killene? All our friends were there. So were our schools.”

“What was mom supposed to do, Pietra?”

“She could’ve stayed there and found us another place to live. How hard could that have been?”

“With all of her friends making fun of her and talking about her behind her back? Why would she?”

“Whatever,” Pietra retorted, rolling her eyes. “She could’ve worked it out if she’d wanted to.”

“This isn’t her fault, Pietra. It’s not like she asked for dad to die. If you want to blame someone, blame him. He’s the reason we’re in this mess.”

She did blame her dad. She blamed her mom, too. How could she not have known what was going on? They had a joint checking account, and she balanced it every month. Wouldn’t she have noticed if bills weren’t being paid? Why didn’t she confront their dad about it and make him explain?

“Good news,” Joan said, hopping back into the car. “Got us a room with two king-sized beds and a roll-away cot, on the third floor overlooking the pool. Had to pay extra for Conroy, but I suppose the mutt’s worth it.”

The room was located on the backside of the hotel, away from the main road and the sound of passing traffic. “What do you say we put our things away and go find a good place to eat?”

“I’m all for that,” Chandler said, removing his suitcase from the trunk.

“Can we at least go somewhere that we can go inside and sit down instead of eating hamburgers from paper bags?” Pietra groaned.

“I think I can manage that,” Joan answered, passing Pietra her suitcase. “We’ll talk about it when we get upstairs and decide what we want.”

A sit-down, Italian meal had been a good start to their new lives, but it certainly hadn’t continued on the same path.

What she’d expected to be only a week or two of hotel life turned into two months, being forced to spend money she didn’t have to spare, yet she had no choice unless she chose to live in the car until she could find them a permanent place to stay.

Rentals in Castleton were few and far between, and the couple of houses that’d been available were outrageously overpriced and way out of her range. Every landlord wanted first and last months’ rent, and a security deposit the same amount as a month of rent, which was the equivalent of asking for three months’ rent in advance just to move in. For what they were asking, one would think they were being offered palaces equipped with golden toilets instead of basic, unfurnished living quarters. Apartment complexes either had two-bedrooms available, or three-bedrooms with no allowance for pets.

On the verge of giving up and moving on, she’d decided to visit a realtor and see if they had any hidden listings. Some property owners preferred confidentiality to prevent them from having to rent to what they considered unbecoming individuals.

“Are you looking for something in particular?” An overweight woman with black hair fashioned in a sixties style bouffant, curled up ends and a pink felt bow in the center, asked her as she opened her listing catalog. Heavy on the blue eye shadow and black eyeliner, she looked like she was dressed for a costume party instead of working in a business office.

“At least three bedrooms, preferably two bathrooms.”

“Are you looking to rent or buy?”

“Rent.”

“Unfortunately, we don’t have any rentals at the moment,” she said, licking her fingertip and turning the page. “I have several listings of homes for sale. Is there a maximum price you’re willing to pay?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it to tell you the truth,” Joan answered. “I came here intending to rent.”

“Buying is so much better,” the lady told her, looking up from the catalog and offering her a smile, revealing her red lipstick smeared teeth. “When you own your own home, you can do whatever you want to do with it, fix it the way you want, decorate it in a way that suits you. So many times, landlords have ridiculous rules and won’t even allow a tenant to put a nail in the wall to hang a picture. Besides, when you rent, all you’re doing is lining someone else’s pockets. Buying a home is a lifetime investment.”

“You’re right,” Joan agreed. “Show me what you have available.”

“My name is Gloria Butler,” she said, extending a chubby hand.

“Joan Buchanan.”

“Nice to meet you, Joan.”  Gloria hadn’t been so pleasant and jovial towards her when her intention had been to rent. Change the conversation to buying and, boom, instant gratitude. Why? Because she would make a nice commission off the sale. Talk about lining someone’s pockets. Hypocrite.

“This one is very nice,” Gloria said, pointing to a single-story, ranch-type house. “It’s located not too far from town and is situated on five acres.”

“No need to go any further on this one,” Joan said. “It’s out of my price range.”

“Alright, let me keep looking,” she said, humming as she turned page after page. “How long have you lived in Castleton?”

“Not long. A couple of months.”

Gloria slowly glanced up from the catalog. “Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know anyone around here?”

“No.”

“Are you at all familiar with our small community?”

“Outside of a motel and fast-food restaurants, no.”

“Where did you move from?”

“Killene.”

“Never been there,” Gloria smiled, flipping a page in her catalog. “I have another one similar to the one I just showed you. It’s a tad bit cheaper,” she said, passing the book to Joan.

“You call this a tad bit cheaper?” Joan asked with a smile. “Still too rich for my blood.”

“At the risk of sounding condescending, have you considered buying a trailer?”

“By trailer, you mean a mobile home?”

“Yes, or a prefab.”

“Not an option,” Joan stated. “With children, I want something much safer than a mobile home.”

“There’s really not much left,” Gloria sighed, closing her listing book.

“Guess I’ll have to try a different realtor. Maybe they’ll have something.”

“Unlikely, since we all share the same MLS numbers.”

“MLS numbers? What are those?”

“Multiple listings on vacant properties. In short, what I have in my listing book is the same as they’ll have in theirs, although one or two may differ.”

“I’ll have to take my chances,” Joan said, getting up from her chair. “Thanks for your help.”

“I can make a call for you if you’d like me to. One of my closest friends is an agent at another realtor’s office. She might have a listing I’m not aware of.”

Does your friend dress like she just popped out of a 1960s-time capsule as well? Joan thought. “I appreciate that,” she said, sitting back down.

“This will only take a few seconds,” Gloria said, using the eraser of her pencil to punch in the numbers on the phone.

Joan sat quietly while Gloria exchanged pleasantries with her friend, watching light traffic pass up and down Main Street through the large store-front window. Over two months living there, and she still didn’t know what the town offered in the way of shopping or entertainment. One tends to not focus so much on the non-essential things when they’re struggling to secure a permanent residence. As Gloria continued her phone conversation, Joan caught the faint scent of freshly baked bread or donuts, making a mental note to check and see if there was a bakery nearby.

“That old thing?” Gloria said into the phone. “I had no idea it was for sale,” she said, using her pencil to jot information on her tablet, occasionally glancing up at Joan. “How many children do you have?” Gloria asked her.

“Two. A son and daughter.”

“Shall I come and get the key, or do you want to meet us there?” Gloria asked her friend. “I’ll do that, thanks,” she said, then hung up and tore the sheet from the tablet.

“Any luck?”

“She did have a listing I don’t have,” Gloria began. “But I have to be honest and tell you the house is really old, and since I haven’t been inside, I can’t speak about the condition. It’s been empty for quite some time now. In fact, I didn’t even know it was for sale.”

“Guess we’ll see what condition it’s in when you show it to me.”

“Um, yes,” Gloria said, clearing her throat. If Joan didn’t know any better, she’d swear Gloria was reluctant about taking her to see the house. She seemed awfully jittery all of a sudden.

“Is there a problem?”

“No,” Gloria said, shaking her head. “I just wasn’t expecting to have to be the one to show you the house since it isn’t my listing. It’s no big deal. I need to drop by her office and pick up the key. It won’t take long. Her office isn’t far from here.”

“We can go in my car,” Joan said.

“Or you can meet me there.”

“Meet you?” Joan asked. “I don’t even know where we’re going.”

“Oh, yes, that’s right,” Gloria replied as she stood, the sheet of paper fluttering in her shaking hand. “You drive. I’ll give directions.”

Built parallel to intersecting streets, the Tri-story home stood on a corner lot, sticking out like a sore thumb among the more modern homes in the neighborhood. The lower half of the house, including the two stoop pedestals and steps leading up to the porch, were constructed of red brick, the top half with faded white clapboards. Joan had seen similar type homes as a child when visiting her grandparents in the high mountains of northern Kentucky, except that her grandparents’ house, like many others in their surrounding area, had tin roofs instead of tiles like this one did.

“How old is this house?” Joan asked as she pulled into the dirt driveway.

“I can’t tell you exactly, but I believe it was built sometime in the early forties.”

Patches of brown grass protruded from clumps of dry dirt. The hedges lining the front of the house were bare of any type of growth. On top of both pedestals were large, green ceramic flowerpots, their blooms long dead, withered limbs drooping over the sides of the planters.

“When was the last time anyone lived here?”

“Again, I’m not sure,” Gloria replied as she stared, unblinking, at the house.

“Take a guess.”

“A year, maybe,” she shrugged.

“Is there no caretaker to look after the property and oversee the landscaping? Surely those dead plants haven’t been here since the last time the house was occupied.”

Gloria shook her head as she chewed nervously on her bottom lip. “No idea. The property isn’t my responsibility.”

“You seem uptight,” Joan said, twisting in her seat to look at Gloria. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“No,” she quickly replied, smiling as she turned to Joan. “I’m sure you’re curious to see the inside, so let’s get this over with.”

“Is the back yard fenced in?” Joan asked, noticing the dilapidated gate to the left of the entrance.

“Beats me.”

“Gloria, did your friend give you a spec sheet containing information about the house?”

“She only offered basic details, the ones she thought were pertinent enough to show the house.”

“I’ll go take a quick look myself,” Joan said frustratingly. “Care to come along?”

“I’ll wait here for you.”

The rusted gate latch was melded to the catch from lack of use and little to no maintenance, refusing to budge from its locked position. After several failed attempts to disengage the lever, Joan gave the bottom part of the gate a swift kick, pushing the door inward and breaking the entire locking mechanism off the gate door, cringing at the shrill screech of the rusted hatches as the door slowly creaked open.

“Looks like I’ll be paying for a new gate lock,” she called over her shoulder before entering the side yard. It was a large stretch of property, more than two acres by her estimation, and completely fenced in with barbed wire. A screened in back porch ran the entire length of the house, the door made of wood, the screening black with filth. Beyond the back fence was dense foliage and overgrown weeds. An old child’s swing set stood next to a shabby shed, its slide brown with rust, the white plastic seats of the swings broken and dangling by single chains. Mature oak and maple trees grew along the fence line, but like all other vegetation on the property, hadn’t been nurtured and taken care of. Their lack of pruning and irrigation gave them a lifeless and chilling appearance. In the event she decided to purchase the house, improving greenery would be one of the first issues she dealt with. She wouldn’t want her new neighbors to think she was a dark and enigmatic woman, caring little for the condition and appearance of the home in which she lived. With a heaping dose of tender loving care and attention, she’d have the trees and shrubs back to health in no time.

Speaking of neighbors, she was being watched as she inspected the back portion of the property. Up the street to her left, a man stood in his yard, hands resting on top of a rake as he eyed her curiously, wondering if he was getting a new neighbor. Across the street from him, an overweight woman stood on the sidewalk in front of her house, arms folded across her rotund belly, observing her as suspiciously as her male counterpart. They were engaged in a conversation, but Joan couldn’t hear what they were saying. She assumed whatever it was, it included her.

“Don’t worry about the gate,” Gloria told her when she returned from the back yard. “We’ll figure out a way to secure it. Let’s take a look inside and see what you think.”

What Joan initially thought was brick flooring on the porch was actually concrete that’d been painted red to give it a brick appearance, the paint worn and peeling away. On the far-right side of the porch, a slatted wooden swing hung on rusted chains, the swing’s brown paint in the same crumbling condition as the porch floor. Gloria’s hand trembled as she fumbled with the key, finally able to unlock the door on her third attempt.

“Are you sure there isn’t something you need to disclose to me? You’re acting as though you’re nervous about being here.”

“Nothing that would be of any importance to you,” Gloria replied. “It’s a personal thing.”  Dismissing Joan’s question, she began her realtor spiel. “This house has four bedrooms, two full baths, a dining area, kitchen, screened-in back porch, and an attic that could easily be converted into an extra bedroom or entertainment area. When considering the newer homes in the neighborhood, this house may seem less ordinary, but at the time it was built, it was considered to be high end, the kind only rich folks could afford. When this home was originally constructed, it was the only one in this entire area,” she said with a wave of her flabby arm. “The homes you see now didn’t come until several years later. For the asking price, you’d be getting a lot of house for the money.”

“Recited all that information from memory, did you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You seem to know an awful lot about the house for someone who wasn’t provided a spec sheet.”

“Yes, well, I grew up here in Castleton. I suppose I know as much about this house as any other resident. Anyway,” she said, quickly changing the subject and stepping inside. “This is the living room.”  Joan detected a slight tremor in Gloria’s voice, the kind that develops when someone is either worried or scared. “The fireplace is natural, no gas required,” Gloria continued, apprehensively glancing at the wooden staircase leading to the second floor. “All you need is firewood, and when the time comes that you need it, there are plenty of places around here that sell it.”

“Any idea how long it’s been since the chimney was cleaned?”

“No, I’m sorry I don’t, but I’ll write all of your questions down and get the answers for you. Shall we move on?”

The vaulted ceiling in the living room made the already expansive area seem even larger and would look empty with the small amount of furniture she owned. The floor in the living room was constructed of dark pine wood, but the one in the kitchen left a lot to be desired. It’d been covered with the foulest shade of bright orange linoleum Joan had ever seen. The aluminum seams to anchor the rubber flooring were missing at the kitchen entry and back door, the corners of the linoleum torn, ragged, peeling away and curled up at the edges. She’d never cared for the fake flooring. She thought it looked cheap, and she hated the way it felt on her bare feet. Regardless of how many times it was mopped or swept, it still felt dirty and gritty. Mentally, she was already ripping it up and tossing it in the garbage.

The stark contrast between the flooring and scarlet red cabinets was nauseating. What had the last tenants been thinking when they chose the color pattern? They had to have been either color blind or absent of any tittivating abilities.

Choosing to retain her kitchen appliances had been a smart move because the house wasn’t equipped with any.

“Where does that lead?” Joan asked, pointing to a door to the right of the stove alcove.

“The cellar.”

“Any idea what’s down there?”

“Dust and cobwebs most likely,” Gloria said, quickly adding, “Now to the upstairs area.”

Not that Gloria needed to point out the dining room since she knew what one was, but that she walked right past it without stopping or mentioning it only made Joan more certain that Gloria was in a hurry to get the tour over with and get the hell out of that house.

The wooden stairs creaked as they ascended to the second-floor landing. “There are four bedrooms and two bathrooms on this floor. One in the master bedroom, the other between the two rooms on the right. Let’s start with the master bedroom and work our way back,” she said, continuing down the hallway.

It was a massive room, larger than her kitchen and dining room combined in the house back in Killene. The entire wall overlooking the back yard was constructed of floor to ceiling paneled windows. Red, black, and orange paisley print paper covered the walls. The large walk-in closet would be more than enough space for what few clothes and shoes she owned, leaving room to store unopened boxes if she needed to. The master bath had an over-sized, clawfoot tub situated in the middle of the room with a circular, metal shower curtain rod that, when closed, provided privacy during showers. From the windows, Joan was able to see beyond the perimeter fence, but not much more was visible from there than standing in the back yard. Nothing but trees, foliage and overgrown weeds, the house’s own private forest.

The room across the hall was half the size of the master bedroom and could be used as a guest room, or as she preferred, a sewing and craft room. The likelihood of ever having house guests who spent the night was slim. She’d much rather put it to better use.

The main bathroom was also equipped with a tub and shower, but had sliding Plexiglas doors, as well as double sinks, each with their own storage cabinets.

A few feet from the head of the stairs, on the same side as what would be her sewing room, was another bedroom, its windows overlooking the front yard and surrounding neighborhood, and one she felt Chandler would be happy with.

“And the last bedroom,” Gloria said, opening the door. “As you can see, all the bedrooms are large enough to fit an entire bedroom suite into and still have room left over. In fact, these rooms are bigger than my entire apartment,” she said with a nervous laugh.

Joan sensed there was something special about this room. Built into the wall next to the closet was a cherry wood armoire. Joan ran a finger along the intricate artwork carved into the wood, admiring its creative beauty. Whoever had hand-crafted the piece of furniture had done so with painstaking care and acute attention to detail and had done so for a child who had a great love for horses.

Pietra is going to love this, she thought, carefully opening the double doors. Inside the armoire were four empty shelves. Joan pictured them being lined with dolls and figurines. The bottom part had two drawers, also empty, leaving no remnants to indicate it’d ever belonged to anyone or had ever been used. Joan detected a light scent of cedar as she closed the doors.

“I noticed a closed door at the end of the hallway,” Joan said, pointing towards the master bedroom. “Is that another room?”

“No,” Gloria replied. “It leads to the attic. The staircase is beyond the door.”

“I’d like to have a look,” Joan said, heading towards the door. “If you’re going to show me a house, you might as well show me all of it and not just the rooms you want me to see.”

Four narrow wooden steps led up to a small landing. Beyond there, four more steps opened into a cavernous space. Joan wasn’t sure what she’d expected to find, but the attic didn’t hold the proverbial leather chest filled with Grandpa’s old war medals and treasure maps. Other than the specter of colors bathing the room through the stained-glass window, the upper floor was empty, and surprisingly clean, except for a thin coat of dust on the handrails. Renovations had been made to the loft since the original construction of the house. With a walk-in closet and built-in bookshelves, the large space could easily serve as an extra room, den, or recreation area.

“Well, what do you think?”

“Needs a lot of work,” Joan said. “But it has potential.”

“Great,” Gloria said, descending the stairs. “Let’s go back to my office and talk shop.”

“Not so fast,” Joan called after her. “There are a few things I’d like to talk about first, and if you can’t answer my questions here, then there’s really no need for further discussion.”

“Can we at least talk outside?”

“No,” Joan stated sternly. “Let’s talk right here. And you can start by telling me the truth about why you’re so nervous about being in this house.”

“But… but…,” Gloria stammered. “I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. I get the feeling you don’t like being here. Something about this house makes you uneasy, and I demand to know what it is before I discuss moving into it.”

“It’s nothing, really, I told you.”

“Gloria,” Joan said, casting her a serious look. “Stop lying and tell me the truth. Did something happen in this house? A murder, maybe? Did someone die here?”

“Childhood rumors, you know?” Gloria answered, wiping sweat from her brow. “Every town has that one house that every kid believes is haunted.”

“And we’re standing in the one that Castleton folks believe is the haunted one?”

“Yes.”

“What would give them that idea? Hauntings can’t happen without ghosts, and ghosts don’t occur unless there’s been a death. So, which is it?”

“You know how kids are. One starts the rumor and by the time it gets passed around, the details have changed drastically.”

“When I was a child, I thought the woman living in a house in my neighborhood was a witch. I hated to even pass by her house. In fact, I’d step off the sidewalk and walk in the street until I was past it. As an adult, I now know how foolish that was. You understand what I’m saying?”

“I think so, yes. Don’t believe rumors unless you can prove them?”

“Something like that. Are you aware of anything untoward that has happened here? By aware, I mean is there concrete evidence or proof?”

“Not to my knowledge, no. Other than the rumors.”

“Am I going to have any problems from anyone around here should I choose to take the house?”

“Problems? Like what?”

“Harassing me and my kids for living here, passing judgments, making accusations?”

“I shouldn’t think so. I hope not, anyway.”

“As do I,” Joan told her, refraining from adding that she had a permit to carry a concealed weapon, and wasn’t afraid to use it should the need arise–like a physical threat against her or her children. “It would be remiss of me if I didn’t add one more extremely important detail.”

“Such as?”

“If you are aware of any such information and you failed or refused to disclose that information to me, and if harm should befall me or one of my children, the end results wouldn’t be in your favor. Is that clear?”

“I told you that I don’t know anything definitively. Just speculations, that’s it.”

“Rumors don’t bother me in the least,” Joan stated, recalling the many hateful and false statements that’d been made about her back in Killene, some of which would haunt her for the rest of her life. She’d grown so accustomed to it she’d learned to dismiss them all as rubbish spat out by narrow minds and people who didn’t know the whole truth about what had transpired in her life. “And since I don’t believe in ghosts, neither does the idea that the house might be haunted.”

“I understand.”

“Good,” Joan said with a nod. “Then tell me how much the rent is.”

“Rent?” Gloria repeated. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. The house isn’t for rent, Ms. Buchanan. It’s for sale.”

“For sale?” Joan asked, sounding disappointed. “Is the owner willing to make the necessary repairs first? The kitchen floor desperately needs to be replaced.”

“The sale terms are on an as is basis.”

“Then is the seller willing to lower the price to allow for the needed repairs?”

“As is means exactly that, Ms. Buchanan. Besides, the asking price is incredulously low, so I doubt the price will go below what it already is.”

“And that’s the only option?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Buying a home hadn’t been her intention. By doing so, she’d be obligated to pay a mortgage and be bound to the town. And if she decided she didn’t like Castleton as much as she’d originally thought she had, then she’d be stuck until another prospective buyer came along. On the other hand, she hadn’t been successful at all in securing a rental property, and if she let this house pass her by, then she and the kids could be stuck in a hotel room indefinitely or have to move on to another town.

“What’s the asking price?”

“Less than you might be thinking,” Gloria replied, removing a piece of notebook paper from her purse. Unfolding it, she said, “Sixty thousand.”

“Sixty thousand,” Joan exclaimed. “For this huge house and all this property? Are you sure that’s not a misprint?” Although the home direly needed restorations, Joan imagined it hadn’t always been that way, and had probably been immaculate and beautiful once. Considering its age, chances were that it was much better built than the modern-day homes were, sturdier and more resilient because of the quality of materials used at the time of construction when homes were built from the foundation up instead of coming in pre-manufactured pieces that snapped together like children’s blocks. It definitely had the potential to be stunning again, with the right owner, and the right amount of attention it needed.

“I’m sure,” Gloria said, passing Joan the paper so she could read it. “I wrote down the asking price,” she said. “Just in case.”

“What’s the catch? At that price for this much house, there must be something that’s not being disclosed.”

“No catch,” Gloria assured her.

“Who’s the realtor selling the house for?”

“The bank.”

“Then the house is a foreclosure?”

“No.”

“I’m confused,” Joan said, cocking her head. “Usually, the only reason a bank takes possession of a house is through foreclosure. Am I right?”

“Yes, usually.”

“Then explain this particular situation to me.”

“You know what I think we should do? Go sit down with my realtor friend and have her explain everything to you. She knows more about the property than I do.”

“Let’s go, then,” Joan agreed.

Much to her surprise, Gloria’s friend was the polar opposite of her. Petite, her brown hair cut in a short pixie, professionally dressed, and wearing light makeup. She was eager to answer all Joan’s questions, promising to respond to them as honestly as she could, and vowing to provide answers as quickly as possible to those she didn’t know the answer to offhand.

“Are you interested in buying the Borloff house?” According to the identification badge she wore on a placard around her neck, her name was Angie Holland.

“Maybe. But I’d like to know more about it before deciding.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Anything you can offer.”

“The house was built in 1941 by Josef Borloff,” Angie said, reading from the spec sheet she had on the house, which obviously contained much more information than what she’d offered Gloria. “As a wedding gift for his new bride. He lived there with his wife and their two children until 1957, the year they disappeared without a trace. Mr. Borloff continued to reside in the home even after his family vanished and remained there alone until his death four years ago.”

“He died in the house?”

“Yes.”

“Is that how the rumors got started about the house being haunted?”

“Gloria told you about it, I see.”

“Only because I asked.”

“Gossip about the house began long before his death. As a kid, I remember hearing townsfolk talk about it, and every single one of them told a different story. It was the type of tale that got told around the campfire during cookouts, at slumber parties, and especially during Halloween. The scarier the better, I suppose. I’ve always viewed it as nothing more than an urban legend, much like the passing down of the scary story about the man with a hook for a hand that only hunted during a full moon, or some other similar crazy tale. Is that a problem for you?”

“Not at all. Tell me, how did the bank come to take ownership of the house if it isn’t in foreclosure.”

“Through intestate succession. At the time of Mr. Borloff’s death, he had no will and no surviving relatives to claim his property; therefore, it was turned over to the state. The end result was the house being auctioned off and sold to the highest bidder.”

“The bank won the bid?”

“Correct.”

“Four years after his death, why does the bank still hold the deed? Have there been no other’s interested in purchasing the home?”

“It’s only recently been put on the market. When the bank first took possession, the property was rented out, but it was costing the bank huge sums of money overall because renters never stayed long. Maybe a few months or so, then they vacated the premises without notice, breaching their rental agreement and refusing to pay their outstanding balances.”

“Exactly how many renters are we talking about here that, as you put it, up and left and violated their leases?”

“Five,” Angie answered. “After that, we decided renting simply wasn’t worth the trouble or the cost.”

“Gloria told me the asking price of the house is sixty thousand. Is that correct?”

“It is.”

“Doesn’t seem like much for a house that size and all that vacant property surrounding it.”

“Between you and me, I think the bank came way down on the price just to get the house off their hands because they’re tired of dealing with it.”

“Does that mean my chances of buying the house from the bank are good?”

“I’m not a banker and I can’t speak for them, but I don’t see any reason your chances wouldn’t be good. If you’re seriously considering buying it, I can give you the name of the person who’s overseeing the sale. I can even call him for you if you’d like.”

“Please,” Joan replied.

Within a few minutes of making the phone call, Joan had an appointment at the bank to speak with a loan officer by the name of Marty Baker.

“That was quick,” Joan said to Angie. “They really are eager to sell it, aren’t they?”

And eager they were. Marty approved her loan within thirty minutes, even though she hadn’t yet secured a job. Telling him she was searching for one was good enough for him. Able to meet the low cost down payment, agreeing that monthly payments less than three hundred dollars were perfect for her budget, and her near perfect credit score, she walked out of the bank a homeowner. Everything back in Killene that’d been repossessed had been in her husband’s name, leaving her credit unscathed, of which she was now extremely grateful.

“Can I make a request?” Joan asked as she accepted the house keys.

“Sure.”

“Is it possible to send a cleaning crew to the house before I move in with my children? It was quite dusty in there and could use a good scrubbing.”

“I wish I could tell you yes, Ms. Buchanan, but I’m afraid that’s your responsibility,” Marty told her.

“Can you at least recommend a good one, then?”

“That I can do,” he replied, handing Joan a business card embossed with Klean Right, the One’s to Turn to When You Want It Cleaned Right! “We use them quite often. They’re good and thorough with their work. I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.”

He was right because there wasn’t anything to be disappointed about. After numerous reschedules, they never showed up at all, leaving Joan to do the cleaning herself. On the bright side of things, she’d saved a couple hundred dollars by doing her own housework.

After three days of sweeping, mopping, dusting, scrubbing toilets and sinks, the house was finally presentable. Or at least as presentable as she could make it. The floors and cabinets still needed to be dealt with, but those were things she could do after moving in. She hadn’t brought the kids along to assist with the cleanup. Chandler wouldn’t have given her any grief about the house’s deprived condition, but Pietra would’ve bitched all day about how disgusting the house was. Besides, she wanted to surprise them, hoping that after an extended stay in a hotel room, they’d be happy to finally have a place to call home.

The defining moment of their acceptance or disapproval had finally arrived.

Chapter Two

Conroy plopped down on the welcome mat, refusing to go inside. His jowls quivered as he released low, guttural growls, focusing his attention on the living room.

A Border Collie gifted to Chandler by his father on his tenth birthday, Conroy was a gentle, loving dog and a constant, loyal companion to her son since the day he’d joined the family. He’d been a tremendous comfort to Chandler after his dad’s death, providing him with unconditional love and unequivocal patience during his time of grief, watching over him, protecting him, and licking away countless tears. Chandler had often told her that Conroy was the best friend he’d ever had, and his statement continued to be inarguable. Chandler wasn’t necessarily an introvert, but it’d never been easy for him to make friends because he was so painfully shy and the few friends he had back in Killene had been his friends since kindergarten. He was the type of boy who was comfortable with one or two close friends. Everyone else were mere acquaintances. Only his four-legged fur buddy topped the list of best friends ever. And Chandler was okay with that.

“Come on, Conroy,” Chandler coaxed, tugging at the dog’s collar. “Come inside and see your new house.”

“What’s his deal?” Joan asked.

Chandler shrugged. “I don’t know. Strange place, I reckon. He’ll get used to it once he adjusts. Come on, boy,” Chandler called, patting his thigh. “It’s okay.”

Conroy rose to his feet and slowly lumbered into the house, his tail tucked securely between his legs, refusing to go beyond the living room.

“Stinks in here,” Pietra said, crinkling her nose as she looked around.

“How can you say that?” Joan replied with a scowl. “I spent days in here cleaning. You smell the pine cleaner I used. Come on, let me show you around,” she said, waving them towards the kitchen.

“Where’s the stove and refrigerator?” Pietra asked.

“Everything is supposed to be delivered tomorrow.”

“And we’re sleeping here tonight?” Pietra complained. “Without our beds?”

“We have sleeping bags. We can camp out in the living room. One night of sleeping on the floor won’t kill you.”

Pietra rolled her eyes as she opened the narrow door next to the empty space where the stove would eventually go. “Holy shit,” she exclaimed, clamping onto her nose as she slammed the door. “It smells like something died down there.”

Joan hadn’t bothered to include cleaning the cellar in her list of important things to do before moving in, nor had she inspected it during the walkthrough, a decision she would later come to regret. She figured once they got settled in, she’d make her way downstairs eventually, but she wasn’t in a hurry because she’d never been fond of cellars. She had her grandmother to thank for that after she’d accidentally locked her in one when she was a young girl and her immature and overactive imagination conjured up unspeakable atrocities hiding in the corners and inside the furnace. Granny had apologized profusely, and although she knew she’d hadn’t meant to do it, it still hadn’t relieved her of the fear she’d felt as she’d sat there in the darkness waiting for Granny to open the door and let her out. Nor had she forgotten the disgusting smell of rank mustiness, the combination of moist soil and rotting vegetables.

“It can’t be that bad,” Joan remarked, opening the door, then closing it as quickly as Pietra had. “I stand corrected. A wild animal probably got in through a window or hole and couldn’t find its way out,” she offered, hoping to quell Pietra’s disgust. “The smell won’t last forever. Let me show the two of you your bedrooms.”

Conroy remained in the living room, attentively focused on the brick fireplace, ears perked, cheeks puffing in and out as he decided whether he wanted to bark or not. “Is there a squirrel in there?” Chandler asked, taking him by the collar and leading him towards the stairs. “You can chase him later. Let’s go check out our new bedroom.”

“Here’s yours, Pietra,” Joan said, opening the bedroom door. “You have a clear view of the backyard from here.”

“You mean a view of a forest,” Pietra replied as she glanced out the window. “I guess landscaping wasn’t a priority for the last occupants.”

“Apparently not,” Joan agreed. “They also failed to take their swing set with them when they left.”

“Gee, mom. I thought you put it out there for us to play on,” Pietra said with a sardonic smile. “I’m so disappointed,” she said, stepping away from the window. “What’s this?” she asked, slowly running her fingers along the outlines of the horse features etched into the cherry wood of the wardrobe.

“A built-in armoire,” Joan replied.

“What’s that?”

“A closet, basically. Although I’ve never seen one constructed into a wall like this one. Usually, they’re a stand-alone piece of furniture.”

“This is beautiful,” Pietra said, pulling open the double doors.

“You can use the shelves to store blankets,” Joan said. “Or books. Anything you want to, really. The two bottom drawers will provide you extra space without worrying about stuffing your bureau full.”

“I’ll definitely use it for something. It looks handmade. Do you think it is?”

“Judging by the exquisite and intricate detail involved, I’d say yes.”

Pietra seemed entranced by the carpentry work as she admired the craftsmanship. “It smells like those wooden balls you used to put inside our closets back home to make them smell good.”

“Cedar.”

“This cabinet has the exact same scent, but I don’t see anything in here that would make it smell that way. Must be left over from the last time it was used.”

“Could be.”

“I really like this, mom. It’s beautiful.”

“I thought you might like it, and I’m glad you do. Time to show Chandler his room.”

“You go ahead. I’ll stay in here,” Pietra told her.

“Already planning what you’re going to use it for?”

“Something like that,” Pietra answered.

“What’s up there?” Chandler asked, pointing to the stairs at the end of the hallway. Strange, she didn’t remember leaving the attic door open. In fact, she distinctly recalled the door being closed when she’d finished cleaning the house.

“The attic,” Joan replied as she entered his would-be bedroom.

“Can I go see?”

“Don’t you want to check out your room first?”

“No,” Chandler replied, sprinting to and up the stairs, stopping at the stoop before entering. “I want this room.”

“Chandler, this isn’t a bedroom,” Joan protested. “It’s an attic. I’d planned to convert it into a family room or entertainment center.”

“You can do that with the other bedroom,” Chandler said, stepping into the vast space and glancing around, Joan following closely behind.

“I’ve already cleaned the downstairs room for you, Chandler. It overlooks the front of the house. You can practically see the whole neighborhood from your window. Wouldn’t you be happier in there?”

“No way,” Chandler harped enthusiastically. “Look at all the room I’ll have. And get a load of that window and how it makes a rainbow in here!”

Only a thirteen-year-old boy could get so excited over having an attic bedroom. “What do you think, Conroy?” Chandler asked, turning back to the stairwell, but Conroy wasn’t there. “Silly mutt. He sure is acting goofy. Once I get my bed and everything else in here, he’ll settle down. He’s probably feeling a little misplaced right now.”

“Displaced is the word I think you’re looking for,” Joan said with a smile. “I’m sure he is, just like the rest of us. Chandler, are you sure you want to be up here all alone?”

“This room is really cool, mom,” he exclaimed, moving closer to the stained-glass window, the bright prism of colors painting him in shades of orange, red and green. “It’s not that far away. Only one more floor up.”

It wasn’t the array of hues from the stained glass that caught Joan’s attention.

For the first time, she was getting an up close and personal view of the window markings. She’d been aware of the stained-glass pane when she’d looked at the attic with Gloria but had paid little attention to the detail. Not expecting her son to choose the attic over a downstairs bedroom, she’d foregone cleaning it as well. There were two vents in the ceiling, one on each side of the room, which meant the attic would be supplied with air and heat, so it wouldn’t be stuffy or cold as she’d initially expected.

“Are you sure I can’t talk you into taking the room downstairs?”

“I’m sure, mom,” he said with confidence. “This is the one I want.”

Joan sighed and shook her head, glancing up at the window, not confident she was comfortable with his decision.

On the day she’d toured the house with Gloria, she’d mistakenly thought the window comprised a red rose inlay adorned with intertwining green leaves. Now that she’d gotten a closer look, she realized exactly how wrong she’d been.

Whoever had made the choice for the mosaic pattern on the glass either had an extremely dark sense of humor or an overall disgusting taste in decorating. Whichever it was, she found the beast depicted in the display to be quite disturbing and the window would have to be replaced as soon as possible. She refused to have such a grotesque scene exhibited in the window where her son would be sleeping.

Suddenly, she felt uncomfortable standing in the attic, as if unseen eyes were watching her, aware of her thoughts about replacing the stained glass.

“Let’s get back downstairs, son,” she said, disinclined to spend another second inside a room that had a red demon with large green horns crafted in frosted glass staring down at her with his crimson, accusatory eyes.

Chapter Three

Conroy’s unremitting whimpering and whining awakened Joan from an already restive sleep. Her insomnia wasn’t caused by discomfort from lying on a bare wooden floor while tucked inside a thin-layered sleeping bag that failed to provide much support or padding, but because she’d been riddled with bad dreams each time she dozed off, haunted by one nightmare after another, all involving either her dead husband or the disloyal friends who’d had no problem tossing her skinned hide to the ravenous wolves after losing the two things that ranked highest on their priority lists. Status and money.

It’d been quite some time since she’d dreamed of her husband, or even thought about him. Putting the bad behind her hadn’t been an easy task, especially while continuing to live in the house they’d shared in Killene, unaware how deep the shit was that Burt left her and the kids to drown in until the collection calls started, foreclosure notices from the bank came in the mail, automobiles got repossessed, the discovery of an empty bank account and learning that every insurance policy they’d had was canceled. It wasn’t until then she’d realized the man she’d been married to for twenty-one years had been living a double life right under her nose and without her knowledge. Six months after his death, she was still left with unanswered questions, the biggest one being why. Why had he made the choices he’d made? Opting not to pay the mortgage or the car payments, knowing that failing to meet his financial obligations would eventually cause the loss of it all? Where had all their money gone? And what if he hadn’t died? What excuse would he have produced to explain to her why they were losing their home, their vehicles, the motor home? So many lingering questions remained all these months later, and if they remained unanswered this long after his death, chances were they always would.

She could punish and beat herself up from now until eternity trying to figure out where it all went wrong, what had happened to Burt to cause such drastic changes in him, how he’d gotten himself involved in shady activities with even shadier people. But the truth was, she had no idea when or how it had happened because the changes weren’t physical, therefore, not visible. He’d gotten up and gone to work every day as usual, come home to dinner every night, devoted as much of his free time as he could to the kids. As long as everything seemed normal, she had no reason to believe otherwise. Until she did. Unfortunately, by then, it was too late to do anything to help him. Occasionally, she regretted the choices she’d made for his funeral arrangements, scolding herself for being so uncaring and economical with the costs. But the regrets were always short-lived, followed by an epiphany as she recalled why she’d made the choices she had in the first place, and once she did that, any feeling of melancholy or remorse quickly subsided.

The truth of the matter was that had she not had her own life insurance policy on him, and a small nest egg she’d built up over the past few years, she could’ve never left Killene because undoubtedly, they would’ve ended up on the streets, homeless and penniless. Not even her decent salary was enough to meet all the monthly obligations that would’ve been required in order to keep the house, even if it hadn’t gone into foreclosure. Plagued with threatening phone calls from debtors attempting to collect the thousands of dollars that Burt owed, she’d refused to pay a dime, telling them all as much, and for clarity, adding that there wasn’t a damn thing they could do about it other than harass her because her name wasn’t on the mortgage, the car loans, or anything or anyone else he was indebted to. When the calls failed to cease, she disconnected the house phone and changed the number to her cell. As far as she was concerned, every one of them could wish in one hand and shit in the other and see which one filled up the fastest. The only people she was obligated to take care of were her children. It’d taken time and willpower to leave, but eventually she left Killene in her dust. Not without consequences, however.

Pietra had stayed pissed at her for one reason or another since her dad died. Perhaps she blamed Joan for his death, or even for their current predicament. If she did, she hadn’t come right out and said so, but judging by her attitude and behavior, it was clear she felt that way. In the mind of a sixteen-year-old, it wasn’t unusual to blame the surviving parent for the death of the other. It was a coping mechanism, a way to deal with loss, even if the underlying factor wasn’t true. The day would come when she’d have no other choice than to tell Pietra the truth about the circumstances of Burt’s death, but that time had not yet arrived. When she finally did tell her, she may be forced to deal with a whole new level of resentment for keeping the truth from her. With any luck, Pietra would eventually have a change of heart and realize that her mother wasn’t responsible for her father’s death, get her butt off her shoulders, and rekindle the close relationship they’d once had prior to the category five shitstorm that’d put them where they were now.

Joan groped in the dark for her phone, certain she’d put it on the floor beside her so she’d hear the alarm when it went off. The last thing she wanted was to be late for her scheduled job interview, especially considering how long it’d taken her to get one.

Apparently, she’d left it on the kitchen counter because it wasn’t anywhere near, or under, her sleeping bag.

Conroy wasn’t sleeping beside Chandler, either.

Quietly tiptoeing around the kids, she made her way towards the kitchen, stopping short when Conroy began barking.

“What is it, boy?” Joan whispered, going to the dog, and gently stroking his head. “Did you hear something up there?” Straining to listen, Joan stood silently and unmoving for several seconds but didn’t hear anything strange.

The dog, however, sat erect and still at the foot of the stairs, staring up into the darkness while producing the same throaty growl he’d displayed at the front door when he’d refused to come inside until Chandler forced him to.

“Shh,” Joan said softly. “Don’t wake them up.”

The silence inside the house was deafening and unsettling, especially given the way the dog had been acting ever since he’d set sight on his new home. It was also quite an eerie feeling to think that maybe he was seeing and hearing something she couldn’t.

“There’s nothing there, Conroy,” she said, attempting to ease the dog’s nervous tension, as well as her own. “How about a doggie snack to calm those nerves of yours?”

Hesitantly, he followed her into the kitchen and sat on the floor as he waited for his human mom to fulfill her promise, staring at her as he licked his chops in anticipation.

“Here you go, boy,” she said. “Lucky for you that your snacks don’t need to be refrigerated,” she added, placing the box back on the shelf. “Or else you’d be shit out of luck.”

The box refused to slide back into its spot inside the cabinet. Instead of sitting flush against the shelf, the box tilted forward, as if something were blocking it. Removing the box, she ran her bare hand along the inside of the second shelf. “How the hell did this get in there?” she muttered, retrieving her phone. One of the kids must’ve played a prank on her because she hadn’t put it there. She hadn’t even opened the cabinet doors since putting Conroy’s snacks away, nor had she or either of the kids given Conroy any treats since then. It had to be either Pietra or Chandler because there was no other logical explanation. No way did her phone make it from her sleeping bag all the way into the kitchen and hide itself in the cabinet.

To ensure turning off the alarm hadn’t been part of their practical joke, she turned the phone on to make sure. The only thing that’d been altered was her background photo. The white tiger that was normally displayed on the screen had been replaced with the photo taken that afternoon of her and the kids standing in front of their new house. At least Chandler hadn’t messed with the alarm. If he had and it caused her to miss her interview, she would’ve been extremely upset.

A loud thump! erupted from beneath the kitchen floor, startling Joan and bringing Conroy to his feet, his bone forgotten as he stared at the cellar door, ears alert, the fur on his back standing at attention.

“Shit!” Joan hissed. “What the hell was that?”

Her ear pressed tightly against the wood, she hoped to God that a masked intruder didn’t suddenly burst through the door and knock her unconscious.

“The house is old, that’s all. It’s just air in the water pipes,” she said more to herself than to Conroy because she was the one who needed convincing, not him. “Let’s go back to bed,” she said, checking the lock on the cellar door before turning out the light. “I’ve got an early morning ahead of me.”

ONE

If you read my memoir, Ghost Girl, then you’re already familiar with who I am and the abilities I possess.

For those of you who don’t know about me or my history, allow me to introduce myself and tell you how I obtained my ability to see and communicate with the dead.

My name is Diedre Olsen Blanchard.

At the tender age of fourteen, I suffered a traumatic head injury while playing softball that resulted in me having to be taken to the emergency room and then hospitalized after I underwent a seizure.

As a result of the head trauma, I now have the distinct ability to see and communicate with spiritual beings who are not of this world.

Oftentimes, they reveal visions to me through a series of events that led up to their deaths. Usually when this occurs, the spirits were victims of a violent death – particularly murder, and they want my assistance in revealing the truth and bringing their killers to justice.

Spirits also come to me for help in getting messages to their loved ones, and I always do my best to oblige them so that their lingering spirits can finally be put to rest instead of remaining in limbo forever.

It’s okay if you don’t believe me. You are not alone. I have dealt with all levels of skepticism from the onset of my abilities. I have been laughed at, made fun of, and called unimaginable names over the years. But not believing doesn’t change the fact that ghosts exist, regardless of whether a person can see them or feel their presence whenever they’re near. A majority of the population believes that “seeing is believing,” because it’s easier to accept that philosophy than it is to admit that there’s a possibility that worldly phenomena exists that is beyond their realm of understanding, or their scope of acceptance. However, throughout our great and massive universe, there are multiple occurrences or happenings that simply cannot be explained, no matter how hard one might try. I, too, was a non-believer prior to my accident. Now, I can tell you with insurmountable assurance that believing is seeing.

Spirits do exist. I know that personally and have assisted hundreds of them over the years in multiple ways. I’ve aided the local police department by offering them information that they wouldn’t have been able to obtain under usual circumstances. Information and facts that only the departed, or the guilty, would know about.

After the retirement of Chief Jerome Simms, my services were needed less and less, tapering off to not being needed, or wanted, at all. It was disheartening to no longer be of service because of the good I knew I could offer. I surmised it was for the best because I knew I’d never have the same type of relationship with any other law enforcement officer that I had with Chief Simms. Not that ours didn’t start off on the wrong foot or on the ledge of a rocky cliff. It wasn’t easy convincing him I possessed unique capabilities, or that I knew the death of Stacy Amberville was a murder, as were the deaths of hundreds of innocent patrons who vanished in the Club Xanadu fire, one of them being his baby sister. But when I delivered a message to him from his Nonny, everything changed. In time, he learned to trust me, believe in me, offer me his support, and witnessed me in the throes of a horrifying vision that led to the arrest of one of his police officers for arson and multiple counts of first-degree murder.

Now that you know my history, I’d like you to know me.

I’m DeeDee to my friends and Dr. DeeDee to my patients. I am a Child Psychologist in Pahokee, Florida. My practice is located next door to First Baptist Church. At one time, the building was an insurance office, but was renovated to fit my needs for medical space by replacing rotting floors and malfunctioning plumbing and closing in a large reception area to transform it into my primary office where I see patients. Everglades Insurance was one of the many places I worked after school as a teenager to save up enough money to get into a community college. Purchasing the space was both satisfying and bittersweet as I recalled memories of my old boss and what a kind soul he’d been by giving a poor project-raised girl a chance to prove that she could do the job she’d been hired to do.

No major changes have been made to Pahokee over the past several years, other than the complete makeover to the marina. Many lifelong residents have moved away, leaving their small rural town behind, and opting for a bigger city with more opportunities for jobs and growth. Personally, I’ve never been an admirer of bright lights, big city life, preferring to live and work in a small town. They’re more close-knit and friendlier because the residents know each other and genuinely care about one another. That is not common in metropolises. Not from my experiences, anyway. That’s why I returned home after graduating from college. And stayed. Home sweet home.

Although Donna and her husband left the Glades for mountain life in North Carolina, we remain good friends and either speak on the phone or video chat often. Every time we talk, she invites us to come for a visit. But so far, David and I haven’t gotten the opportunity yet to make the trip, but plan to one day.

Lake Okeechobee remains the fishing capital of the world. Professional and novice anglers continue to flock around the lake every year for fishing tournaments, all with their eyes on the grand prize. Local fishermen and fisherwomen set their lawn chairs up on the pier and spend hours at a time hauling in blue gill or speckled perch. If they’re lucky enough not to lose their catches to scavenging alligators that hang around the pier, their daily haul will make for one heck of a fish fry.

My reputation around Pahokee and the entire Glades area is well known now, and I no longer try to hide my abilities or keep them a secret. I am still contacted regularly by people who are willing to drive hundreds of miles for a private reading, but I continue to refuse their offers. I took a vow never to use my talents for monetary gain, and I firmly maintain my stance on that.

Even though my reputation precedes me, and although my name has been in multiple newspapers around the state, usually associated with the solving of a crime, there will always be skeptics, those who scoff at the mere possibility that ghosts are real, laughing at those who believe. Minds such as those can never be changed–unless they experience it for themselves. And without an open mind and a willingness to accept the unexplainable, the likelihood of that happening is extremely slim.

My time and attention are devoted to my patients. Children who are hurting emotionally or are experiencing issues with behavior, especially sudden onsets that seem to come out of nowhere, for no apparent reason, are my first concern. And when they become my patients, they always receive my undivided care.

I specialize in the treatment of children with psychological and behavioral disorders, and I have treated multitudes of children and young adults with illnesses in these areas. Some have involved spirits, and some haven’t, yet they’re all unique in their own ways.

While I like to think that I’m usually prepared for anything that might come my way, considering what I’ve been through myself and the spirits and visions that I’ve encountered, occasionally I’m caught off-guard and taken completely by surprise with a case.

Such is the instance with Ethan Portman.

TWO

My first meeting with seven-year-old Ethan Portman occurred on a brisk October morning, three weeks prior to Halloween.

He was brought to me by his mother, who’d expressed her concerns about his sudden change in behavior. In her words, “it was as though he changed overnight,” transforming from a happy, outgoing little boy into one who became quiet and withdrawn, forgoing playtime with his toys, instead preferring to sit alone in his room on the floor staring off into space, focused on nothing in particular. Even more concerning to her was that Ethan had invented an imaginary friend and often overheard him conversing with him, and sometimes, yelling and accusing him of actions that could have only been committed by her son because he was alone at the time of the incidents. She was worried about his declining conduct and desperate for answers.

Based on the information that was received from Ms. Portman when she made the appointment, I would be treating Ethan for audio and visual hallucinations.

Prior to meeting one on one with my young charges, I prefer having a private conversation with the parent, parents, or legal guardians in order to hear their side of what they believe is going on with their child and the symptoms they’re displaying that led them to believe that there is a problem that requires treatment. By conducting a meeting in this fashion, it gives me a chance to analyze the custodians and see what type of people they are. Whether they’re loving and kind, tense or impatient, or even possibly abusive. I also don’t want to give the child a chance to parrot what they hear their parents say, which would only result in them repeating what they’ve heard or saying what they’ve been conditioned to say instead of what they’re feeling personally.

Instead of having an assistant bring the parent or patient to me, I prefer meeting them in the waiting area to observe how they co-mingle together, then begin my analysis.

“Hi, Ethan,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m Dr. DeeDee. How are you?”

“Fine,” he said, placing his small hand in mine and giving it a firm shake. “Am I allowed to play with those toys over there?” he asked, pointing to a clown-painted box in the corner.

“Of course, you are,” I answered with a smile. “Why don’t you go do that while I speak with your mom for a few minutes?”

“Okay,” he said enthusiastically, jumping from his chair and running to the toy box.

“Don’t worry, Ms. Portman. He’ll be closely watched out here. Come with me, please.”

In my office, I motioned for her to have a seat on the black leather sofa as I sat down in the matching armchair directly in front of her. Her expression was pained, a woman deeply concerned about her child’s unusual behavior, one that she found serious enough to seek professional help for in order to resolve the issue.

“Thank you,” she replied.

“Let’s start with you telling me what’s going on with Ethan that you feel he needs my help with.”

“Dr. Blanchard,” she began, then started to cry. Reaching for the box of tissues on my desk, I offered her one and waited for her to dry her eyes before continuing. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Has he displayed changes in his behavior?”

“Yes.”

“In his attitude?”

“Yes.”

“When did you begin to notice these changes, Ms. Portman?”

Focused on the tissue she was holding, she replied, “About three months ago. At first, I thought it was a phase he was going through, like any other kid would. But as time passed, he seemed to be getting worse, isolating himself, losing interest in his toys, not wanting to go to school.”

“Prior to this, had he ever displayed any type of similar behavior?”

“No.”

“Has Ethan suffered any type of losses prior to the onset of his change in behavior? Losing a friend, a grandparent, perhaps?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Any problems at school?”

“You mean with his grades?”

“Those could certainly be affected by inner turmoil, but I’m more interested in whether he’s being bullied at school. Are any of the other kids picking on him, teasing him, calling him names, anything that would make him not want to go to school?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” she replied, glancing up at me. “Surely, he would have told me if something like that was going on. Or the school would have notified me of a problem like that. Wouldn’t they?”

“I should certainly think so, if they’re aware of it.” Which is not always the case, I thought, recalling that the principal at my high school had no idea about how badly Blake Chutney had bullied me every day until I told him. “Have you questioned Ethan about this?”

“I mentioned it to him, but he said nothing like that was happening, that the other kids liked him, and they all got along.”

“That’s a good thing,” I said, concluding that whatever was causing his abrupt change in behavior had absolutely nothing to do with school life. “Give me some examples of the behavior you’ve witnessed.”

“Before all of this started happening, Ethan was a cheerful boy. Outgoing, always laughing and playing,” she said, exhaling. “Then practically overnight, he began to change.”

“How?”

“Ethan has a ton of race cars and tracks that he loves, or I should say loved, playing with. He’d spend hours at a time in his room making racing and crashing noises as the cars made laps around the tracks. And just like that,” she said, snapping her fingers, “he stopped playing with them. When I asked him why, he said that Nathan broke the wheels off of all his cars and tore up the tracks. I found pieces of yellow plastic all over his room, but I don’t know what happened to the wheels. They weren’t in his room or his toy box. I checked.”

“Nathan?” I asked.

“His imaginary friend. He talks to him all the time, unaware that I’ve heard him. I haven’t bothered saying anything to him about it because I know that a lot of kids his age invent make believe friends, so I didn’t feel it was of any concern.”

Now we might be getting somewhere, because sometimes, those “imaginary” friends are quite real, yet unseen to the eyes that cannot see.

“Does Ethan know any other children his age by that name?”

“I don’t believe so. I’ve certainly never heard him mention the name before.”

“Is Ethan an only child?”

“Yes. Is that important?”

“Not necessarily,” I answered. “You’re right. It’s not unusual for an only child to create a playmate, especially if they’re lonely enough. Earlier, you mentioned isolation. Does Ethan shut himself off from you and his father?”

“He spends a lot of time in his room doing nothing but sitting on his bed or the floor. That’s usually where he is when I hear him having conversations with his friend.”

“Any loss of appetite?” Definitely an important question, because if what I had a feeling was going on truly was, it can certainly affect a child’s eating habits and can have a negative impact on their overall health.

“He eats, but he picks at his food now. Even when I cook something I know he likes, he acts as if he has no interest in it. He stares thoughtlessly at the plate while taking bites. It’s as though he’s daydreaming or lost in deep thought.”

“As long as he’s eating, I won’t be too concerned at this point. If he quits altogether, that’s a different story. We’ll monitor his progress on that.”

“Ethan always looks so sad, Dr. Blanchard,” Ms. Portman said, shaking her head. “Neither me nor my husband can get him to smile anymore. Nothing we do for him seems to make him happy. We’re both at our wits’ end. All we want to know is what is wrong with our son.”

“I promise you, Ms. Portman, I’ll do my very best to find out.”

“Thank you.”

“Now I’d like to speak with Ethan, unless there’s more you need to tell me,” I said, getting up from my chair and leading her to the door.

“Nothing I can think of.”

“I’ll consult with you when we’re finished.”

“Thanks again, Dr. Blanchard.”

“Ethan?” I called. “It’s your turn.”

“Can I bring this with me?” he asked, holding up a red fire truck. “Sure,” I answered, remembering that his mother had told me he’d lost all interest in toys, but had discovered one he found satisfying and was, at least, expressing some of the former little boy that his mother felt was lost.

“Have a seat right there,” I said, pointing to where his mother had sat.

Ethan Portman was a beautiful child, with white-blonde hair and the roundest, bluest eyes I’d ever seen, and eyelashes so blonde, they were barely visible until the sunlight hit them. If children were cherubs, then Ethan was the epitome of that description.

Within seconds of sitting down, Ethan nudged with his elbow as if pushing someone away, then scooted over closer to the end of the sofa.

When I’d first seen him in the waiting area with his mother, they’d been alone.

Ethan now had a visitor. The imaginary friend his mother had referred to. Only he wasn’t make-believe or pretend, and I immediately knew why he had attached himself to Ethan. What I didn’t know at the time was why–or how. It was important at this point to ignore him and focus on Ethan to find out exactly how bothersome his attachment was, and what kinds of discussions went on between the two of them.

“Do you know why you’re here, Ethan?”

He shrugged. “Because mommy wants me to be.”

“Yes, but do you know why mommy wanted you to come and see me?”

“Not really,” he answered, running the fire truck back and forth across the black leather.

“We’ll talk about that in a few moments, but first I’d like to get to know you a little better. Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”

“No.”

“How old are you?”

“Seven.”

“What grade are you in?”

“Second.”

“Do you like school, Ethan?”

“It’s okay,” he said with a shrug. “I like art.”

“You enjoy drawing?”

“Painting.”

“I’ll bet that’s a lot of fun.”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a lot of friends in school?”

“Yes, but I don’t like girls,” he said, rolling his eyes. “They act too silly.”

“You’re a very handsome young man,” I said with a smile. “Perhaps the girls your age can see that as well.”

“Yuck,” he said, sticking out his tongue.

Trying not to laugh, I asked, “Do you ever get into trouble at school?”

“No.”

“How do you feel about your teacher?”

“I like her. She’s nice. And pretty, too.”

“Do you ever get into any arguments or fights at school? Does anyone ever pick on you?”

“No,” he answered, glancing up at me. “Just that one dumb girl that’s always following me around and telling me I’m cute.”

He confirmed he wasn’t having any problems at school, which his mother would be pleased to learn.

“Ethan, your mother tells me you don’t want to go to school anymore. If you like your school, your teacher, and your friends, and no one’s bothering you there, can you tell me why you don’t want to go?

“He said I don’t have to.”

“He?” I asked, although I already knew who he was talking about. “Who are you referring to?”

“Him!” Ethan exclaimed. “Nathan!”

“Is that a friend of yours?” I asked, still refusing to acknowledge his presence.

“Nope. He says he is, but he’s not because he’s mean.”

“Why doesn’t he want you to go to school?”

“He told me he didn’t have to go, and I shouldn’t have to, either. Besides,” he started, then stopped, glancing sideways to his left.

“Go on, Ethan,” I prodded.

“He said if I kept going, he’d ruin all of my toys. Not just my cars.”

“Do you believe he would do that?”

“Yes. I told you that he’s mean.”

“Ethan, let’s talk about Nathan.”

He stopped rolling the truck around, sitting rigid and refusing to look at me. “Why do we have to talk about him?” he groaned.

“Your mom is concerned about some conversations she’s overheard you having with him.”

“Oh,” he said, hanging his head.

“Ethan, can you look at me, please?”

Slowly, he raised his head, those piercing blue eyes meeting mine.

Scooting to the edge of my chair and leaning forward, I said, “You and I both know that he isn’t imaginary, don’t we, Ethan?”

He stared at me, his eyes unblinking, his mouth quivering as though he wanted to speak, but couldn’t bring forth the words.

“I see him, too,” I said softly.

His eyes grew wide with wonderment. A child seeing the Christmas display in a department store window for the first time. “You do?” he shrieked.

“Um hum,” I nodded, eliciting an inquisitive glance from Ethan’s companion. “I see him as clearly as I can see you.”

“Whoa!” he exclaimed, tossing the fire truck to the side. “Can you hear him, too?”

“I haven’t heard him say anything yet, but that doesn’t mean he won’t,” I answered. “In the meantime, why don’t you tell me what you and Nathan talk about.”

“If I do, are you going to tell my mom?”

“She already knows you talk to him.”

“But she doesn’t know what he wants me to do.”

My heart quickened. I had a feeling that whatever Ethan was about to say wasn’t going to be good.

“Can you tell me?”

Ethan shook his head. “He doesn’t want me to.”

“Do you always do what Nathan tells you to do?”

“Not all the time. Sometimes he tells me to do things that I know are bad.”

“Like what?”

Ethan shrugged. “Stuff.”

It was important not to press him, especially since his guest was growing more irritated. If Ethan remained under my care, he’d eventually tell me everything.

“Ethan,” I said, casting a furtive glance at Nathan. “In order for me to be able to help you with Nathan, it’s important for you to tell me what it is he wants you to do. You do understand that don’t you?”

“I guess so,” he said, receiving a punch on his arm for agreeing with me. To my surprise, it was a blow that caused him to recoil and massage the spot where the strike had landed.

Strange, I thought. I’d seen plenty of my spirit message recipients react to light touches from a kiss or a gentle caress, but never from being struck. Since spirits are composed of disembodied nonphysical matter, it would be highly unusual for one to have the power or capability to inflict bodily harm upon the living. Yet Nathan had. I sensed that this case was going to differ greatly from any I’d ever been engaged in and would involve mystical events I’d never seen before.

“Does Nathan hit you a lot?” I asked, letting Ethan and Nathan both know that I had seen Nathan striking his host. Again, Nathan scowled at me. Unfazed by his threatening posture, I kept my attention focused on Ethan.

“Yes, especially when I won’t do what he tells me to do. But it doesn’t hurt much.”

Of all the spirits I’ve encountered over the years, I’ve only felt the touch of two. Stacy Amberville and Amy, the little girl I encountered during my hospital stay following my accident. Both touches were so light that I barely felt them. “Go on, Ethan,” I coaxed. “It’s alright for you to tell me what it is Nathan says to you.”

“He keeps saying he wants me to be with him so we can play together all the time.”

Ethan’s admission alarmed me. The only way that he could join Nathan was through death. What I needed to find out was whether Nathan was encouraging Ethan to end his own life.

“Has he told you to do something that you know would cause you to get hurt if you did do it?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me exactly what he told you to do.”

“One time he told me to eat rat poison. He said it wouldn’t hurt and that it would be over quick.”

That was a lie. Death by poisoning is excruciatingly painful and does not happen instantly. “What else, Ethan?”

“He tried to get me to jump in front of a car. Every time I eat, he tells me that the food on my plate is poisoned because mommy doesn’t love me and wants to get rid of me.”

“You know that’s not true, don’t you? Your mommy loves you very much, Ethan. That’s why you’re here to see me. She’s quite worried about you.”

“Nathan said he’s my brother, but he’s a big fat liar, even if he does look just like me, because I don’t have any brothers or sisters,” he stated. “Even if he were, why would he want to hurt me? Brothers and sisters are supposed to love each other.” Cupping his hands around his mouth, he whispered, “But I don’t love him, Dr. DeeDee. He’s too mean.”

“I’m not sure I know why he wants to hurt you, but I’m certainly going to try to find out,” I assured him. “Is there anything else you need to tell me, Ethan? Something that maybe you feel I should know about?”

He pursed his lips in thought. “Not that I can think of. What do I do if he keeps telling me to do bad things?”

“Like tearing up your favorite toys?”

Ethan nodded. “He knew I loved playing with my race cars, but he told me if I didn’t tear the wheels off and break up the tracks, he’d smother me while I was sleeping.”

“I’m sure that frightened you.”

“Yes. He meant it, too.”

“He can’t hurt you, Ethan,” I stated flatly, not so sure I was right about that, especially after witnessing Ethan react to a punch that he shouldn’t have felt. “No matter what he tells you or tries to make you believe, he’s incapable of harming you. I think the best thing you can do at this point is to do your best to ignore him. I know it won’t be easy, but you have to try really hard.” He may not be able to hurt you himself, but he’s certainly capable of manipulating you into doing it.

“You mean you want me to pretend like he’s not there?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I want you to do.”

“Will he go away if I do?”

“I don’t know, Ethan.” And I didn’t. Chances were that the answer was no. “But it’s worth a try.”

“He’s not going to like that,” Ethan said, shaking his head.

That much I already knew. His angered expression confirmed it. In an attempt to soften his anger, I said, “You know, Nathan, by helping Ethan, I’d also be helping you. If there’s something you need me to know about you, or something you want me to see, all you have to do is ask.” What I didn’t say was that I’d be helping him to move on to where he was supposed to be in order to allow Ethan to live a healthy life and return to being the happy little boy he once was before Nathan came into the picture and changed him. It seemed to me, although not yet confirmed, that perhaps Nathan had lived a not-so-happy life in the brief time he was alive, and he wanted to ensure that Ethan was as miserable as he’d once been, possibly out of jealousy because Ethan had everything that he hadn’t, and I couldn’t allow that to happen.

First, in order to help Ethan, I needed to know exactly what had happened to Nathan that had resulted in his death. In learning that, it might help me find an answer to my second question.

How did Nathan know about Ethan if neither of them had known that the other existed?

“Alright, Ethan, grab your fire truck and let’s get you back out to the play area. I need to speak with your mom for a few minutes more.”

“Are you going to help me with Nathan?” he asked, looking up at me as I led him to the door.

“I’m sure going to try,” I said with a nod. Placing my hand gently on his shoulder, I said, “Don’t worry, Ethan. Between me and your mommy, we’ll help you get through this. I know exactly what you’re going through. Sometimes it helps just knowing that someone believes you and listens when you speak. Remember what I told you, okay? Try to ignore him.”

“Okay.”

“Ms. Portman? I need to speak with you, please.”

“Is Ethan going to be okay?” she asked as she sat down.

“In time he will be.”

“Thank God,” she said, blowing out a breath. “Do you know what’s going on with him?”

“I do,” I replied. “But before I get to that, I need to ask you some questions.”

“Alright.”

“Ms. Portman, does Ethan know he’s adopted?”

She gasped, shocked at my question. “How…”

On the verge of asking me how I knew, I thought it best to save her some time and embarrassment. “Ms. Portman, prior to bringing Ethan into my office, did you do any type of research on me? Ask anyone about me, perhaps? Are you aware of my background?”

“Research, no, but I asked around. You came highly recommended.”

“I appreciate that,” I said. “During any of those recommendations, did anyone offer you any detailed information on who I am, perhaps the abilities that I possess?”

“Are you referring to being able to see ghosts?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve heard that, but it doesn’t affect me, Dr. Blanchard. I don’t believe in them.”

Perhaps you will when I’m finished telling you what I have to say, I thought. “No offense taken. Plenty of people don’t believe. I merely wanted to find out if knowing that is going to alter your acceptance of my diagnosis for Ethan.”

“Not at all.”

“That’s good to hear. Again, does he know?”

“No,” she said with a shake of her head. “We’ve never told him.”

“Are you aware of the fact that Ethan is an identical twin?”

“What?!” she shrieked, her mouth flying open, eyes wide. “That’s impossible!” she stated with a firm shake of her head.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Portman. Not only is it possible, but it’s also a fact.”

“How could you possibly know that? Ethan certainly couldn’t have told you.”

There was no simple way of saying what needed to be said in a gentle manner, regardless of whether she believed. Straightforwardness was the only avenue to take. “Nathan isn’t his imaginary friend, Ms. Portman. Nathan is the ghost of his twin, and he has attached himself to Ethan.”

Ms. Portman threw her head back and laughed. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“I can assure you, Ms. Portman, this is no laughing matter. Usually when spirits hang around loved ones, they mean them no harm. The living don’t even know that they’re there. That is not the case with Ethan and Nathan.”

“Meaning what, exactly?” she asked in a calmer tone.

“The reasons for such dramatic changes in Ethan are because of the untruthful things that Nathan is saying to him, as well as what he is attempting to talk Ethan into doing. Ethan is both nervous and scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“For instance, the reason Ethan has become such a picky eater is because Nathan told him you’re poisoning his food because you don’t love him.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“You and I both know that, but to a seven-year-old, those words can be devastating and have a detrimental effect on their mental health. What I find even more disturbing is that Nathan has told Ethan several times that he wants him to be with him.”

“But if he’s dead, then…”

“Ms. Portman, Nathan is trying to talk Ethan into committing suicide.”

She clutched at her throat and began to cry. “My God,” she breathed. “He’s not considering it, is he?”

“I don’t believe so, but he is frightened. I can certainly understand why.”

“This makes no sense,” Ms. Portman said, wiping tears from her cheeks. “There’s no such thing as ghosts. How is this even possible?”

“Just because you don’t believe doesn’t make them any less real. I can tell you firsthand, and with certainty, that they do exist, and one is haunting your son with the intent of causing his death.”

Ms. Portman sat erect on the sofa, staring unblinking into space as she considered what I’d told her. After several seconds passed, she finally spoke. “Why? If they’re brothers, why would he want Ethan dead?”

“So that they can be united forever in the afterlife,” I replied. “Together, you and I will ensure that doesn’t happen.”

“What can I possibly do? I haven’t the faintest idea about how to deal with a situation like this.”

“In order to help Ethan, I must first learn everything I can about Nathan. That’s where you come in.”

“How can I help with that?” she asked, throwing up her hands. “I didn’t even know Ethan had a twin.”

“You can start by telling me who oversaw the adoption. I’ll take it from there.”

Ms. Portman shook her head. “No. I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.”

“Having that information is the only way I can sort this out.”

She was adamant about refusing to tell me.

“Ms. Portman, I’m not here to judge you, that’s not my place. Ethan is my only concern.”

“You don’t understand,” she said, crying again. “We were desperate, Dr. Blanchard. My husband and I tried for years to have a baby of our own, but I miscarried every time I got pregnant. Then I went through costly fertility treatments and that didn’t work, so we agreed on adoption because we both wanted a child so badly. Our first attempt fell through when the mother changed her mind at the last minute. Even after we’d paid all her medical bills and set up the nursery for the baby. My husband and I were both devastated.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Ms. Portman. I’m sure that was a troublesome time for the both of you.”

“It was, and I swore I’d never allow myself to go through such pain and heartache again. Until the opportunity arose to get Ethan and I changed my mind.”

“How did the opportunity arise?”

She was silent.

“Is Ethan a legal adoption?”

She shook her head.

“Was an attorney involved?”

“Yes, but not the kind you might expect.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“He was the liaison for the birth mother and us,” she said, keeping her head low, not wanting to look me in the eye. “He arranged for us to buy Ethan.”

Dear God, I thought. Ethan is a black-market baby. No wonder she wasn’t aware that Ethan was a twin. Instead of keeping the infants together, they’d been separated into two adoptions because by doing it that way, it brought the attorney and whoever else was involved a lot more money than they would have made for the single adoption of a set of twins.

“Ms. Portman, I need the name of that attorney,” I stated firmly.

“Dr. Blanchard, my husband and I signed a non-disclosure agreement swearing that we’d never give out that information. If I do, and he finds out it was me that told you about him, he’ll sue my husband and I for breach of contract. And that could result in us losing our son.”

“Ethan’s life may very well depend on it, Ms. Portman,” I told her. “The two choices you have are either to provide me with the information I’m requesting or continue to let Nathan be a risk to Ethan. I can’t force you to choose one way or the other. It’s up to you to make the final choice.”

Ms. Portman closed her eyes and slowly shook her head back and forth. “If I tell you what you want to know, Ethan won’t be taken away from us, will he?”

“Not if I have anything to say about it. I don’t plan to tell the attorney where I got the information, and there’s no way for him to find out who told me. What you share with me will remain between the two of us. You have my word.”

“I have the information at home in a file,” she sighed heavily, finally relenting. “I’ll call you when I get home and give it to you.”

“Thank you, Ms. Portman. You made the right choice.”

“In the meantime, what can I do for Ethan?”

“The same things you’ve been doing for him for the last seven years,” I told her. “Show him love, attention and support. Try to keep him occupied with playtime or storytelling, anything that will keep his mind off Nathan. Let him watch you cook. Show him you’re not poisoning his food. Allow him to help you with the food preparations so that he can see for himself that you’re not trying to harm him. If he wants to talk, listen to what he has to say. And if you need me for anything, I’m only a phone call away, day or night.”

“Thank you, Dr. Blanchard,” she said, rising from the couch. “I’ll certainly try my best to make and keep him happy.”

“I know you will.”

“How long do you think it’ll take you to find the information you need about Nathan?”

“Hard to say,” I answered honestly. “It depends on how cooperative the attorney is willing to be. Hopefully, not too long. I’ll keep you notified of my progress,” I said, opening my office door.

Ethan was sitting on the floor next to the toy box still playing with the red fire truck. Nathan was no longer present. Yet I knew Ethan hadn’t seen the last of him, leaving me to wonder if he’d step up his attempts at trying to get Ethan to join him on the other side. He knew that I could see him and what he was trying to do to Ethan. And if spirits grasped the realization that a living being was onto them and their devious intentions, then Nathan knew his time to destroy Ethan was limited, and if he understood that, it could only mean that he’d try harder out of desperation. I knew I had to work hard and fast to find the answers I needed that would help me save Ethan’s life.

“All done,” I said, entering the waiting area with his mother.

“Hey, sport,” Ms. Portman called to Ethan. “You ready to go home?”

“Yes,” he said, standing up. “Dr. DeeDee, can I have this truck?” he asked, holding up the toy he’d been playing with since he’d arrived.

“If I let you take it, what will the other little boys play with when they come in?”

“All the other toys,” he said, pointing to the box.

“How can I argue with that?” I asked with a smile.

“I can take it?” he asked, his blue eyes sparkling.

“You can take it, Ethan,” I said.

“Thanks,” he grinned.

Bending down to meet him face to face, I whispered, “Don’t let Nathan talk you into ripping the wheels off.”

“I won’t.”

At the door to leave, Ms. Portman turned around to face me. “I can’t thank you enough, Dr. Blanchard. I appreciate everything you’re doing to help my son.”

“My pleasure,” I said. “And don’t forget to call me with that information.”

“I won’t.”

THREE

As promised, Ms. Portman called me later that afternoon and gave me the name of the attorney who’d processed Ethan’s adoption, as well as the phone number listed on the paperwork. I’d never heard of him. That wasn’t unusual because I wasn’t affiliated with the judicial system, but having an address in Belle Glade, which was only ten miles from Pahokee, I was surprised that I’d at least never heard his name.

After seeing my last patient for the day, I stayed in my office and began researching the attorney, interested mainly in the type of law he was listed as practicing and to see if there were any comments on the quality of his services, good or bad. There weren’t. The address listed in the search was on Maven Avenue, an area I was familiar with, yet opted not to visit intentionally. It was one of the seedier parts of Belle Glade, well-known for gang-related and drug activity. I had a tough time believing that a decent attorney would choose to operate a law office in such a shady and crime-riddled location. Of course, it was possible that his office had already been there prior to the area’s deterioration. If so, why hadn’t he relocated to a safer area instead of risking the welfare of his clients by remaining in a complex in a neighborhood where gun violence occurred every week?

It was after five pm, so I doubted anyone would be in the office that late in the day. I jotted the number down on a piece of paper, deciding that I would place a call to the office first thing the following morning.

In the meantime, I knew who to consult with and find out if he’d ever heard of him, and if so, what type of person I would be dealing with.

Chief Jerome Simms was sitting in his old aluminum rocking glider on the front porch when I pulled into his driveway. Dressed in multi-colored plaid Bermuda shorts and a white tank top, he was sipping from a bottle of beer.

Although he was no longer the young man he’d been when I’d first met him, he remained in excellent physical and mental form, his mind still as sharp as a tack. His hair and goatee were solid white, contrasting sharply against his dark skin. Now retired, he spent the greater portion of his days maintaining the large vegetable garden in his backyard or doing exactly what he was doing at that moment. His trusted and constant companion, a large, reddish-brown mutt named Jaco, lay on the floor of the wooden porch beside his master’s chair, his long, pink tongue lolling in and out of his mouth as he panted in the afternoon Florida heat.

“Chief,” I said, walking up the steps and taking a seat on the rocking chair beside him.

“I’m not the Chief anymore, DeeDee,” he said gruffly. “Done told you to either call me Jerome or Jerry.”

“You’ll always be the Chief to me,” I said with a smile.

“How are the kids?”

“Fine. Both enjoying college life.” He asked the same question every time I visited, which was usually twice a week, and I always gave him the same answer. I knew he missed seeing them, missed their weekly visits and chats with Uncle Jerry. He had been an integral part of their lives as they grew from children into teenagers, then into young adults, so it was understandable that seeing them go away to college had left a gaping hole in his life as well as mine and David’s. I knew how he felt. I missed them, too.

“That’s good. And David?”

“Ornery as ever, but I’ll keep him.”

“I’m sure you will. You want a beer?”

“No, thanks.”

“I know you well enough to know this isn’t a simple social call. What’s on your mind?”

We had stayed close friends over the years. To say that he probably knew me better than any of my other friends was an understatement. He knew things about me that no one other than my husband knew. I trusted him with my life as a teenager, and that trust never ebbed or waned.

“Can’t fool you for a second, can I, you old fart?”

“Nope,” he said, screwing the top off of another beer bottle. “Quit dawdling and say what you came to say.”

“You ever heard of an attorney by the name of Wilbur Huntington?”

“Yep.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“Other than telling you he’s a scumbag? Not much. Why are you asking about him?”

“He was involved with the adoption of one of my patients,” I explained. “I believe the adoption may have been, how shall I say this? Not so legal.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” he said. “He’s a shady character, that one. Involved in lots of unlawful and underhanded deals over the years but never faced any consequences because he always got off on technicalities. The man doesn’t have an ounce of integrity or conscious. Can’t even be sure he still has a license to practice law. You best mind yourself going anywhere near him, you hear me?”

“Why, is he dangerous?”

“Don’t know that I’d go as far as calling him dangerous,” he said with a shrug. “To my knowledge, he’s never physically hurt anyone. But I wouldn’t put anything past him. If you’re planning to pay him a visit, don’t go alone.”

“Is that an offer?”

“Nope. Just some friendly advice.”

“You sure are getting crotchety in your old age.”

“Who’re you calling old?”

“Is this old codger being a pain in the neck?” Chief’s wife, Louise, asked as she stepped out onto the porch and handed me a glass of iced tea.

“No more than usual,” I answered, accepting the glass, and taking a sip. “Louise, I know I’ve told you this a million times, but I’m going to say it again. You make the best iced tea I’ve ever drank.”

“You know it,” she said, taking a seat next to Chief on the glider. “What’re you two gabbing about?”

“Nothing much. Asking the Chief his advice on a certain attorney.”

“Which one?”

“Wilbur Huntington. Ever hear of him?”

“Child, you stay away from that nasty man,” she exclaimed, shaking a scolding finger at me. “Ain’t nothing good ever come from him.”

“So you know him then?”

“Not personally, but I’ve heard enough tales about him from those who do to know I don’t want to know him.”

“Such as?”

“How crooked and underhanded he is, and that he conducts business unlawfully. He’s corrupt. Why’re you asking about him? You’re not planning on hiring him to represent you on a case, are you?”

After a brief explanation, Louise shook her head. “That man ain’t gonna tell you anything,” she stated matter-of-factly. “’Specially if what he did broke the law.”

“Still, I have to try. One of my young patient’s life may depend on it.”

“I know I don’t have to tell you this,” Chief said. “But adoption records are sealed.”

“On legal adoptions, yes.”

“If he conducted an illegal or black-market baby adoption, the records will be impossible to get. Only way you’re going to find out anything is if he offers to tell you.”

“I can be persuasive.”

Chief shook his head and opened another beer. “Not that persuasive, DeeDee.”

“Do you have any other suggestions?”

“Nope.”

“Come on, Chief. How long were you on the force here? Surely you know someone who might be willing to help me out.”

“Maybe.”

“Then you’ll ask?”

“Didn’t say that.”

Louise and I both laughed. “Old goat ain’t never gonna change, DeeDee. You should know that by now.”

“I suppose I could try going to the new chief, but I don’t know her or anything about her. I haven’t had a reason to speak with her yet.”

“Wouldn’t do you any good, anyway.”

“Why not?”

“Out of her jurisdiction. She has no say or power over the Belle Glade force.”

“Perhaps she knows someone on the force that she could call and ask them to help me. Maybe even escort me to his office.”

“I doubt it.”

Sighing deeply, I said, “This is going to be harder than I thought. I desperately need to find out as much as I can about this adoption. I thoroughly believe my patient is in extreme danger.”

“How so?” Louise asked. She knew everything there was to know about me and my abilities; therefore, it wasn’t necessary to beat around the bush. “He’s being haunted by his dead twin brother who is trying to manipulate him into committing suicide. He’s only seven years old.”

Chief glanced over at me; his beer paused midair. “A twin, huh?” he asked. “How’d he die?”

“I have no idea. They were separated at birth and adopted into two different families. My patient’s mother had no idea that her son was a twin.”

“What an awful thing to do,” Louise said, scowling. “Why would anyone do something so cruel?”

“Money,” Chief huffed. “He got paid twice as much for two separate adoptions than he would have with one.”

“My heavens, the things some people will do for money,” Louise said, shaking her head. Patting my hand, she said, “I hope you find out what you need to know so that you can help that little boy. If anyone can, DeeDee, it’s you.”

While I appreciated the vote of confidence, I wasn’t too sure she was right. It was going to be difficult moving forward with no knowledge. And if Mr. Huntington refused to give me the answers I needed, which I was sure he would, then I’d be facing a dead end with nowhere else to turn.

“When’re you going to see this attorney?”

“I’ll call him in the morning and make an appointment.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Element of surprise,” Chief said, downing the last of his beer and tossing the bottle into the waste bin next to his chair. “If you call him and make an appointment, you’ll have to tell his secretary why you need to see him. Then she tells him you’re coming, and he’ll be sure not to be there when you arrive. What you do is just show up unannounced and request to see him. Sit there all day if you have to.”

“That’s actually a clever idea.”

“I know,” Chief said, grinning. “What time are you going?”

“Around eight, I suppose.”

“What if his office doesn’t open until nine?”

“Then I’ll wait. When I see him go in, I’ll go in right behind him and hopefully get to talk to him before he sees any of his clients.”

“Don’t go by yourself.”

“What choice do I have? I have to go, Chief. It’s the only way I can find out anything.”

“I’ll be ready by eight.”

“You’re going then?”

“Didn’t I just say I’d be ready at eight? Wasn’t like I meant I’d be ready to play golf.”

“No, I suppose you didn’t,” I laughed.

“Swing by and pick me up,” he said, opening his front door. “I’m going inside to eat supper. You coming in?”

“No, I need to get home. David’s probably waiting for me.”

“Tell him I said hi.”

“I will,” I answered, getting up from the glider. “Thanks, Chief.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, waving me off as the screen door slammed behind him.

EXORDIUM

June 6, 1966

Babylon, Massachusetts

6:06 p.m.

In the throes of childbirth, the young woman cried out, her piercing screams echoing through the long abandoned Catholic church sanctuary.

Tears ran from the corners of her eyes and puddled inside her ears.

“Hush, girl,” the hooded figure of a woman scolded. “It’ll all be over soon.”

“Please,” she pleaded, reaching out for the woman’s hand, but she quickly snatched it away. “Help me. I can’t take this pain anymore.”

She had no idea where she was, how she’d gotten there, or who the hooded woman was.

Her voice sounded familiar, but it couldn’t possibly be her. She would’ve never allowed this to happen.

The bare floor beneath her was hard, cold, and filthy. In the center of the room, a strange looking emblem had been sketched into the wooden floor, then outlined with bright red paint. Whatever the symbol was, a star perhaps, she was lying in the center of it.

She released an ear-piercing screech when her round belly tightened with contractions.

“You need to push, Angeline,” the woman instructed.

“I need to go to the hospital,” she cried. “I don’t think I can get him out by myself.”

“Yes, you can,” came a man’s voice. “And you will.”

Through tear-blurred eyes, Angeline raised her head and glanced around the room. Besides the man and woman next to her, five others cloaked in black robes and hoods gathered in a circle around them, individually standing on each of the star’s five points, engaged in an eerie type of ritualistic chanting.

Even as her body wretched and twisted in pain, she wondered how she’d gotten to this point in her seventeen short years of life.

Still a virgin, she remained perplexed by how she’d become pregnant, never having been with a man. She’d had plenty of dreams about sex, however. Tons of them. And in every fantasy riddled dream, she’d gladly given herself to the dark stranger who called upon her, relished in his icy touch when he’d repeatedly told her how special she was and that through him, she’d fulfill a foretold prophecy.

But those were only dreams.

A girl couldn’t get pregnant from dreaming about having sexual intercourse.

Yet she had. That was the only explanation that could explain her current predicament.

After missing her second period, she’d confided in her mother, a staunch religious fanatic who found sin in everyone but herself.

When her laboratory tests revealed she was with child, her mother called her a whore and threw her out of the house with only the clothes on her back, unwilling to listen to or believe anything her daughter had to say.

She had nowhere to go, and no one she could depend on to help her.

Until the day she’d met Daidamia and Doyle Maximus while looking for food scraps inside a dumpster outside a grocery store. Saddened to see such a young girl in a dire predicament, with loving kindness, they’d opened their home and their hearts to her, providing her with the love and support she couldn’t get from her own mother. They’d clothed her, fed her, and provided her with safe shelter.

Daidamia accompanied her to all of her medical appointments, holding her hand and reassuring her along the way that she and her son would be fine and that she and Doyle would never abandon her.

The last thing she remembered before waking up in this damp, dank building, was Daidamia brewing her a cup of lemon tea to calm her nerves before being led to the car by Daidamia with Doyle at the wheel telling her they were enroute to the hospital.

Between their house and here, something awful went wrong. Had she been abducted? Where were Daidamia and Doyle? Why weren’t they there after promising not to leave her?

Angeline arched her back in agonizing pain as an overwhelming need to push befell her.

“I see the top of his head,” the woman said. “Keep pushing, Angeline.”

The quintet’s ominous chanting grew louder.

The man who’d stood behind her was now lighting the red candles held by the chanters. When the last one was lit, he returned and stood at her side.

“One more hard push, child, and the arrival of our ruler will be complete.”

Angeline felt a gush of warm liquid puddle beneath her as she watched the woman lift the newborn into the air, his umbilical cord still attached.

With one swift snip from the large knife the man held, the lifeline between her and her son was severed.

“He’s not crying,” she said in a panicked voice. “Why isn’t he crying? Is he okay?”

“He’s perfect,” the woman cooed as she cleaned the infant and wrapped him in a blanket.

“Give me my baby,” Angeline pleaded. “I want to see my son.”

Angeline gasped when the woman lowered her hood and turned to face her. “He isn’t yours.”

“Daidamia?” She was confused. What did she mean he wasn’t hers? Of course, he was. She’d carried him for nine months, had writhed in anguish to bring him into the world. He carried her blood in his veins.

Daidamia passed the baby to the hooded man. “Behold,” he shouted, holding the baby high in the air. “Our prince has finally arrived.”

“Your purpose has been fulfilled, Angeline,” Daidamia told her.

“What purpose?” Angeline asked, trying to sit up. She felt weak and lightheaded. Unable to remain upright, she dropped back onto the floor.

“You gave us the most precious gift we could’ve asked for.”

“He isn’t yours,” Angeline protested breathlessly.

“In a way, you’re right,” Daidamia said. “The child isn’t mine alone. He belongs to the world.”

“Can I see him?”

“No.”

“He’s my son and I want to see him,” Angeline huffed. “Please. Just one look. I’ve waited so long.”

“No,” the man bellowed, lowering his hood. “The child is not yours.”

“Doyle?” Angeline whispered. “Why are you doing this to me? I thought you and Daidamia were my friends. You’ve been so kind to me.”

“Of course, we were kind to you,” Daidamia replied. “We knew you were carrying our savior. We couldn’t allow you to roam the streets uncared for. We had to watch over you and take care of you to make sure our savior was well taken care of.”

Angeline sobbed. They’d betrayed her, only taking her in so they could take her son away from her. When she recovered, she’d reclaim her son and run away to a place where they’d never find her. She wasn’t going to voluntarily hand over her child to them.

“What now?” she asked. “Will I return home with you?”

“You’ll be going home,” Doyle said. “But not with us.”

Doyle fell to his knees beside her as the chanting intensified.

She looked woefully into his eyes, knowing her life was over even before he brandished his dagger. She’d never see her son. He’d never know her. Doyle and Daidamia were now his parents.

“Thank you for blessing us with our long-awaited prince,” Doyle said before plunging the dagger deep into her heart. “You have made the most ultimate and crucial sacrifice for mankind.”

“I present to you,” Daidamia wailed proudly, holding the swaddled infant for all to see. “Lucius Belvedere Maximus. Our glorious and beloved Prince of Darkness. Blessed are we, for he is destined to become the greatest and most powerful force to ever inhabit the earth.”

“Welcome, my son,” Daidamia whispered to the infant. “In time, you will rule the world. Your destiny awaits you.”

“All hail Prince Lucius,” the group cheered. “All hail the Prince.”

“I do solemnly swear or affirm that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will, to the best of my ability preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.”  Article II, Section I of the Constitution.

The swearing in of the newly elected President of the United States:

Lucius Belvedere Maximus

January 20, 2025

PART I

THE BEGINNING OF THE END

CHAPTER ONE

Wuhan Tianhe International Airport, Wuhan, China – January 25, 2027

Noel Langford stepped out of the taxi that’d picked him up at his hotel, took his luggage from the porter, entered the airport, and headed to the ticket counter to check in for his flight back home to Bangor, Maine.

“No luggage, Mr. Langford?” the clerk asked.

“Just my carry-on,” he answered, wiping sweat from his brow as he watched the attractive Asian girl who spoke perfect English type his information into her computer, then print out his boarding pass.

“Your flight will depart at gate B16,” she said, sliding his ticket across the counter. “Thank you for visiting China. Enjoy your flight.”

Briefly, he considered grabbing a quick bite before boarding, but feeling a tad nauseous, decided against it. The last thing he wanted to do was puke his guts out on a plane while the other passengers watched with disgust, wondering what was wrong with him. He’d never suffered air sickness before, but the way he felt at the moment, this flight could be his first.

“I’ll take a large, sweet tea,” he said, stepping up to the counter of a fast-food restaurant inside the airport’s food court. Maybe the tea would settle his stomach and he’d start feeling better. Before checking out of his hotel, he’d taken a couple of aspirins for a mild headache, but they hadn’t kicked in yet. Currently, it was only a dull ache, so hopefully the aspirin would quell it before it grew into anguishing pain.

With his tea in hand, he casually walked toward the waiting area outside his departure gate, shocked at the number of travelers on his flight, recalling there’d been several empty seats on his trip there. This time, however, nearly every seat had been taken, mostly by Americans returning to the United States. Fortunately, there was an available seat on a couch next to the window overlooking the tarmac where his plane would arrive.

“Anyone sitting here?” he asked the elderly gentleman occupying the middle seat.

Looking up at him through coke-bottle thick glasses that made his eyes look five times too big, the old man smiled and said, “Nope. Go ahead. Have a seat.”

The flight home was long enough on a day when he felt fine, but he wasn’t looking forward to a twenty-nine-hour trip with three stops along the way, feeling as horrible as he did. When he’d felt a hint of a cold coming on the day before, he’d medicated himself with cold and flu medicine and laid around the hotel all day taking it easy. When he’d awakened that morning eager to get home, he’d felt worse than he had the day before. He now had a scratchy sore throat and nagging headache that was continually getting worse.

“This your first time in China?” the old man asked.

“Hmm?” Noel said, turning to face the man. He’d been so focused on his state of health that he hadn’t even heard what the man said.

“I asked if this was your first time visiting China?”

“No,” Noel answered. “I’ve been here a few times.”

“It was my first,” the old man said, his dentures slipping as he talked. “And my last. Hate to say it, but this has got to be the nastiest place I’ve ever been to.”

Noel didn’t object because the old man was right. Due to the elevated level of smog in the major cities, face masks were standard apparel there. Wearing one was a requirement unless one wished to choke to death on air pollution.

“Cal Jackson,” the old man said, extending a gnarled, wrinkled hand.

“Noel Langford.”

“Nice to meet you, Noel. You here for business or pleasure?”

“Business.”

“Oh yeah?” Cal asked. “What kind of business?”

If he tried to explain to Cal exactly what he did in his line of work, they’d be sitting there for hours. “Pharmaceuticals,” he replied.

“This place was on my bucket list,” Cal said. “Been wanting to visit for over twenty years. Now that I’ve seen it, I can tell you I wasn’t missing much.”

“It’s different, that’s for sure,” Noel said, taking a sip of tea to soothe his aching throat.

“These people here will eat any damn thing, you know that?”

Noel chuckled. Again, the man was right.

“Went out to dinner last night at a restaurant that was purported to be one of the best in town. Or so the tourist map said. When I got the menu, I couldn’t read one damn word of it. It was written in Chinese. Looked like a damn tic-tac-toe grid. I didn’t know one thing from the other, so I just pointed to the first thing I saw. I’m telling you the honest to goodness truth, when that waitress brought my order, whatever the hell was in that bowl was still moving and while I sat there staring at it, I saw a tentacle slither over the side,” he said with a shake of his head. “Turns out I ordered live octopus.”

“Did you eat it?” Noel asked.

“Hell no, I didn’t eat it. I paid my bill and got the hell out of there and found a place that served hamburgers.”

“China Western Airlines, Flight 729 to Xiamen is now boarding at gate B16,” came the overhead announcement. “Please have your boarding passes ready.”

“That’s me,” Noel said, getting up from the couch. “Nice talking to you.”

“That’s my flight as well,” Cal said, using his cane to stand.

“Where you headed to?” Noel asked.

“Los Angeles. You?”

“Bangor.”

“A Mainer, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Never been there,” Cal said. “Tell me something. Is it true that Maine gets several feet of snow every winter?”

Noel smiled. “As we Mainers like to say, Cal, does a bear shit in the woods?”

Cal laughed, nearly spitting out his false teeth. “I like a person with a good sense of humor.”

Normally, he could have told joke after joke, but not today. He barely felt like talking.

The two men boarded the plane together, but sat in different sections, which pleased Noel because he wasn’t interested in continuing a conversation. Cal was pleasant enough and could probably tell him some stories of his own, but he wasn’t up to engaging in chitchat. All he wanted to do was sit down, lean back, and close his eyes.

Assigned a window seat, Noel buckled his seatbelt and set the overhead air conditioner on high, letting the frigid air blow directly in his face. His headache was getting worse. So was the nausea. Once they were airborne and the flight attendant came around, he’d ask for a ginger ale and perhaps a pack of crackers. Salt was good for easing a queasy stomach.

Enroute to Los Angeles, the second stop in the flight, Noel’s head began throbbing. He’d never had such a painful headache before. And he felt hot. So, so hot, like he was on fire, burning him up inside. Dozens of sweat beads formed on his forehead, glistening against his skin. The air conditioner was already on high, but it wasn’t providing much comfort.

“Mister, are you okay?” the woman sitting beside him asked.

Noel glanced at her, seeing that she had a look of concern on her face.

“Not feeling too well,” Noel answered, closing his eyes and laying his head against the back rest. It was hard to breathe. A heaviness had settled in his chest.

“I’m having a heart attack,” he thought. “In midair.”

“Shall I get the stewardess?” the woman asked.

Noel nodded, unable to speak, suddenly overcome by a breathtaking fit of coughing.

“Sir, please come with me.”

Noel gaped at the flight attendant who was summoning him, surprised to see she was his wife. Why was she onboard this flight? No, wait a minute, that couldn’t be. It’s not possible. There was no way in hell his wife could be on this plane, or any other plane. She was dead. And dead people don’t book flights to or from China.

“Sarah?” he gasped. “What are you doing here? When did you get back?”

“My name is Rachel, sir,” she said, reaching out her hand. “Please, come with me.”

Noel slowly reached out and grasped onto her, suddenly feeling euphoric, like he was floating on air as he followed her down the aisle.

Why were all the passengers wearing clown makeup? Everywhere he looked he saw red curly hair, yellow curly hair, orange curly hair. And huge red smiles. Why were they all laughing at him? When were all the psychedelic flowers painted on the walls of the plane? They weren’t there when he boarded. Someone had been quite busy artistically. Various shapes and sizes of multi-colored, hippy era flowers were everywhere, even on the windows and pull-down shades.

Where was he? Why had Sarah led him to a small corner space at the back of the plane and closed the curtain?

“Have a seat here, sir,” the helpful woman said, lowering a cushioned chair from the wall. “Captain,” she said, speaking into a megaphone. No, hold on a second, that’s not what those things are called. Telephone! That’s what she was talking on. “We have a medical emergency. I’ve isolated the gentleman from the other passengers.” Putting a hand over the speaker, she spoke to the other flight attendant who’d accompanied them to the restricted area. “Megan, go check the flight manifest and see if there’s a doctor on board. If so, get him back here immediately.” Speaking to the captain again, she said, “Sir, I’ve sent Megan to see if she can locate a doctor. I’ll keep you apprised.”

“Sir, can you tell me your name?”

“You know my name, Sarah,” he answered, slurring his words. His tongue felt like it’d swollen to the size of a baseball, making it difficult for him to speak properly. “We were married for thirty years.”

“Sir, my name is Rachel, not Sarah.”

If she didn’t know any better, she’d swear the man was drunk, except she knew he wasn’t. She’d seen him board the plane completely sober, and he hadn’t been served any alcoholic beverages. He was sweating profusely and having difficulty keeping his eyes open.

“Sir, don’t fall asleep. Do you know your name?”

He stared blankly at her, as though he found the simplest of questions too confusing to comprehend.

The curtain opened and Megan reappeared, followed by a middle-aged man with graying hair and a goatee.

“This is Dr. Graves,” Megan said. “And his name,” she said, pointing, “is Noel Langford.”

“Mr. Langford,” Dr. Graves said, squatting down in front of him. “Can you look at me?”

Noel’s head wobbled unsteadily as he tried focusing his attention on the doctor. Without warning, he broke into another brutal coughing spell, spittle flying from his mouth into the doctor’s face.

“Get him a glass of water,” the doctor said.

“I can’t breathe,” Noel said, clutching at his throat.

“This man is burning up with a fever,” Dr. Graves told Rachel. “I can feel the heat radiating off of him.”

Megan returned with the water and handed it to Dr. Graves.

“Here, Mr. Langford, sip on this,” the doctor said, holding the paper cup for him.

Noel reached for it but kept missing his grasp, forcing Dr. Graves to place it in his hand and guide it to his mouth. Noel choked on the first sip, coughing up the water and a good-sized chunk of bloody phlegm.

“Was he this sick when he boarded?”

“No,” Rachel answered. “When I checked his ticket at the door, he was fine.”

“Has he asked either of you for any medication, perhaps something for a headache or maybe a throat lozenge?”

“No.”

Noel slumped down in the chair, nearly sliding to the floor.

“Mr. Langford!” Dr. Graves said sharply, giving him a sturdy shake. “Please try to stay awake. When did you become ill?”

Noel glared at him with unmoving eyes, unable to respond.

“Are you certain he wasn’t unwell when he got onto this aircraft?” Dr. Graves asked.

“I’m positive,” Rachel replied. “I think I would’ve noticed a passenger as sick as this man and I would’ve reported it right away.”

“Has he said anything to you that would make you believe he wasn’t feeling well? Or has he been acting strangely? Has anyone reported any unusual behavior from him?”

“No, but he kept calling me Sarah although I told him repeatedly that my name is Rachel.”

“If his fever is as high as I believe it to be, he’s likely delusional and suffering from hallucinations.”

“From a fever?”

“An extremely high one can cause irreversible brain damage or death if not properly treated. Obviously, appropriate facilities aren’t available aboard an aircraft.”

Dr. Graves studied Noel momentarily, noticing a change in the color of his skin, especially around his mouth. He was turning cyanotic, indicating that he wasn’t receiving an adequate supply of oxygen. He had no medical supplies with him to treat a gravely ill patient, and airplanes weren’t outfitted with standard medical equipment. Without treatment and already being in grave danger, the outcome didn’t look good for Mr. Langford.

“If what you’re saying is true, and I’ve no reason to doubt you, then whatever this man is suffering from is an illness that advances with a rapidity I’ve never seen before. As far as I know, there’s only one illness I can think of that’s capable of advancing that fast.”

“The flu?” Rachel asked.

“No,” Dr. Graves answered, rising from the floor. “A virus. If Mr. Langford deteriorated this quickly in only a couple of hours, I’d say it’s a rather deadly one.”

Rachel glanced at her co-worker with a look of concern. “A virus? Like a contagion?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Then that means he’s potentially spread it to every person on this plane,” Rachel stated with alarm.

“That would be correct,” Dr. Graves said. “Even if he hasn’t been in direct contact with them. If it’s an airborne virus, it can and will easily pass through the ventilation system.”

“The air conditioning?” Megan asked absently.

“Yes.”

Noel belched loudly, sliding from his chair onto the floor, frothy white bubbles gurgling from his mouth.

“Oh, God!” Rachel exclaimed, taking a step backwards. “Is he… is he?”

“Yes,” Dr. Graves announced after checking for a pulse. “He’s dead.”

“I have to notify the captain,” Rachel said, picking up the phone.

“This man needs to be encased in a protective sheath and placed somewhere away from all these passengers until we land,” Dr. Graves said. “Even if that means putting him in the cargo hold. Just because Mr. Langford’s dead doesn’t mean the virus is. It’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“I’ll advise the captain of the situation and request his permission to stow him in cargo,” Rachel said.

Turning to Megan, Dr. Graves asked, “Are the two of you the only attendants on this flight?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“Dr. Graves?” Rachel said, putting her hand over the phone as she spoke. “The captain approved moving him, but we won’t be making an emergency landing.”

“That’s fine,” he answered. “There’s no reason to now.”

“The Captain said he’ll notify the authorities in Los Angeles and put them on alert.”

“Expect the plane to be quarantined,” Dr. Graves said. “And don’t be surprised when a medical crew comes aboard wearing hazmat suits.”

“Why would they do that?” Rachel asked.

“Precautionary measures,” Dr. Graves answered. “When the captain notifies the authorities in L.A. that an unexpected and suspicious death occurred in flight, they’ll want to know if the passenger was ill prior to his demise. The Captain is obligated to disclose Mr. Langford’s earlier condition to said authorities. When he does, they’ll take proper measures to treat the situation much in the same way they would a biological threat.”

“Because they don’t know what to expect, or what they might be dealing with?” Megan asked.

“Exactly. They’ll examine every passenger on board for even the minutest of symptoms similar to what Mr. Langford displayed. Anyone deplaning in L.A. will likely be relocated to a detainment facility where they’ll be held for a certain number of days. After the required amount of time in quarantine has ended, and if they show no symptoms of being ill, they’ll be released to go home. However, if they do show signs of sickness, they’ll be transported to a medical facility for treatment.”

“Can they legally do what you just described?” Rachel asked.

“Yes. You and you,” he said, pointing to her and Megan. “Me, and everyone else on this plane will be quarantined. Especially when they learn how rapidly Mr. Langford declined. I’m sure they’ll question you about his condition from the time he came aboard until the moment he died.”

“What kind of virus can kill someone that fast?” Rachel asked.

“I have no idea.”

Flashing red and blue lights from ambulances, fire rescue, and police cars were visible even before the plane touched down on the tarmac. Notified ahead of time, they were on standby at the terminal waiting for the aircraft to arrive.

While still taxiing, the captain’s voice came over the intercom.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please remain in your seats. Due to a medical emergency on this flight, disembarking will not be permitted until further notice.”

Passengers glanced nervously back and forth at each other, worried expressions on their faces, wondering how they’d missed an event as important as a medical emergency.

“L.A. County Fire Rescue has notified me that medical personnel will be coming aboard this aircraft. However, there’s no cause for alarm. I’ve been advised that this is standard protocol following an event such as ours. It may delay us in L.A. for an extended period while they gather the information they need. I assure you that once they’ve done so, and we’re cleared to proceed, I will get you all safely to your destinations. Again, please remain seated.”

Noel’s body was placed inside a black body bag, along with the mylar blanket he’d been covered with, loaded onto a stretcher, and wheeled away by two staff members from the coroner’s office while shocked passengers gasped in surprise as they watched the commotion through their windows.

Half an hour later, a white hazmat suit-wearing medical team boarded the plane and stood side by side next to the door.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” one man began, speaking through a glass-shielded helmet with a filtered breathing apparatus attached to it. “Don’t be alarmed by our apparel. It’s only precautionary. My name is Dr. Samuel Sizemore. I’m a virologist at L.A. County Regional. This other gentleman with me is Dr. Will Patten, also a virologist.”

In his hand, Dr. Patten held a silver aluminum suitcase. Placing it down on the seat, he opened it, but didn’t remove anything.

“I’m sure you’re all curious to know what’s going on, so I’ll do my best to tell you what I know so far. A passenger on this plane died under suspicious circumstances in flight. The report Dr. Patten and I received confirmed that the passenger was quite ill before expiring. Our job here is to ascertain whether there are others on board who are experiencing any symptoms similar to what the gentleman displayed. With your cooperation, we hope to complete our analysis swiftly and have you on your way.”

More gasps and curious whispers filled the aircraft, the passenger’s expressions changing from curiosity to fear as they listened to Dr. Sizemore explain their predicament. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that in order for biohazard suited doctors to come on board, they suspected whatever the man had died from was highly contagious.

“While we’re not exactly clear on his cause of death, because of the information we received regarding his rapid decline in health, followed by sudden death, we’ve both deduced that the gentleman was likely infected with a potent virus at the time of his death.”

As expected, his statement caused panic.

Several passengers rose from their seats and began making their way towards the front of the plane and would inevitably attempt to push their way past the doctors. If they’d been more observant, they would’ve known beforehand that doing so was an enormous waste of time since the door was closed and sealed shut. It would remain that way until everyone received medical clearance.

“Please return to your seats,” Dr. Sizemore shouted. “No one leaves this plane until I say so.”

“You can’t keep us here against our will!” a man yelled.

“I absolutely can, and I intend to. At least until I can affirm that none of you are a threat to others.”

“I’m getting off this plane!” another man shouted, pushing his way forward.

“No, sir, you’re not. Dr. Patten?”

Dr. Patten reached into the silver suitcase and pulled out a device resembling an oversized laser gun.

“What Dr. Patten is holding in his hand is a rapid-fire injection gun filled with a highly effective sedative that will render one unconscious within a matter of seconds,” Dr. Sizemore warned the man. “Neither of us would prefer to resort to physical force, but if you attempt to barge your way through us intending to exit this plane, you will leave us with no other choice. What will it be, sir? Would you rather return to your seat or have a nice, long nap?”

Reluctantly, the man turned away, mumbling as he made his way back to his seat.

“Now that that issue is settled, allow me to explain what Dr. Patten and myself will be doing. It’s quite simple, really, and non-intrusive. As I said before, the more willing all of you are to cooperate, the faster we can finish. Does everyone understand?”

A chorus of yeses echoed through the aircraft. Everyone was eager to move on and get this over with.

“I’ll be handing each one of you a questionnaire asking you a variation of questions. Things like where you’ve been for the last week, activities you’ve partaken in, what foods you’ve eaten. Once you’re finished, we’ll collect the questionnaires and review your answers. I cannot stress to you enough the importance of being completely honest when giving your answers. Understood?”

Everyone nodded.

“Good. Before we begin, by a show of hands, is anyone aboard this aircraft feeling sick at the moment? That includes nausea, headache, sore throat, fever. Anyone?”

No one raised their hands.

“I know you may all be feeling somewhat frightened at the moment, and that’s perfectly normal, considering the circumstances. Seeing that none of you are reporting any sicknesses, I feel confident there’s nothing to worry about right now. Hopefully, once you complete your questionnaires, I can clear everyone and allow this plane to continue on without further delay.”

Dr. Sizemore gave a quick smile at the eruption of applause. “Thought you might like that.”

While the passengers completed their paperwork, Dr. Sizemore checked the tablet he was holding to see if he’d received any information alerting him to a possible viral outbreak, but there wasn’t one. If there were any others infected with whatever Mr. Langford had, the cases hadn’t been reported yet, leading Dr. Sizemore to believe that Mr. Langford’s case was an isolated incident and his illness not a viral infection at all, but a possible food allergy to cuisine ingested while in Wuhan that resulted in his death. Prospects of what food it might’ve been were endless considering that just about anything that moved was viewed as consumable, including live bats.

Mr. Langford’s body was transported to the L.A. County Medical Examiner’s Office with a warning to proceed with caution while conducting the autopsy, and a recommendation to wear full hazardous protective gear while doing it. Whether the coroner followed the advice was his own choice.

Dr. Sizemore also requested that a full toxicology panel be performed, including specific testing for the presence of poisons. If what Rachel, the flight attendant had told him was true, something had killed the man quickly, and if it wasn’t viral, then it must be biological. Within a few days, he should have a copy of the report on his desk. Maybe then he’d have a definitive answer.

Upon completion of assessing the questionnaires, Dr. Sizemore discovered that most of the passengers had been to the same place as Mr. Langford, and several of them had visited the same sites and eaten at the same restaurants, yet none of them reported or showed any symptoms of having contracted an illness, leading Dr. Sizemore to conclude that Mr. Langford’s case was, in fact, an isolated incident. Therefore, there was no cause to delay the plane and its crew any longer.

Flight 729 was cleared for travel.

Next stop, Philadelphia.

Even if Dr. Sizemore had not given clearance for travel, he nor anyone else could’ve stopped what was looming in the near future.

It would remain unclear where or how Noel Langford contracted his mysterious illness, but in the short span of time from the onset of infection until he died aboard Flight 729, he infected the hotel staff, the cab driver, the ticketing agent, and every single passenger on the plane.

Every one of them would carry the virus home to their friends and loved ones, all of whom would continue to spread it to every person they came in contact with.

Thus, the domino effect had begun for the gift that would keep on giving… and giving… and giving.

Chapter One

With the top down on her cherry red, 1964 Thunderbird convertible, Autumn Marie Jensen accelerated and raced down Route 93, the two-lane desert highway that could take her all the way to Vegas if she wanted to go there. From Kingman, it was only a couple of hours away. But Vegas wasn’t her destination. Nowhere was. She had to get out of the house, away from the madness so she could be alone and clear her mind of the millions of thoughts colliding inside her head, each one vying for front seats of the greatest shitshow on earth.

Away from the dispute with her husband over the news she’d received that day. He’d disagreed with the course of action she’d chosen to take, giving her a ton of reasons why she should rethink her decision, none of them changing her mind. From the kids arguing and fighting over whose turn it was to wash the dishes. From the dog barking at every vehicle that drove by, every car door that slammed, every person who passed by in front of the living room window. Normally, those things wouldn’t have bothered her in the least. They were all typical noises inside the Jensen household at any given time. But the day she’d had was anything but typical. And more than unsettling.

Ironically, as she sped down the long stretch of dark highway, the night air tossing her auburn hair about her face, Hotel California blasted from the oldies station tuned in on the radio. Autumn drove faster, singing along with the song, horribly botching the lyrics, seeing nothing but blurred flashes of the lane dividers strobing a bright shade of yellow in the glow of the car’s high beams.

Cops patrolling that particular stretch of highway were about as rare as a wooden nickel. Even if a trooper or deputy did suddenly approach from behind with their red and blue lights flashing, she couldn’t care less. Citing her for speeding or arresting her and throwing her in jail for eternity was nothing compared to the deadly citation she’d already been given. The cop could write her a thousand tickets and there still wouldn’t be a comparison.

To ensure a patrol car wasn’t creeping up on her, she glanced in the rearview mirror. Seeing only the red glow of taillights and fading blacktop, Autumn floored the gas pedal, not giving a damn if her high-speed adventure resulted in a fatal crash. Maybe one of her tires would blow out, sending her and the car catapulting through the air. Or propel it off the road, flip repeatedly and kill her instantly. She wouldn’t feel a thing if one or the other of those happened. Either was better than the undignified and painful death sentence she was facing.

“No,” she muttered. “You don’t want to do that. Your body would be so mangled and twisted that your casket couldn’t even be opened. Hell, there might not even be enough of you left to bury.”

As she mentally scrolled down the checklist of what Dr. Palmer had referred to as “her options,” she recalled there was a convenience store nearby. It was the only sign of life that existed in that desolate area. She and Simon had stopped in there a couple of times when they’d been out that way, but never to purchase what she was planning to buy. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t have even considered doing what she was about to. Other than an occasional glass of wine, she didn’t drink alcohol and had never been drunk in her life.

At this juncture, she needed something to help calm her nerves and ease the tension that’d been building inside her ever since she’d decided what she must do, concluding that her exit from the world would be on her terms, in the manner she chose, and with her pride and dignity still intact.

And nothing would work better to eradicate that fear than a good old dose of strong, liquid courage.

Chapter Two

“I have all of your test results,” Dr. Palmer announced as she entered the examination room where Autumn anxiously waited. Pulling a lowered portable stool up to the counter, she placed Autumn’s medical chart on the countertop, sat down, and turned to face her patient. “The news isn’t good, Autumn.”

“What’s the problem, Doc? Am I pregnant?”

Being told an unplanned child was forthcoming wasn’t necessarily unwelcome news, unless it was being received by a thirty-five-year-old woman with two pre-teens at home who’d had no intentions of raising another baby so late in life.

While it wouldn’t be a hailed pregnancy, she and Simon could adjust to a third child because terminating the pregnancy wouldn’t even be a consideration, regardless of how old she was.

“No,” Dr. Palmer stated flatly.

She’d always hated going to the doctor. And didn’t care much for hospitals, either.

If what Dr. Crystal Palmer was about to divulge to her was sad news, then she had no one to blame but herself.

For more than a year, she’d put off scheduling an appointment, finding one excuse after another not to go, even though she knew she should. The aching in her abdomen and right side felt much like ovulation when it’d first started, but over time, the pain had become so much worse that it was nearly unbearable. The only reason she’d decided to make the appointment at all was because she was afraid that she might have been experiencing an ectopic pregnancy. Left untreated, a growing fetus in the fallopian tube could cause the tube to rupture. The internal bleeding caused by such an event would lead to almost certain death.

“What is it, then?” Autumn asked. “And don’t beat around the bush, Dr. Palmer. Give it to me straight.”

Dr. Palmer laid her pen down on the open file. “Alright,” she said with a nod. “You have stage four ovarian cancer, Autumn.”

“Wow, Doc, that’s pretty straightforward.”

“Sorry, but you asked me to be honest, and you deserve to know the truth.”

Autumn took a deep breath. “Alright, I have cancer. Now that the bad news is out of the way, what’s the good news?”

“There isn’t any, I’m afraid,” Dr. Palmer stated with a shake of her head. “The cancer has metastasized.”

“Meaning what, exactly?” Autumn asked, a sickening knot forming in the pit of her stomach.

“It’s spread to other organs.”

“Such as?”

“Your uterus, fallopian tubes, bladder, and liver.”

“Damn, I hit the trifecta, huh?” Autumn said softly, attempting to lighten the gloominess that had enshrouded her in only a few short minutes. “What treatment do you have planned to cure me? Chemo? Radiation?”

Dr. Palmer stared at Autumn momentarily, uncertain if she was fully grasping the seriousness of her condition.

“Well?” Autumn prodded.

The old adage of hindsight being twenty-twenty certainly rang true for her. Looking back, she should’ve known Dr. Palmer suspected something more serious than an ovarian cyst or endometriosis or any other gynecological ailment when she’d ordered additional tests after her pap smear came back abnormal.

“Pap tests aren’t always one hundred percent accurate,” Dr. Palmer had told her. “And x-rays only provide a limited view. What I’d like to do is follow up with an MRI so I can get a good look inside. Not only at your uterus, but at the surrounding organs and tissue as well. Those particular tests are more in-depth and will produce much more accurate results and tell me if what I suspect is going on actually is.”

“What do you think is wrong?” she’d asked.

“I’d rather not speculate without confirmation, Autumn. I see no need to give you cause to worry unnecessarily. Once I have the results of your MRI, then we’ll sit down and discuss all the findings.”

Not being medically educated and trusting that Dr. Palmer knew what she was doing since she was the expert, instead of asking questions, she’d allowed her to move forward with all the testing. Vial after vial of blood, abdominal x-rays, and a uterine biopsy that’d hurt like hell and caused vaginal bleeding for several days afterward. When those tests came back abnormal, an MRI of her entire abdominal and thoracic area were performed.

That had been less than a week before.

Now, as she sat in Dr. Palmer’s office listening to her explain the reason behind her pain and discomfort, she wished she’d never made an appointment in the first place. Sometimes, not knowing details about a certain situation can be for the best. Without this particular knowledge, she could’ve simply succumbed to the cancer without facing options that were ridiculously expensive and most likely a huge waste of time and resources. No matter the strength or duration of cancer treatments, victims still eventually died from the disease. The only thing the treatments offered the sufferer was a prolonged period to stare death right in the face by giving them just enough time to repeatedly think about their mortality while facing the inescapable end result that would occur no matter what. And sometimes the treatments administered to the sick were more painful than the disease itself. Was all that suffering really worth another six or twelve months of life?

“I wish it were that simple, Autumn, but it isn’t.”

“Then explain it to me, doc. Without using fancy, hard to understand medical terminology, tell me what I’m looking at and what options are available to me.”

“You have malignant epithelial carcinoma, one of the most aggressive types of cancer there is. It’s very difficult to treat because of its aggressiveness and ability to spread quickly.”

“Which is why it’s all over my body?”

“Yes.”

“Then there’s no treatment?”

“I didn’t say that. But producing a treatment plan that’s right for you isn’t as easy as prescribing an antibiotic to treat an infection, Autumn. You need to understand that.”

“How do we do this, then? Surely there has to be something I can start right away.”

“My recommendation would be to begin chemotherapy immediately to try to reduce the size of the tumors before surgery.”

“Surgery? For what?”

“A radical hysterectomy. Uterus, cervix, fallopian tubes, the whole shebang,” Dr. Palmer explained. “My concern with chemo prior to surgery is that I fear the side effects from the chemo will make you too ill to be a candidate for the surgical procedure. And the longer the diseased organs and tissue remain inside your body, the more time it has to spread even further.”

“Then do the surgery first,” Autumn stated. “I wasn’t planning to have any more children, and not having a monthly period anymore doesn’t bother me in the least. In fact, I kind of like the idea of not having one.”

“My concern with that, Autumn, is that the surgery is a major procedure, and time to a full recuperation is generally right around six to eight weeks. Subjecting your already weakened body to chemo would take a rather jolting toll on you physically and mentally.”

“Like what?”

“Hair loss, nausea and vomiting, lethargy, loss of weight and appetite.”

“I could be wrong, Dr. Palmer, but what you’re saying sounds like a damned if I do, damned if I don’t situation. The odds are stacked against me regardless of the choice I make, and none of them end on a positive note.”

“No, they don’t.”

“If I do all this, the surgery and chemotherapy, is the cancer survivable?”

Dr. Palmer took a deep breath and exhaled heavily through her nose. “If the combination of the two is successful, there’s about a seventeen percent chance of surviving another five years. But you also need to understand that the likelihood of a recurrence is about ninety to ninety-five percent.”

Autumn grunted and shook her head. “Then why go through all that hell for nothing?”

“Most cancer patients wouldn’t consider living another five years nothing, Autumn. I certainly can’t force you to do either, but by doing nothing…” Dr. Palmer said, her voice trailing off.

“I die.”

“Yes.”

“If I choose not to have chemo or the surgery, how long do I have?”

“I can’t give you a definitive answer, but my estimation would be three to six months, if that.”

Autumn fought back tears as she stared at the floor, imagining the patterns in the tile as miniature animals, pointing at her and laughing while chanting, “ha ha, that’s what you get for not going to the doctor.”

“That long, huh?”

“I won’t be offended at all if you decide to seek a second opinion, but if you do, you’ll need to get it as quickly as possible. The longer you wait to address this issue, the more damage the illness can and will do.”

“How confident are you that you’ve given me a proper diagnosis?”

“Quite,” Dr. Palmer answered. “I’ve reviewed all of your test results, including the MRI images, and had two of my colleagues review them as well. They all agree with my prognosis.”

“Then I see no reason for a second opinion,” Autumn replied flatly, continuing to stare at the floor tiles. If those damn elephants and monkeys didn’t quit laughing at her, she’d get up and stomp the shit out of them with the heel of her shoe, then she’d be the one saying ha ha.

“If you prefer to start with the chemo, I need to know as soon as possible so I can set up the appointments to get you started.”

“I’d prefer not to give you an answer right now, Dr. Palmer, not without discussing this with my husband. This is a decision we need to make together.”

“I understand.”

“I don’t even know what to tell him,” Autumn said, wiping a tear from her cheek.

“The truth,” Dr. Palmer told her. “Be honest with him and don’t leave your children out of the conversation. They should be told as well.”

Autumn shook her head. “They’re too young to understand.”

“Don’t underestimate them, Autumn. It’s best they know ahead of time so they can be prepared, too.”

“Prepared for what? Watching their mother gradually die?”

“Or learning what to expect should you opt for treatment,” Dr. Palmer reminded her.

Autumn nodded, although she disagreed with disclosing such macabre information to her children and had no intentions of doing so. Not yet. “I’ll talk it over with Simon tonight and let you know tomorrow,” Autumn said, rising from the chair. “Thanks for being truthful with me, Dr. Palmer.”

“You’re welcome. I expect to hear from you by tomorrow afternoon,” she said, ushering Autumn out of the examination room.

“You will.”

Chapter Three

“You can’t do that, Autumn,” Simon protested. “You have to at least consider what’s available to you treatment wise.”

“I’ve already weighed my options,” she responded. “All the way home from the doctor’s office. My mind is made up and I’m not changing it.”

“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” Simon huffed, turning away from her in frustration. Swiftly regaining his composure, he stated, “How could you be so selfish? You’re not the only one this affects, you know.”

“My body, my choice. Besides, why would I put myself through that kind of hell and allow everyone to see me wither away into a fraction of the woman I am now when none of the treatments are going to work, anyway? When all is said and done, I’m still going to die.”

“You don’t know that. People recover from cancer every day because they opted for treatment. Doctors aren’t always right, no matter how good they are in their fields. They’re still human and they make mistakes. Perhaps Dr. Palmer did as well.”

“The way she explained it to me is enough to convince me that surgery and chemo are futile attempts at prolonging the inevitable and will only make me sicker overall. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to die with my grace and dignity remaining intact.”

“My God, Autumn. I can’t believe you’re admitting defeat so easily,” he stated harshly. “What about the kids? What about me? Do you expect us to give in as easily as you have, call it a day and move on with our lives as though nothing has happened? This is unacceptable. Medicine has advanced so much over the years and there are cancer treatments available now that weren’t there ten years ago. You really should reconsider.”

“You’re speaking as though I purposely chose for this to happen,” Autumn snapped. “As if I made the choice for no other reason than to piss you off.”

Simon blew out his breath. “I know it isn’t your fault, honey, but you do have the right to fight. Moreover, you have the right to live. You can’t possibly know what treatments might work for you if you don’t even try,” Simon stated. “You’re content on giving up without even trying.”

“Fight for what, Simon?” Autumn shouted. “Three months longer to live so the excruciating pain can suck every ounce of life out of me while the cancer continues to ravage my body? You call that living?”

“Why, Autumn? Why are you not willing to combat this? Do you care so little for your family that you think only your feelings matter?”

“Of course not,” she retorted. “What a preposterous thing to ask.”

“Explain it to me, then,” Simon exclaimed, snatching a chair away from the table and sitting down heavily. “Go on,” he said with a wave of his arm. “Educate me.”

Autumn stared blankly at her half-empty glass, contemplating whether she wanted a refill, deciding against it, knowing the sweet tea would make her have to pee, and where she was planning to go, no bathrooms would be available. And she had no desire to get a head start on her loss of self-esteem by pissing herself.

“Do you have any idea how high the cost of cancer treatment is, Simon?” she finally asked. “First, the surgeries and recoveries, then the chemo and more hospital stays. It would run into the hundreds of thousands of dollars. Money we simply don’t have.”

“Isn’t that why we carry health insurance?” Simon asked.

“It’ll only pay a certain percentage, and that’s after the deductible is met. We’d be so far in debt we’d never be able to get out of the financial hole this would cause. I’m a grocery store cashier,” she said. “You’re a social worker. We’re not exactly swimming in pools of money.”

“I can take out a second mortgage on the house.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Autumn protested. “If we do this my way, and by that, I mean letting me die naturally, you and the kids will collect from my life insurance, keep the house, stay out of debt, and go on with your lives. I see absolutely no reason to subject myself to all that pain, suffering, and costly procedures only to sustain my life for a couple of months. It’s not worth it.”

“It is to me and the kids,” Simon stated.

“I don’t want to argue about it, Simon,” Autumn stated, holding up a hand to silence him. “My mind is made up. You’re either with me, or you’re against me. Your choice.”

“Why are you guys fighting?” Isabel, their twelve-year-old daughter asked as she appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“We’re not fighting, sweetheart,” Autumn answered. “We’re having a discussion.”

“A discussion that involves yelling?” Isabel asked, glancing back and forth at her parents. “I can tell by the surprised looks on your faces that you were having more than a friendly debate. What’s it about?”

“A decision we need to make,” Simon offered.

“Are you considering letting me have a puppy?” Isabel asked, raising an inquisitive brow.

She’d been begging her parents for months to let her have a dog of her own. Autumn and Simon both agreed their daughter was too young and irresponsible to be strapped with the duty of caring for a puppy. Getting her to walk the Great Dane they had now practically took an act of Congress. A puppy would require much more attention and devotion. Multiple trips outside to potty while attempting to housebreak him, feeding him three times a day, keeping him from chewing on furniture and electrical cords, cleaning up after him. Autumn had been against it from the very beginning, knowing she’d be the one tasked with all the chores of tending to it. Now that she’d been diagnosed with terminal cancer and would have a struggle of her own on her hands, she was adamantly against it. She simply wouldn’t have the strength or energy to take care of a puppy. They were cute and fun, but there was a lot more to caring for one than simply snuggling beneath a blanket with it while it slept.

“No, Isabel,” Simon told his daughter. “We’re talking about something else.”

“If you say so. Promise me you’re not fighting?”

“Promise,” they said in unison.

“Please take Scooby upstairs with you. His constant barking is driving me nuts,” Autumn said. “I swear that dog barks if he hears a fly fart.”

“He does seem to be more talkative tonight than usual,” Simon said. “Maybe he’s got a girlfriend outside the window teasing him.”

“Don’t know what he’d do with a girlfriend,” Autumn stated. “With no family jewels, he’s worthless to her.”

“I know what family jewels are, mom,” Isabel remarked as she turned away. “You could’ve just said he had his balls cut off.”

Autumn and Simon burst into laughter. For a brief moment, Autumn was able to forget about the conversation she and Simon were engaged in before Isabel interrupted them. It all seemed so surreal to her, like being stuck in a nightmare she couldn’t wake up from.

“I love you so much, Autumn,” Simon said, taking her hand in his and kissing it. “The kids adore you. Chantel would be lost without you. I’m begging you to please reconsider your decision. I simply can’t imagine life without you.”

Chantel had been her best friend since elementary school, always having been her go-to friend, the kind she could tell anything to and never had to worry about it being repeated. She’d been her matron of honor when she and Simon were married, been at her hospital bedside for the births of both of their children. Sure, she’d be hurt by her absence. But lost? No. Like everyone else who’d suffered the death of a loved one, she’d learn soon enough that life goes on, and with time, the pain gradually subsides.

“I love all of you, too, but it isn’t fair to ask me to put myself through such a painful surgery followed by chemo with no certain outcome. Do you know what happens to people who are treated with chemotherapy, Simon? They puke their guts out, go bald, lose weight because they can’t eat. I’m sorry, but I’m not willing to do that.”

“Will you at least do me a favor, then?”

“What?”

“Get a second opinion.”

“Dr. Palmer doesn’t feel that’s necessary since a team of her colleagues reviewed my records and test results and all came to the same conclusion.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass what Dr. Palmer or her cohorts think,” Simon stated firmly. “I’m asking you to get another evaluation. As your husband and father of our children. I’m not asking for much, Autumn, and I think it’s the least you can do for us. If you get a second opinion and the results are the same, then I’ll support your decision regardless of what it is.”

“I’ll think about it. You know what I need right now, Simon?” she asked, rising from the table, and putting her empty glass in the sink. “A drive,” she told him, snatching her keys from the pegboard next to the refrigerator.

“I’ll come with you,” Simon offered. “Not to pressure you, but to keep you company.”

“And leave the kids here alone at night?” Autumn protested. “No offense, sweetheart, but I prefer to be alone for a bit. What I need is a nice, long cruise down the highway, feeling the night air in my face, seeing the stars over my head. It’ll give me time to think some things over.”

“Including seeking another opinion?”

“I’ll consider it.”

“That’s all I wanted to hear,” he said, hugging her tightly and giving her a quick peck on the cheek. “When are we going to tell the kids?”

“We’re not.”

“Autumn, this isn’t something we need to keep from them. We have to tell them.”

“And we will. Eventually. Just not now.”

“Let’s not wait too long. I hate the thought of them resenting us for not being truthful with them.”

“Simon, I’ve barely digested the diagnosis myself. Give me some time to let it sink in. I promise, when the time comes to tell the kids, we’ll do it together.”

“Alright,” he said, kissing the top of her head before she pulled away. “Go on and cruise the open highway. Take as long as you need. I’ll make sure the kids are bathed before they go to bed. Be careful out there.”

“I will,” she called over her shoulder as she exited the kitchen into the garage where her prized possession awaited her.

Simon sighed heavily when the garage door slid open, and Autumn revved the engine of her treasured T-Bird. “Don’t do anything stupid out there, Autumn,” he whispered.

Chapter 1

“I have somethin’ I wanna give you before you go home,” his Uncle Clete told him, leading him to a wooden shed in his backyard. “Here, put these on,” he said, tossing him a pair of thick work gloves.

            “Did you find a meteor?” Scooter laughed. “Or a moon rock?”

            “Not even close,” Clete told him, placing a massive chunk of copper ore in his hand. “Boy, don’t you dare handle that shit without gloves. It’ll melt the skin right off your bones.”

            He didn’t know if Clete was serious about the rock dissolving his flesh or if he was trying to scare him into being cautious. Not being familiar with the potential dangers of handling raw ore, he wasn’t willing to take any foolish chances.

            “What am I supposed to do with this shit?” he asked. “It’s nasty.”

            “That rock you’re holdin’ has lots of uses.”

            “Like what?”

            “Copper gets mined, boy, and turned into all kinds of technological gadgets that makes other shit work the way they’re supposed to. Remember that the next time you turn on your radio or boot up that computer machine you love playin’ with so much,” he told him.

            “This don’t look nothing like anything I’ve ever seen in my electronics,” Scooter said, turning the rock in his gloved hand.

            “That’s because the one you’re holdin’ ain’t been processed yet, you idiot. It has to go through a bunch of steps to get it to where it can be used in televisions and shit.”

            “That right?” Scooter asked. “Whatever it’s used for, it stinks like a sewer.”

            “That’s the oxide in it,” Uncle Clete stated matter-of-factly.

            Scooter supposed Clete knew what he was talking about since he’d started working in the mines in his teens and was now pushing sixty. It sure couldn’t be because he was educated in the field of science since he never made it past the seventh grade. Uncle Clete had always said that experience was a better teacher than a fifty-thousand-dollar education at a college or university. He must’ve been right because he sure got along all right moneywise, even without finishing school.

            Personally speaking, school had always been a struggle for him. It wasn’t that he was incapable of learning, he just never liked going and had no interest in learning shit that wasn’t important. He found school boring and repetitive. He reckoned he’d learned enough through the years to get by on. It wasn’t like algebra was a requirement to perform his job. The difference between him and his uncle was that he hadn’t been a quitter. Even with all the bullying and name calling from the other kids his age, he’d been determined to acquire his high school diploma. Which he had.

            He’d never had any close friends. Definitely no steady girlfriend. He wasn’t athletic and didn’t like sports. Except for shooting. He loved firing his weapons. He was damn good at it, too. That alone had been enough to land him the job he currently had, so he must’ve done something right.

            “It’s good for other things, too,” Clete said with a wink.

            “What kinds of other things?”

            “Well,” Clete said, scratching his stubbly chin and chuckling. “If you ever get a hankerin’ to kill that piece of shit daddy of yours, that stuff’ll do it. Wouldn’t be no great loss as far as I’m concerned. That man’s as worthless as tits on a boar hog. He always has been.”

            “How the hell would I kill him with this?” Scooter asked, staring thoughtfully at the ore. “Conk him on the head with it? It’s sure big and thick enough to put a hurtin’ on him.”

            Clete laughed. “No, dumbass. You’d need to melt it down to turn it into a killer.”

            “How?”

            “Liquifyin’ copper turns it into a deadly toxin,” Clete told him.

            “How the hell would you know that? When did you become a scientific expert?”

            “Who the hell said I was? You learn a few things when you’ve been in this kind of business for as long as I’ve been. If you don’t believe me, look it up yourself.”

            Scooter’s curiosity was piqued. A thought suddenly crossed his mind that’d never been there before. “What if I did melt it? What would happen to it then? Not that I’m planning on killing anybody with it,” he said. “I’m curious is all.”

            “What happens is that the rock turns into liquid, the liquid is poisonous, and will kill whoever ingests it.”

            “What’s that mean?”

            “Good gawd, boy, didn’t you learn nothin’ in school? Ingestin’ it means to eat it or drink it. You put that melted shit in somebody’s food, water, or coffee and they’ll be dead within days. You wanna know the coolest part?”

            “Yeah,” Scooter nodded.

            “It’s damn near impossible to find it in a person’s body durin’ one of them there procedures where a doctor slices up a person and takes out all their innards. Their death will appear natural.”

            “It’s called an autopsy, Uncle Clete, and nearly impossible doesn’t mean the doctor won’t find it.”

            “Only if he knows what he’s lookin’ for.”

            “Hmm,” Scooter grunted. “If I wanted to do that, how would I go about doing it?”

            “It’s called smeltin’, Scooter. Get on that computer machine of yours and look it up. There’s all kinds of videos on that interweb thing that’ll teach you how to do shit like that. Hell, I even watched one that showed me how to build a bomb,” he laughed, revealing his brown, tobacco-stained teeth.

            “How about that?” Scooter said absently. Clete had given him an idea, one that didn’t include killing his shitty daddy. If he did that, he’d never get the money he’d promised him, because his shitty daddy would only receive his inheritance when old man Cooper died.

            It’d be nice to finally have a decent amount of money for a change and not have to struggle paycheck to paycheck. He thought about all the nice things he could buy for his momma that she’d been wanting for a long time but could never afford. Decent furniture for their house. A new dining table with chairs that didn’t have holes in the fabric. A week’s vacation on a Florida beach soaking up the sun. God knew she deserved it after the many hardships she’d suffered raising a child on her own with no help from the aforementioned shitty daddy.

            “I can see the wheels spinnin’ in that head of yours,” Clete said. “I don’t know what you’re thinkin’ about, but you do know I was only jokin’ about killin’ your daddy?”

            “I figured as much,” Scooter replied. “Neither one of us are murderers.”

            “If you’re plannin’ on liquifyin’ that rock even after everythin’ I’ve told you, then you need to listen to me and pay close attention.”

            Scooter glanced up at his uncle. “I’m listening, Uncle Clete.”

            “The process needs to be done in a well aired out place, not inside your house and not in that tool shed of yours. Go out in the woods away from the house so that the fumes don’t get inside. Wear protective clothin’ and gloves, includin’ eye goggles. Make sure your mouth and nose are covered. You breathe that shit in, boy, you’re as good as dead. You hear me?”

            Scooter nodded. “Yes.”

            “Once it’s liquified, you’ll need to put it in a safety container. Don’t use anythin’ plastic. Understood?”

            “Understood,” Scooter said, wondering why Clete was offering advice on how to smelt the ore into a toxin if he’d only been joking about killing his daddy.

            “Good,” he said, clapping Scooter on the back. “How’s your momma doin’?”

Clete was his mother’s only sibling and the eldest of the two. He hated his daddy as much as he and his mother did.

            “Fine. Ornery as ever.”

            “Always has been. Don’t see that ever changin’. You heard from that piece of shit daddy of yours lately?”

            “Nah,” he answered. “I’d rather not to tell you the truth. Me or momma neither one’s got any use for him.”

            “He still workin’ for that Cooper fella?”

            “Last I heard he was. I don’t make it a habit to ask about him because I don’t care.”

            “The way I see it is you and your momma have done fine without him and I expect you’ll continue to do so. Didn’t need him then, don’t need him now.”

            “We have, Uncle Clete. You’re right. We don’t need him.”

            “You’re a good son, Scooter. You’ve always taken good care of your momma, boy,” he said, patting him on the back. “I reckon that ain’t likely to change. It’s somethin’ you should be proud of. A grown man that still cares for his momma is gold in my eyes.”

            “No, sir. It ain’t gonna change. As long as I’m alive, my momma ain’t got nothing to worry about.”

            “Glad to hear it. You hitched up with anybody yet?”

            Scooter laughed. “Hell naw,” he said. “Furthermore, I don’t intend to. Women ain’t nothing but trouble.”

            “I hear ya,” Clete chuckled. “You’re a good lookin’ enough lad. I’m surprised the ladies ain’t flockin’ around you. How old are you now, Scooter?”

            “Twenty-three. Twenty-four come December.”

            “And nobody’s interested in you? You don’t bat for the other team, do you, if you know what I mean.”

            “That’s disgusting, Clete. I ain’t interested in fucking another man. I go out with girls sometimes. I’m just not real concerned about it. I got better things to spend my money on, what little bit I got. Girls always expect you to spend a ton to show them a good time, then won’t even let you kiss them goodnight. I ain’t into that shit. If I pay fifty dollars at a restaurant to feed a girl, she’d damn well better be ready to do something besides say goodnight.”

            “In other words, you want a girl that’ll spread her legs for you?”

            “Hell, yeah, I do. That’d be a nice way to say thanks.”

            “If that’s how you feel, then you might want to consider gettin’ yourself a hooker when the horniness hits you. They only expect to get paid for their services and you ain’t gotta feed ‘em first.”

            Clete didn’t need to know that he’d already done that. Multiple times. If he told him about his experiences with prostitutes, then he’d tell his momma, and his momma would nag the shit out of him about finding a decent girl and to quit dipping his stick in dry oil wells. The last thing he wanted to do was have a discussion with his momma about how he handled relieving his hard dick when sexual urges struck him.

            “How’s your job goin’? They gonna put in a new sheriff to take the place of the one that died?”

            “Yes, but not anyone from Cowbell,” Scooter answered. “They hired some big shot detective from Florida who’s gonna come in and show us how things are supposed to be done when he ain’t even from here. There’s a big meeting tomorrow so all of us can meet him.”

            “Don’t get too excited about it, Scooter,” Clete teased. “You might pull a muscle or somethin’.”

            “Guess I’d best be getting back to Cowbell,” Scooter said, wrapping the ore in a piece of burlap and securing it with rope before placing it inside his duffel bag. “It’s my day off and I promised momma I’d be home in time for supper. She’s cooking chicken and dumplings, and I sure don’t wanna miss that.”

            “Don’t blame you, son. Your momma’s always been a great cook. Eat enough for me.”

            “I will, Uncle Clete,” he said, hugging him goodbye. “Thanks for the gift.”

            With the ore stored safely on the top shelf inside his tool shed, he removed his gloves and the bandana that’d covered his nose and mouth and placed them inside his knapsack. He’d throw them in the hamper once he got inside and do his laundry after dinner.

            He could smell the aroma of momma’s cooking wafting through the kitchen window as soon as he stepped out of the toolshed.

            “Smells good, momma,” he said, kissing her on the cheek before heading to the bathroom. Once he was freshly showered and had a full belly, he planned to use what Clete had referred to as that computer machine he loved so much and do some research on the uses of copper ore. Instead of smelting it into a toxin that he had no use for, he could turn it into a nice piece of jewelry for momma, like a bracelet or a ring. She’d love that. He could surprise her with it. She had a birthday coming up soon. She’d appreciate it even more when he told her that he’d made it himself.

            “Went to see Clete again, didn’t you, Scooter?” she asked, crinkling her nose.

            “How’d you know that?”

            “You always come home smelling like a septic tank afterwards.”

Chapter 2

            “Hey, asshole, can you read? The sign says parking is for authorized personnel only. You ain’t authorized, so move your ass.”

            “My apologies, Officer Skinner,” the man replied, reading the name on the three by five laminated identification tag that was clipped to the collar of his long-sleeved denim shirt. “I’m only going to be here for a few minutes.”

            “Does that long hair of yours get in the way of you hearing me?”

            “No, I heard you loud and clear.”

            “It’s Deputy, not officer, and you ain’t gonna be there no minutes. Back your truck up and go park it somewhere else. This spot here is reserved for our new high-falutin’, big city Sheriff that’s comin’ in today. Wouldn’t wanna disappoint him on his first day by having a nobody like you taking up his spot.”

            Should he tell him now and save him the embarrassment later? No, the wait would be worth seeing the surprise on deputy dawg’s face when he realized who he’d ordered out of the designated parking spot.

            “I understand, Deputy. Where else is there to park?”

            “Anywhere you want to as long as it ain’t here.”

            Thus began Daniel Chesterfield’s first day in a new town, starting a new job and a new life.

            It’d taken him close to three months to plan the cross country move. As he sat in his truck staring at the single-story brick building, listening to a smartass deputy ordering him to move his ass to a different location, he wondered if he’d made the right decision.

            “Dan, my man,” was how the phone conversation that’d started it all had begun. “How’s it going?”

            “Perry?” he exclaimed, immediately recognizing his voice.

            “Yep, it’s me.”

            “Damn, man, I haven’t heard from you in ages. How the hell are you?”

            “Couldn’t be better.”

            Perry Taylor was a friend and former colleague, partnering with him on several cases in the drug division in West Palm Beach. Fed up with all the bureaucratic and interdepartmental red tape bullshit that went along with the job, he gave up his position in law enforcement to pursue a career in politics.

            “You still living out west?”

            “I am, and I love it here, Dan. You would, too.”

            “I’ll take your word for it. Never been out that way. Seems to be working out great for you if what I’ve heard is true.”

            “Depends on what you mean by that.”

            “I hear you’re the Lieutenant Governor.”

            “You heard right.”

            “Big difference from chasing down drug dealers, I’m sure.”

            “Let’s just say that I have no regrets about the choices I made. I don’t miss being a detective and I sure as hell don’t miss Florida or all the crap that went on inside the department.”

            “I hear you, man. Not much has changed in that aspect.”

            “Listen, Dan, I’d love to have more time to shoot the shit with you, but I actually called you for a reason.”

            “That reason would be?”

            “I have a proposition for you. It’s something I think you might be interested in.”

            “Not if it has anything to do with politics.”

            Perry chuckled. “It doesn’t. Not in the way you might be thinking.”

            “Alright, then. Go ahead, tickle my fancy.”

            “There’s a Sheriff’s position available in a small town here in Montana called Cowbell.”

            “Cowbell?” Dan repeated. “As in what goes around a cow’s neck?”

            “One and the same,” Perry said.

            “What the fuck kind of name is that for a city?”

            “It’s a western thing,” Perry said.

            “If you say so,” Dan said, taking a swallow of beer. “What does a Sheriff’s job in a pissant town in Montana have to do with me?”

            Perry paused momentarily. “A lot, I hope. You were the first person I thought of when I learned about the vacancy. The position opened unexpectedly due to the death of Charles Dickens, the previous Sheriff.”

            “The sheriff’s name was Charles Dickens?” Dan laughed. “He didn’t have a deputy named Cratchit, did he? Or a son named Tiny Tim?”

            “Always the smartass,” Perry replied. “Yes, his real name was Charles Dickens, but everyone called him Charlie. He was a highly respected man in Cowbell. Folks are saddened by his demise.”

            “Holy shit,” Dan proclaimed. “Armed bandits didn’t kill him in a wild west shootout while escaping with money from a bank robbery, did they?”

            “No. A heart attack did.”

            “Damn. I’m sorry for the town’s loss.”

            “Their loss could be your gain.”

            “Not interested.”

            “I haven’t told you anything yet,” Perry said.

            “I can read between the lines,” Dan said, finishing off his beer and twisting the cap off another. “Still not interested.”

            “Allow me the opportunity to speak before you make up your mind.”

            Dan sighed. “If it’ll make you happy, Perry, then go on and tell me about your little cow patty town.”

            “The sheriff’s office isn’t a big department, and the deputies there leave a lot to be desired. They’re in dire need of training. They all obtained their positions with no prior experience in law enforcement. To be honest with you, Dan, the department is barely hanging on by a thread. The state is ready to pull the plug and dissolve it altogether.”

            “In other words, the staff don’t know their asses from a hole in the ground? Like some of the detectives we’ve dealt with in the past.”

            “Among other things.”

            “Correct me if I’m wrong, Perry, but it sounds to me like you’re saying they’re either unfit for the job or not bright enough to fulfill their duties. Would I be correct in that assumption?”

            “That’s putting it nicely. Anyway, I’m hoping I can convince you to relocate out here and take the position. You’re one of the best damn cops I’ve ever worked with, and you’re a certified instructor. If anyone can turn the department around and prevent its demise, it’s you. I’ve already put in a good word about you. Recommended you, actually. The department could use someone like you to get it on track, turn its reputation around, and help it earn the respect it deserves.”

            “I appreciate the vote of confidence,” Dan stated. “Explain to me why the fuck I would consider giving up my job working with trained professionals to move to a cow town in the west and coach a pee wee league of merry misfits. My home is here in Florida, Perry. So is my job. I have no plans to leave either one.”

            “I see there’s still no filter on that mouth of yours,” Perry chided. “I always said that your colorful language would make a sailor blush.”

            “Nope, no filter, and there never will be. Again, tell me why I would leave my job and my home to move to Bumfuck, Montana?”

            “It’d be an excellent opportunity for you. The pay’s decent and the sheriff’s residence and vehicle are provided by the department. Those two bonuses will save you money on living expenses.”

            “Sounds like an excellent package for someone who’s interested in it. I’m not.”

            “Also because the town needs a strong leader like you,” Perry said. “I need you, Dan. It’s essential that the deputies receive proper guidance and training to assist them in performing their required duties. You’re more than qualified to teach them how to be responsible officers of the law and help them build up their self-confidence. They’re all capable of learning, Dan. Their only problem is that no one’s ever taken the time to teach them. I can’t think of anyone else competent enough to convert not only the officers, but the department, into a well-respected and reliable branch of law enforcement.”

            “It’s nice to hear you say that, Perry, but it doesn’t change my mind.”

            “Can you at least do me a favor then? As my friend?”

            “Ask and find out.”

            “Don’t give me your final answer until you’ve checked the place out. Come out here for a visit and get a feel for the town and the people before you say no.”

            “Perry, I can’t ask to take time off on a whim while I’ve got open cases. Plus, it costs money to fly. Money, I might add, that I don’t have. I’m still fighting the life insurance company over the payout for Maggie and Karina. It’s taking every dime I make to keep my head above water.”

            “Damn, Dan. It’s been months. What the hell is taking them so long?”

            “Ever since I filed the claims, it’s been one excuse after another,” Dan explained. “First, they didn’t receive the investigative report. Then they didn’t receive their death certificates. Then they tried to argue that the premiums weren’t current. Insurance is the biggest fucking legal scam in the world. If you don’t pay your premiums every month, you get cancelled. File a claim, and they’ll find every excuse in the fucking book not to pay out on it.”

            “I agree with everything you said,” Perry replied. “Unfortunately, insurance is something we all need. I’m sorry to hear that you’re having such a hard time with it.”

            “I won’t stop fighting. I’ll make them pay if I have to take it out of their hides.”

            Perry laughed. “I’m sure you would. Back to the issue at hand. Knowing you the way I do, I’m willing to bet that you have hundreds of hours of vacation and sick time saved up. They’re yours, Dan. Use them.”

            “I don’t know, Perry,” Dan sighed. “Financially speaking, taking a trip isn’t feasible right now.”

            “If it’s the finances preventing you from saying yes, I can resolve that issue right now. The cost of your flight and hotel stay will be covered by the county since we’re requesting you to make the trip. All you have to do is say the word and all of your arrangements will be made. What have you got to lose by visiting? Besides, getting away from there for a while would do you good. It’ll give you a break from…”

Perry didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t need to. Dan knew what he was going to say without him speaking a word.

Flying to Montana wouldn’t change anything. He could travel to the ends of the earth and still never be able to get away from his pain. It would forever be a part of him. Furthermore, he didn’t want his anger to go away. It was his deep-seated fury that kept him going, kept him determined to find the bastard responsible for his grief and misery and deliver well deserved justice to the scum sucking son of a bitch.

“How are you doing with everything?” Perry asked.

“Dealing with it the only way I know how,” Dan told him honestly. “One day at a time.”

“You still haven’t gotten any answers?”

“No. The cocksucker seems to have vanished from the face of the earth. He’ll fuck up eventually. When he does, I’ll be there to make sure he never destroys another family the way he did mine.”

“Hang in there, pal,” Perry said. “Dan, I’ve got about five minutes before I have to be in a meeting. Can I tell them that you’ve accepted the offer to at least come here and check it out?”

Perry was right. A mini vacation would do him good. The added bonus was that he wouldn’t have to pay a dime to finally get to see what the west looked like outside of magazine photos.

“You know what, Perry?” Dan finally said. “I think I will take you up on your offer. What’s the harm in having a look? As long as you understand that a visit doesn’t mean commitment.”

“I understand perfectly.”

“I’ll ask the captain to temporarily reassign my cases. He’s been harassing me to take some time off anyway. Go ahead and make the arrangements then let me know when I’ll be coming.”

“Sounds great, Dan. You won’t regret it, I promise. After you see the splendor of the west, you’re not going to want to go back to Florida.”

Chapter 3

            Perry picked Dan up at the Helena airport, drove the two hours back to Cowbell, then took him on a brief tour of the modest-sized rural city prior to their scheduled meeting with the town board.

            “It’s not heavily populated,” Perry told him. “But it is quiet and peaceful with good, decent, and honest people.”

            “What’s the population here?” Dan asked.

            “According to the most recent census, twenty thousand,” Perry answered. “Unlike West Palm Beach, many of the residences here are spread several miles apart. You still have your smaller neighborhoods and apartment complexes inside the city limits. One good thing about living in the country is that you never have to worry about your next-door neighbor overhearing your conversations or banging on your wall in the middle of the night telling you to turn your television down.”

            Perry pulled into a parking spot in front of a bakery. “Come on,” he said. “I want you to meet someone.”

            They were greeted by the welcoming aroma of vanilla and cinnamon. The glass display cases were filled with various types of donuts, pastries, cookies, and cakes. Patrons sat at tables and on counter stools savoring their breakfast bagels and freshly brewed coffee.

            “Hi, Ms. Nakamura.”

            “Perry,” the petite Asian woman exclaimed, coming from behind the counter and embracing Perry in a tight hug. “Me no see you long time.”

            “I know, Ms. Nakamura. I don’t get down this way as much as I’d like to.”

            “Who you?” she asked, looking up at Dan.

            “Ms. Nakamura, this is Daniel Chesterfield, a friend of mine who’s visiting from Florida. Daniel, this is Kai Nakamura, the best pastry chef in the whole western hemisphere.”

            “Oh, you,” she said, lightly tapping Perry’s arm. To Dan, she winked and said, “You tall and good looking. I like tall, good-looking men.”

            “I’m trying to talk him into considering taking on the sheriff’s job,” Perry told her.

            “Such shame about Charlie,” she said with a frown. “He such nice man.”

            “Yes, he was,” Perry agreed. “I’m about to take Dan for a ride around town. How about two of your French twists to eat along the way.”

            “Still your favorite, I see,” she said, individually wrapping the pastries in wax paper and passing them to Perry.

            “How much?”

            “For you, no charge.”

            Perry dropped a five-dollar bill into the tip jar and thanked her.

            “Hey, you? Tall, good-looking man?” she called as they reached the door. “You take job and move to Cowbell, then you come see me anytime,” she said with a wink.

            “She likes you,” Perry said as they stepped onto the sidewalk. “She doesn’t flirt with everyone.”

            “Only tall, good-looking men,” Dan smiled. “No wonder she didn’t flirt with you.”

            The downtown business area consisted of three streets, each one four blocks long, that were lined with various types of industries, ranging from western wear to jewelry, shoe and eyeglass repairs, and everything else in between.

            “What’s the crime rate here?” Dan asked.

            Perry laughed. “What crime? In big cities like West Palm or Miami, murders and drug deals rank highest on the crime index. Here, writing a traffic ticket is considered a big deal.”

            “Then why the need for a sheriff’s department?” Dan asked.

            “It’s more of a desire than a need,” Perry explained. “After the Bear Creek County Sheriff’s Department rezoned their jurisdictional responsibilities, the changes omitted Cowbell and left the town without law enforcement coverage from the sheriff’s office. That’s when the residents voted unanimously to have their own sub-station here. It makes them feel safer knowing that the department exists and that emergencies outside the city limits will be responded to.”

            “Don’t they have a city police department?”

            “Yes, but city officers aren’t authorized to respond to emergencies outside the city limits, and the response times from county personnel to rural areas wasn’t acceptable. As it is anywhere else, city police deal with incidents inside the city limits, and county law enforcement handles everything else. Knowing that there’s a separate entity dedicated to the residents of Cowbell and having a department that can respond to their calls faster and efficiently gave them the sense of comfort that they needed.”

            Dan nodded. “I can understand them feeling that way,” he said. “If there’s no crime here, why is there such a high need for emergency call responses? What types of emergencies are you referring to?”

            “Remember, Dan, you’re in the country here. Don’t be surprised when your department receives calls asking a deputy to respond to an emergency involving a pregnant horse or a runaway hog.”

            “Next you’re going to tell me that, as the sheriff, it’s my responsibility to ensure that every call is answered, regardless of the circumstances.”

            “You guessed it.”

            “I sure as shit hope I never get a call to come and check on a chicken that has an egg stuck in its ass because I sure as hell won’t dig it out.”

            Perry laughed. “That’s the moment when you’d politely place a call to the veterinarian of their choice and request a house call. There will be no chicken choking for Daniel Chesterfield.”

            “Good,” Dan nodded. “Tell me what else is here.”

            “One elementary school. Middle and high schools are combined and occupy a single building. There are also churches, a couple of daycare centers, and a grocery store.”

            “A grocery store?” Dan asked, turning to look at Perry. “As in singular?”

            “Yep,” Perry nodded. “A farmer’s market is held every other Saturday for those who like fresh fruits and vegetables.”

            “How about restaurants? I’m not a huge fan of cooking for one.”

            “There’re a few. Adjusting to life in a rural town takes a lot of getting used to after you’ve spent your entire life living in a big city like West Palm. In the end, it’s all worth it.”

            “You seem to know a lot about this place, Perry. Have you lived here before?”

            “Yes, but not for long. Even after I moved away, I still came back to visit. I like the quaintness here. The folks in Cowbell are friendly and caring.”

            “How about hospitals, doctors’ offices, ambulances, things like that? Cowbell has those, right?”

            Perry hesitated before speaking. “Yes and no.”

            “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Dan asked. “Either they do, or they don’t. Which is it?”

            “There’s a single-story hospital here with a medical clinic next door. I’ll drive by there so you can see it. I’ll also show you where the sheriff’s office is located,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Then we’ll need to get back to city hall. The meeting starts in half an hour.”

            The sheriff’s office was located on Bear Avenue in the downtown business section of Cowbell. Situated on a corner block, the brick front building appeared to have been an industrial office at one time, perhaps a newspaper or printing store. The plate glass window was stenciled with gold lettering identifying it as Bear Creek County Sheriff’s Office Sub-Station. Only one of the five parking spaces in front of the building were designated for authorized personnel. Specifically, the Sheriff. The other four were marked for visitors.

            “I would’ve never known this was a sheriff’s office if not for the writing on the front window,” Dan said. “I don’t see any patrol cars.”

            “That’s because there aren’t any,” Perry said hesitantly. “Deputies drive their own vehicles. They’re supplied with magnetized decals for the two front doors, one for each side, as well as portable lights and sirens for use when they’re called to an emergency.”

            Dan turned in his seat and stared at Perry. “You’re fucking kidding me, aren’t you?”

            Perry shook his head. “Afraid not.”

            “Do I need to tell you how unprofessional that is?”

            “Dan, between the city and state governments, we’re working every day towards making improvements to the department here hoping to enhance its reputation.”

            “What’s wrong with its reputation?”

            “It’s not the best,” he said. “There have been some challenges.”

            “It’s not the best,” Dan repeated. “What the hell does that even mean, Perry? What’s wrong with it that makes it not so good.”

            “I’m not really sure I know how to explain that to you,” Perry said. “I think it’s best if you wait and let those with more information fill you in.”

            “No,” Dan protested. “You’re going to tell me right now or else I see no reason to keep this meeting appointment. I’ll collect my things, say thanks for the trip out here, and take my ass right back to Florida where it belongs.”

            “In all honesty, Dan, I don’t know a whole lot about what led to the citizens not trusting the department anymore. It could be that they found out that the deputies weren’t properly trained and that they’re inexperienced. It could also be something else entirely. It’s best if you wait and hear it from someone who can actually explain the situation to you.”

            “If it’s nothing more than a training issue, the problem can easily be remedied. So can a lack of experience. That’s what training’s for. Continuing education makes us all better at our jobs. Is that all it is, Perry, or is there something else you’re not telling me?”

            “I’m not sure about the full scope of distrust with the department, Dan,” Perry stated. “What I can tell you is that the lack of adequate training has definitely become an issue.”

            “Alright,” Dan said with a nod. “I trust that you’re being honest with me, Perry. If I find out otherwise, you know how pissed I’ll be, don’t you?”

            “Yes. Just because I’ve been gone from the department for several years doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten that temper of yours.”

            “I don’t have a temper,” Dan argued.

            “No, of course you don’t,” Perry teased. “Let’s go get this meeting over with, shall we?”

            City Hall was a two-story, white stucco building located two blocks and one street over from the sheriff’s office. It, too, occupied the corner lot of the block. The American and Montana State Flags were at full mast as they flapped in the light midday breeze.

            The conference room was situated on the second floor. The Mayor of Cowbell was already seated at the head of the table when Perry and Dan walked in.

            “Mr. Mayor, this is Daniel Chesterfield,” Perry said. “Hopefully, this town’s newest sheriff. Dan, this is Howard Mayfield, the Mayor of Cowbell.”

            The Mayor stood and shook Dan’s hand, then quickly sat back down.

            “Where is everyone?” Perry asked.

            “No one else is coming,” Howard answered. “I didn’t see the need to bother them since this meeting won’t take long.”

            “Mr. Mayor, this is not what we agreed to,” Perry argued. “It was my understanding that members of the county board and the Chief of Police would be in attendance and have the opportunity to meet Mr. Chesterfield.”

            “It was my decision for them not to attend.”

            “I don’t understand why you would do that. Mr. Chesterfield traveled over two thousand miles for this meeting. The least you could’ve done was allow them to meet him. Why don’t you tell me what’s really going on here.”

            Dan knew exactly what was going on. What he and Perry were witnessing was the ire of small-town politics playing out because the Mayor was pissed about not getting his way about who would be hired as the new sheriff of Cowbell. Most likely, he’d all but promised the position to a buddy of his until Perry had stepped in and invited him to interview for the job. Howard Mayfield was hoping he’d succeed in scaring Dan away with his showy display of power and petty childlike behavior.

            What he didn’t understand was that his hopefulness that Dan would decline the offer only made him more determined to irritate the shit out of the bald, pudgy curmudgeon, or piss him off by accepting the job and relocating to Cowbell where he could be a constant thorn in the side of Howard Mayfield.

            “There’s nothing going on,” the Mayor replied. “Like I said, this meeting will be short. I’ll explain the job to your friend, go over the salary and conditions, get his answer, and be done. Have a seat, both of you.”

            Perry glared at the man angrily, ashamed that he was behaving in such an unprofessional manner in the presence of a visitor. An action that would likely get his fat ass reported to the Governor.

            “Here’s a copy of last year’s operational budget,” the Mayor said, sliding a single sheet of paper across the table to Dan and Perry. “As you can see, there isn’t a lot of money available to operate the department. Anyone who takes the position will have to make do with what they’re given.”

            Dan briefly glanced over the form, turning it front to back. “Where’s the rest of it?”

            “Where’s the rest of what?” Howard asked.

            “The budget,” Dan replied. “Surely there’s more to it than this.”

            “Nope,” the Mayor said coldly. “That’s it.”

            “There aren’t any funds allocated for uniforms, vehicles, or training,” Dan stated with surprise. “No allotments for business operations or office supplies.”

            “There are not, and there won’t be,” Howard said sternly. “What you see is what you get.”

            “Dan,” Perry said. “Remember me telling you that the deputies drive their own vehicles?”

            “Yeah, I remember you telling me that,” Dan replied. “Do I need to tell either one of you what a crock of bullshit that is? What kind of law enforcement agency requires their officers to use their own vehicles in the line of duty?”

            “Cowbell Sheriff’s Office, that’s who,” Howard said. “Like it or leave it, that’s the way it is. They all knew the requirements when they took the job.”

            “Who’s responsible to pay for damages to their vehicles if they’re involved in mishaps while being used in the line of duty? Does the cost of repairs come out of the city’s budget or the county’s?”

            “Neither,” Mayfield replied.

            “They have to cover the cost themselves while performing their duties as a county employee?”

            “Only their deductibles,” Mayfield stated. “That’s what insurance is for.”

            “No wonder the department is such a joke and not taken seriously,” Dan exclaimed angrily. “Hell fire, do they pay their own salaries, too?”

            “I’ll let the budget you’re holding answer that question,” Mayfield said.

            “These deputies barely make enough money to survive on,” Dan said. “Then you expect them to drive their own vehicles and furnish their own clothing? Do they at least get gas allowances?”

            Perry shook his head. “Unfortunately, not at this time. We are, however, currently working on rectifying that issue.”

            “From what I’m seeing and hearing, it sounds to me like these deputies pay the county to work there instead of the other way around,” Dan complained. “I’m surprised the department has any deputies at all with these regulations.”

            “It was Charlie’s obligation to hire them and their option to work for the department,” Mayfield stated. “They’re not obligated to remain employed there if they’re unhappy. They’re free to resign whenever they please if they disagree with operational standards.”

            Perry’s jaws twitched in anger. He’d had enough of the smartass mayor’s attitude. “Dan, can you please step outside for a moment?” he asked, opening the door to the conference room. “The Mayor and I need to have a little chat.”

            Dan could hear raised voices through the door, but not clear enough to make out what they were saying. Knowing Perry the way he did, he imagined he was chewing the Mayor a new asshole for being so snarky and condescending. Whatever he’d said had worked. When Dan returned to the room, it was clear that the Mayor had undergone a major attitude adjustment.

            “Mr. Chesterfield, all of your concerns will be taken into consideration. While I can’t guarantee you that adjustments will be made to the budget, I will certainly raise the issues with those who can make the changes. I’m sure you understand those kinds of decisions aren’t up to me.”

            Dan rose from his chair. “I’d like to see what else the town has to offer and learn more about what’s required of the sheriff before I make a decision on what I’d like to do.”

            “You come highly recommended,” the Mayor said. “The job is yours if you want it.”

            “What the hell did you say to him?” Dan asked once they were back in Perry’s car. “He went from being a complete asshole to a smooth-talking snake.”

            “Nothing important,” Perry said. “All I had to do was remind him of the Governor’s power and what a shame it’d be not to have any support for his next election.”

            Dan smiled. “I fucking hate politics.”

            “Look, Dan,” Perry said. “I’m not going to lie to you and sugarcoat anything about the position just to get you to consider it. Like I told you on the phone, the sheriff’s department here is in real danger of being disassembled and abolished. The citizens here would prefer that didn’t happen. The department needs a major overhaul, and there’s no one in this town who’s qualified to do what needs to be done.”

            “I’m sure there’s a deputy or two who’d like to be considered.”

            “You’re right, but that’s not going to happen. None of them are qualified to take on the position of Sheriff,” Perry told him. “With only minimal training under their belts, they’re barely qualified to be deputies.”

            “That’s just fucking great. In addition to everything I know so far, should I accept your offer, I’d also be walking into a firepit of animosity. You can’t expect them to accept an outsider with open arms, especially if they feel that the outsider robbed them of a job that they should’ve rightfully been chosen for.”

            “On some level, you might be right,” Perry agreed. “Don’t worry too much about that. Ruby will have them tamed by the time you take over.”

            “Who’s Ruby?”

            “The Girl Friday for the department. She knows everything about operations inside and out. Whatever you need to know, she’ll be able to tell you. I won’t arrange any meetings with her until you’ve made your decision. I see no reason to waste her time or yours.”

            “You sound so reassuring, Perry,” Dan said sarcastically.

            “The sheriff’s position needs to be filled by someone with extensive experience in the field of law enforcement, Dan. Someone who can offer on-the-job training and who understands how things work and when and how to oil the cogs to keep the department running smoothly. It needs someone exactly like you. I wasn’t lying when I said you were the first person that came to mind when the position became vacant.”

            “If I’m going to receive the same amount of resistance from the staff and the citizens as I did from the Mayor, then it’s really not worth my time. You know I don’t play well with others who try to thwart me from doing my job. If the Mayor has a habit of sticking his nose in law enforcement affairs that don’t involve him, I’ll be fired on my first day for cussing his ass out.”

            “He won’t be a problem,” Perry said.

            “How can you be so sure?”

            “He hasn’t meddled so far,” Perry answered. “If he tries, all you have to do is call me. In turn, I’ll notify the Governor who’ll then make a phone call to the Mayor. Problem solved.”

            Dan took a deep breath and exhaled heavily. “I will admit that it’s beautiful here,” he said. “It certainly isn’t anything like Florida.”

            “No, it isn’t. Instead of the beach, you get Yellowstone River. Grizzlies instead of mosquitoes. Plains instead of a concrete jungle. Mountains instead of palm trees.”

            “Okay, okay, Perry, I get it. The west is different from the south.”

            “And,” Perry added. “You’ll get a break from the searing summer heat.”

            “What you call downtown here is the equivalent of a city block in West Palm,” Dan said. “That will definitely take some getting used to.”

            “It’s sufficient for the population here. Cottontail is a little larger than Cowbell. It’s about ten miles away if you want to do more extensive shopping.”

            “By extensive, you mean a mall?”

            “No. The closest mall is in Billings. I told you, Dan, Cowbell’s not like West Palm where there’s a shopping plaza on every corner. Know what else it doesn’t have? Bumper to bumper traffic, constantly honking horns, or gas pollution. Life here is simple and down to earth.”

            “I can see that. You know what I didn’t see, Perry? A bank or that single grocery store you mentioned.”

            “They’re both on the main highway leading out of town. You’ll pass them on your way to see the property.”

            “When are we going there?”

            “I’m not going,” Perry replied. “I have a couple of meetings this afternoon to attend. I’ve arranged for my assistant to take you out there.”

            “Out there?” Dan asked. “How far are we talking?”

            “About five miles.”

            “I guess that’s not too bad.”

            “You’ll fall in love with the place the minute you see it. It’s a beautiful drive getting there. The landscape and scenery are stunning.”

            “Will I see you again before I leave?”

            “Probably not,” Perry answered. “I have to get back to Helena. I’ll give you a couple of days to mull things over once you get back home, then I’ll call you. I hope you accept the job offer, Dan. This town could really use you.”

            “I’ll give it every consideration and have my answer by the time you call,” Dan assured him.

CHAPTER ONE

            When I penned my memoir, Ghost Girl, I did so to bring comfort and hope to the grieving to let them know that the death of someone they loved deeply isn’t a permanent goodbye. I never expected the book to get the overwhelming attention and acceptance that it did, especially considering what the premise of the book is about. I know all too well that the world is full of skeptics and naysayers, some who refuse to believe that spirits walk among us, and those who straddle the fence because they can’t decide whether to believe or not. I’ve faced my fair share of them all. Still, it’s wonderful to know that sharing my experiences dealing with the afterlife captured the interests and beliefs of so many readers, many who were suffering losses of their own and appreciated the encouraging words that I offered them when they needed to hear them the most.

            Since the publication of my book, I have been inundated with correspondence from readers requesting that I indulge them with more stories that involve the use of my unique skills that grants me the ability to communicate with the dead.

            I have often been told that my encounters have been an inspiration to those dealing with the overbearing pain of losing a loved one, and that my insights brought them hope that they couldn’t find anywhere else. The mere thought that the spirits of their loved ones were watching over them softened their grief and made the losses more bearable.

            I gave considerable thought about whether I wanted to share more anecdotes. Initially, I wasn’t going to. Not because they weren’t interesting and important, but because my medical practice keeps me busy and fills my days. I wasn’t willing to sacrifice my evenings and weekends on a computer compiling another manuscript and using precious time that could be spent with my family and friends.

“Think about what you did for me,” my son, Brian reminded me. “How many other kids are out there in a situation like mine with no one in their corner to fight for them? I don’t even like thinking about what would’ve happened to me if you and dad hadn’t come along when you did.”

David and Christi offered their support as well, along with my other two children. Having a trustworthy rooting section on my side of the court presented me with a distinctive perspective.

I decided to move forward – with one exception. I wouldn’t share any more stories that involved my dear and beloved friend, Jerome Simms. Those are memories that I prefer to keep safely tucked away in my heart.

            If you have read either of my books, then you already know that I inadvertently came to possess my skills at the tender age of fourteen after suffering a head injury while playing softball with friends. Prior to the accident, I was an average teenager with no special talents. I also didn’t believe in ghosts. Since the accident, and having seen the things I’ve seen, I can assure you that ghosts do exist, they freely roam the earth, and sometimes they seek me out because they need assistance resolving an issue that’s preventing them from being able to move on and cross over to the spiritual realm.

            Throughout my life, I’ve been involved in numerous legal incidents and assisted Chief Simms with several of his cases. At fifteen, I helped him solve the disappearance and murder of a fellow student who attended the same high school as me. Stacy Amberville was reported missing following the Homecoming game. After she made her presence known to me while I was in Chemistry class, I knew that she was no longer missing. She was dead. Through the investigatory process, it was determined that she was murdered by her then boyfriend, Blake Chutney, and two of his friends. With the assistance of Stacy’s spirit, I led Chief Simms directly to the location of her body, where her murderers had dumped her like yesterday’s garbage. Her parents were devastated by the death of their only child, yet relieved to have had closure in the case instead of forever wondering where she was and what had happened to her.

            Unfortunately, my assistance in the case also put a target on my back, drawn there by Blake Chutney, who was determined to shut me up permanently to prevent me from telling the authorities everything that I knew about him and what he’d done to Stacy. He and one of his buddies kidnapped me and held me hostage in an old, abandoned sugar cane guard shack, where I was beaten into unconsciousness. Had Chief Simms not found me when he did, Blake would have killed me. The ordeal landed me in the hospital for several days with bruised ribs, a black eye, and a busted lip that required stitches.

            In addition to the Amberville case, I delivered the unfortunate news that the fire at Club Xanadu that took the lives of a hundred innocent people two years before, including the Chief’s baby sister, was arson and not an accident as was initially reported. Sasha’s spirit inhabited my body and showed me the events of that tragic night, including the identity of the arsonist. Sorry to say, the guilty party turned out to be a police officer under Chief Simms’ supervision, although he wasn’t an officer at the time that he committed the crime. Upon discovery of his involvement, he was stripped of his credentials, arrested for setting a fire that resulted in multiple deaths, and found guilty by a jury of his peers that sent him to prison for the rest of his natural life.

            With the help of my husband, David, we exposed a child abduction and murder ring deep in the Florida Everglades and brought closure to scores of grieving parents who’d waited years to receive news about the disappearances of their children. The remains of fifty youngsters were uncovered on the Tibbetts’ farm, some who’d been there for twenty years. Out of the five who were being held captive and used as farm slaves, Brian was the only one who went unclaimed. Not willing to allow him to be taken in as a ward of the state after the hell he’d already been through, we took him in as a foster child. Several months later, we adopted him. He is now our son.

            In the hundreds of cases that I worked on with Chief Simms, some of them involved the spirits of the dead. Others did not, but my skills proved to be helpful whenever they were needed.

            After a rocky start, I eventually developed a close relationship with Christi Newsome, the newly elected Chief of Police. Like many others, she was a skeptic about my abilities as well. It took hours of storytelling and sharing my experiences to convince her that spirits truly are in our midst. I’m not sure if she fully believes in the prospect that spirits are real, but she fully trusts in me, and that’s what’s most important. She depends on my assistance as much as I depend on hers. Together, we make one heck of a team.

            We’ve only worked a few cases together, but each one has stuck with me and all of them for distinct reasons. I will forever be amazed at how truly cruel, manipulative, and evil some people are, and the lengths they will go to feed their narcissistic egos and criminalistic impulses.

            As you will see in this story, it isn’t always restless spirits who haunt the existing. Sometimes, the living is haunted by the living, by a person or persons who embody and personify evil de facto. They use their power on those who are vulnerable and defenseless, ones who are unable to stand up or speak for themselves. Abusers feed on the fear and negativity that their victims suffer. They revel in the destruction they cause, elated by the pleasure and glorification that it brings them.

            The case of fourteen-year-old Sage Barclay tells a devastating story, one that proves that not only do the spirits of the departed roam the earth, but fiends disguised as human beings do as well.

            And sometimes, they’re so cleverly masked that the wolf beneath the sheep’s clothing isn’t exposed until it’s too late.

            Beings such as this have bleak and malicious minds with one objective, and they’ll take extreme measures to satiate their evil desires.

            That singular goal is the ruination of innocent lives.

CHAPTER TWO

          It was a Saturday afternoon in mid-November when I met Sage Barclay.

            The day had been long and tiresome. Joshua and Jennifer were home from college for the Thanksgiving holiday and our family had spent the entire day in West Palm Beach shopping.

            We’d just begun unloading the car when my cell phone rang.

            “This is Dr. Blanchard,” I said, shouldering my phone while I grabbed a handful of grocery bags from the trunk.

            “DeeDee, I need you.” It was Christi Newsome, the police chief, and my close friend. “I’m sorry to bother you on the weekend while you’re enjoying your family time, but can you possibly spare a half hour or so to come to the station?”

            “What for?”

            “I arrested a young girl earlier for shoplifting.”

            “What does that have to do with me?”

            “Nothing as far as the arrest goes. It’s her demeanor that’s bothering me.”

            “How so?”

            “I think there’s something else going on with this kid, something she’s not telling me. I was hoping you could come and talk to her and see if you can get anything out of her.”

            “You think she’s being abused?”

            “Mom, where do you want me to put this?” Jennifer asked, holding a paper shopping bag from the local farmer’s market.

            “Kitchen counter for now. I’ll put it away later. Sorry, Christi. Go on.”

            “Hard to say. Her appearance doesn’t suggest it. She looks healthy and well taken care of. She certainly isn’t a street urchin looking for handouts.”

            “Looks can be deceiving, Christi. Verbal and mental abuse don’t leave visible marks, but they’re just as damaging as physical violence.”

            “All I can tell you is that this girl doesn’t strike me as the kind of kid who’d get arrested for stealing. I could be wrong, DeeDee, but I think she broke the law on purpose intending to get caught. It’s hard to explain. You’ll need to see for yourself.”

            “How old is she?”

            “No idea. She’s not speaking.”

            “Is she from Pahokee?”

            “Again, no idea. I imagine she is. If not, I’d like to know where she came from and how she got here. She’s too young to have driven herself to the store.”

            “How long has it been since you arrested her?”

            “About two hours ago.”

            “And you’re just now calling me?”

            “I didn’t want to bother you at all. I wanted to keep her here as long as I could to see if I could get her to talk. I’ve tried everything I know to do but nothing is working. State protocol requires me to deliver her to juvenile detention, but I wanted to hold off on doing that until I spoke with you.”

            “Where are her parents?”

            “Good question. If she’d tell me her name, I could at least check to see if they’re Pahokee residents. She hasn’t said one word the whole time she’s been here.”

            “No one’s called the station to inquire about her or report her missing?”

            “No. But that doesn’t necessarily raise any red flags. Maybe she told them she was going over to a friend’s house and that’s where they believe she is.”

            I let out a deep sigh. I’d promised to make lasagna for dinner, but that wasn’t looking too promising now. Hopefully, my trip to the police station wouldn’t take long and I could hurry back and keep my promise and not disappoint my family.

            “I hate asking you to do this, DeeDee. You know I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t think it was important.”

            “I know you wouldn’t, Christi. It’s okay. Give me fifteen minutes to finish unloading and putting things away, then I’ll be there.”

            “Thanks, DeeDee.”

            “What’s going on?” David asked, grabbing the last of the bags and slamming the trunk closed.

            “Christi needs me at the station. She arrested a young girl for shoplifting but thinks there’s something more serious going on with her. She wants me to see if I can get her to talk since she can’t.”

            “Is she a local girl?”

            “Christi doesn’t know anything about her or her family. She’s not talking.”

            “You go and do what you need to do to help that kid,” David said, giving me a peck on the cheek. “The boys and I will put the groceries away, then I’ll start dinner and see how badly I can burn the lasagna noodles before you get back.”

            “Kids?” I called out when I entered the house. Joshua and Brian were already in the kitchen unloading the bags. “I have to run out for a while. I shouldn’t be gone too long.”

            “Where are you going, mom?” Jennifer asked, following me from the living room into the kitchen.

            “To the police station to see if I can help Christi with a situation.”

            “Can I come along?” she asked after I explained why I needed to go. “Studying her behavior could be beneficial to my education.”

            “I don’t see any reason why not, as long as you understand that you’re only there to observe.”

            “I understand.”

            “Me and this guy will help dad with dinner, won’t we, squirt?” Joshua said, gently elbowing Brian.

            “I have a better idea,” David told him. “Why don’t you and Brian go out back and play catch. Too many cooks in the kitchen spoil the broth.”

            “I think he’s trying to tell us he doesn’t want our help,” Brian smiled, looking up at Joshua.

            “Good call there, sport,” David replied.

            “Go grab the mitts, little bro,” Joshua told Brian.

            “It’s almost four-thirty now,” I said, glancing at my watch. “This shouldn’t take more than an hour.”

            “Do what you need to do to help that girl, DeeDee, and do it without feeling rushed.”

            “Thanks, David,” I said, kissing him goodbye. “I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”

CHAPTER THREE

            I arrived at the police station at four-thirty-five. Like every other time that I’d pulled into the parking lot, I was reminded of Chief Simms and the many hours I’d spent inside the building, either in his office or the radio room, discussing cases and socializing with the dispatchers. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about him. I miss him terribly and would give almost anything for the opportunity to have one more friendly chat with him so I could tell him how sorry I am that I didn’t take him up on his last offer to drop by for a visit. I have been filled with deep regret and guilt ever since. A part of me knows that he would’ve never held my actions against me; however, the region of my mind that won’t let me forget what I failed to do, haunts me every day.

The chief’s police badge that his wife, Louise, presented to me on the day of his funeral is proudly displayed inside a curio cabinet in my home. On occasion, I remove it to restore its golden shine, marvel at it for several minutes, and then immediately return it to its protective case and place it safely back on the shelf.

            On that Saturday afternoon, there were only four other cars in the lot. I presumed they either belonged to weekend employees or anglers who’d parked there and walked up the levee to get to the fishing pier because lakeside parking was limited.

            “Not much has changed around here since the last time I visited,” Jennifer said. “Not even the color of paint on the fire and police department buildings. You’d think after years of being painted tan, they’d liven up the place with a nice shade of blue or green and have an artist paint a tropical-themed mural on the sides like beachfront properties do. Maybe even blast some island music from outside speakers for people to enjoy when they pass by,” she smiled, doing a hula dance in her seat. “Seriously though, mom, small cities like Pahokee die and shrivel away when those in charge don’t fight to make improvements that’ll encourage businesses to set up shop here and bring in revenue. If they don’t start making some much needed improvements around here, the residents will pack up and move to the coast.”

            “From your lips to God’s ears, Jen. That’s politics for you,” I replied. “There’s not much room for progression when the mayor is a money-grubbing snake who’s more interested in lining his own pockets than he is in improving the city that he’s responsible for.”

            “If the residents are so dissatisfied with him, why did they reelect him?”

            “He ran unopposed in the last election. Half the town council is as corrupt as he is, and the good and honest ones always get overruled whenever they make suggestions that would benefit every citizen. The last town council meeting I attended turned into an accusatory, finger-pointing shouting match that pitted members against one another. All of them blamed each other for the city’s failure to grow. No official business was conducted that night. I was so ashamed of the spectacle that I got up and left. I haven’t been back to another one since.”

            “Sounds to me like it’s time to clean house. There must be a hand full of people around here who are popular enough to give him and the council a run for their money.”

            “If there is, they’re either too scared to run against him, or refuse to because of a lack of experience or fear of losing.”

            “You should run for office, mom,” Jennifer suggested. “You’d be an excellent mayor. You’ve lived here your whole life, you know the people here and what they want, and you’re more knowledgeable about Pahokee than anyone else I know. It’s going to take someone like you to help it get its reputation and respect back.”

            “I appreciate the vote of confidence, but no thanks. I prefer running my practice without unnecessary interruptions. There’d be plenty of those if I were the mayor. I’d get called away from my office every time a town issue arose that needed to be dealt with, which would inevitably interfere with my ability to successfully treat my patients. Besides, there’s nothing I hate worse than politics.”

            Jennifer’s plans when she began college were to return to Pahokee and teach at the elementary school. After expressing her concern about Pahokee’s failure to grow and nurture, stifled because of crooked politicians who turned down any business proposition that’d generate jobs and revenue for the city, I wondered if she’d change her mind after graduating from college and seek employment in West Palm Beach instead. I wouldn’t blame her if she did. She’d still be close enough to home that David and I could visit her regularly, and vice versa. She had less than a year of school left, so I’d learn of her decision soon enough.

            The bell over the door chimed when Jennifer and I stepped inside. Christi was visible through the glass of the radio room. She wore a troubled expression while she spoke to someone on the phone. First, she nodded, then shook her head, scowled, then smiled. When she looked up and saw me and Jennifer standing in the lobby, she held up a finger signaling that she’d be done shortly.

            “Is everything okay?” I asked when she exited the control center. “You were rather animated while you were on the phone.”

            She waved me off with a laugh. “I was talking to one of my officers about what to bring me for dinner. I couldn’t decide what I wanted. After going through a list of options, we both decided on Biff Burger. I love the sauce they put on their hamburgers.”

            “In Belle Glade, right?” Jennifer asked.

            “Yes,” Christi answered.

            “There used to be one here when I was little. I remember loving their tater tots. They were so crunchy.”

            “Christi, this is my daughter, Jennifer. Jennifer, this is Christi Newsome, the Chief of Police.”

            Brian was the only one of our children that Christi had met. The last time they were home, she’d been away on vacation in the Bahamas.

            “You didn’t have to tell me who she was for me to figure it out,” Christi replied with a smile, extending a hand. “She looks just like you. It’s good to finally meet you. Your mom has told me quite a bit about you and Joshua.”

            “She speaks very highly of you as well,” Jennifer said, shaking her hand. “Nice to meet you, too.”

            “Jennifer asked if she could come along to observe. I hope that’s not a problem.”

            “Not at all. I thought you were studying to be a schoolteacher.”

            “I am. Child behavior is part of my studies. I told mom that I thought this might be beneficial in showing and teaching me how child interaction works. Books can only teach me so much.”

            “Then this might not be a great starting place for you. To learn how to interact, both parties must be willing to communicate. She isn’t.”

            “Is there anything else you can tell me about this young lady that you didn’t tell me over the phone?”

            “Nothing has changed in the past ten minutes.”

            “We still don’t know her name or the whereabouts of her parents?”

            “No.”

            “What did she steal and where did she steal it from?”

            “She tried to steal a can of hairspray from Bolton’s,” Christi frowned. “She didn’t get away with it.”

            Bolton’s was the corner drug store that Donna and I frequented often in our teens. It was the same pharmacy where we enjoyed malts at the fountain after the Homecoming parade on the day that we overheard Blake and his friends plotting their night of malice against Stacy that resulted in her death. The same corner drug store where Christi and I had our first cup of coffee together while I was involved in the Tibbetts case.

            “Then why was she arrested?”

            “Attempted theft is still considered to be shoplifting, DeeDee. Even if the perpetrator didn’t succeed. The law is the law no matter the age of the offender or the seriousness of the crime.”

            “I understand the law, Christi. What I’m having a tough time with is that Mr. Bolton pressed charges against her. That’s unlike him. He’s always gone out of his way to help the youth of Pahokee.”

            “I can’t speak on his behalf since I don’t know him like you do, but the fact that he ordered his clerk to call the police and press charges for a one dollar can of hairspray makes me wonder if she’s done this before.”

            “That might be a question worth finding an answer to.”

            “Want to hear something weird?” Christi asked in a near whisper. “Most people would’ve taken off running once they knew someone had called the cops on them. Not this kid. She was sitting on the floor at the front counter waiting for me to get there.”

            “Was anyone standing guard over her to make sure she didn’t leave?”

            “The clerk was behind the counter at the cash register. This kid could’ve easily jumped up, exited the store, and hurried away before the clerk could even get to the door. But she didn’t.”

            “She wanted you to arrest her,” Jennifer stated, then quickly apologized for interfering.

            “You don’t have to apologize,” Christi told her. “We’re on the same thought track. That’s exactly what I believe she wanted.”

            “I can think of a million reasons why a juvenile girl might choose to do that and none of them are for good reasons. Are there any marks on her that would indicate physical abuse?”

            “Not on the parts of her body that are visible. It’s like you’ve told me before, DeeDee, not all scars left from abuse can be seen with the human eye.”

            “I’m puzzled that she was waiting for you to arrive at Bolton’s, voluntarily went with you without resistance, yet hasn’t spoken a word to justify her actions.”

            “As am I.”

            I blew out an exasperated breath, concerned that I wasn’t going to make it home in time to cook the lasagna that I’d promised.

            “Take me to her and let me see if I can get her to talk.”

Chapter 1

“I’m scared, Bill.”

Barbara Hamner cautiously peeked through the window blind into the backyard. The sun was beginning to set. Its dwindling glow shining through the copse of spruces and sugar maples cast golden shards of light onto the perfectly manicured lawn. Any other day, she would’ve watched the wondrous light display with childlike wonder, smiling as the ever-changing shadows generated by the trees danced gleefully across the yard.

Not tonight. She was too frightened to find anything enjoyable.

She found a bit of comfort in knowing that within a few hours, she’d finally be gone from this dreadful place, yet it saddened her that she would never again admire the extravagant beauty of a Newton, Pennsylvania Autumn sunset.

 She wanted to leave now, to get the hell away from this cursed community. Never to return, never looking back. Bill insisted they make their escape under the cover of complete darkness. That way, he’d told her, nosy neighbors would be tucked away safely in their warm beds and would be less likely to witness and report their unannounced and unexpected departure. A wise move on their part considering that most of the residents in their small district possessed prying eyes and loose lips, eager to viciously spread gossip regardless of whether the rumors were true or not.

Although she knew her husband was right, it didn’t help to ease her overwhelming feeling of impending doom. Barbara felt certain that she nor Bill would make it out of Sunnyside Meadows.

Letting the blind fall back into place, she turned to her husband of twenty-five years. “Do you think she knows what we’ve done? Did we do the right thing, Bill?”

Bill glanced up from the book he was reading. “If she doesn’t know yet, it’s only a matter of time before she finds out. That wicked woman has more eyes and ears in the community than an octopus has tentacles.”

He and Barbara hadn’t done anything yet, unless meeting with a reporter and telling her that they’d have a bombshell story to print once they were safely away from the property counted.

“We should go now,” Barbara told him, wringing her hands nervously as she stepped away from the den window. “Our bags are packed. All we have to do is throw them in the car and leave. I can’t stand the thought of staying here another second. Especially not now.”

“We’ve discussed this, Barbara. I’ve explained to you the importance of waiting until it’s dark.” Bill sighed heavily and laid his book on the table next to his chair. “Look, honey, if you want to know the truth, I’m as nervous and afraid as you are. We can’t change what we’ve done, so the best thing to do now is continue acting as though nothing is different.”

“I’m trying to, Bill, but I can’t relax. I’m terrified of what she’ll do to us once she finds out that we betrayed her.”

“We haven’t betrayed her yet,” Bill reminded his wife.

“We may as well have. Even a promise to reveal the truth about what goes on here will be looked upon as disloyalty in her eyes. You and I both know what her and the others are capable of.”

Bill nodded. “That we do. Let’s pray that we’re long gone from here before any of them find out anything. Not knowing where we are will make it impossible for them to retaliate against us.”

Barbara thought about that for a second, satisfied that Bill was right. The members couldn’t find them if they didn’t know where to look. Her and Bill didn’t even know where they’d end up. Their agreement was to drive until they’d put as many miles as they could between them and Sunnyside Meadows, no matter where the road ahead took them.  “What do you think they’ll do with all our belongings once they realize we’re gone and not coming back?” she asked, glancing around the room.

“Knowing how greedy these money-grubbing bastards are, they’ll take whatever they want, then either give away or burn whatever’s left. Are you sure you’re okay with leaving all our possessions behind?”

“Yes. Material assets can be replaced,” Barbara replied, jerking towards the window when a scraping noise sounded nearby. “Did you hear that?” she whispered.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Bill replied, rising from his chair and joining her at the window.

“There’s someone out there.”

“It was probably a raccoon or some other nocturnal scavenger making its nightly run for food. Let me have a look,” Bill said, using a finger to part the blind slats. “Nothing to see out there but trees.” Taking his wife by the shoulders, he said, “You’re wound as tight as a broken clock. Why don’t you go lie down and take a nap? I set the alarm for two a.m. in case either of us falls asleep.”

“That does sound inviting,” she replied. “Are you coming?”

“Maybe later,” he said, kissing her gently on the forehead.

“As much as I need the rest, I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep a wink. My nerves are too frazzled.”

“You need to try. We’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

“Don’t be too long,” she told him before exiting the den.

Bill returned to the chair and back to his book. After reading a few paragraphs, he realized he hadn’t comprehended a word of the narrative. Every sentence became a run on, all of the words binding together to form one extensive, nonsensical block of gibberish. He closed the book and placed it back on the table. His mind transformed into a race car competing in the Indianapolis 500, his thoughts speeding in relentless circles around a track of guilt. Guilt over moving into a deranged neighborhood that harbored equally deranged residents. Guilt for involving his wife in what could result in a life-threatening situation. Guilt that he hadn’t fled with his wife before now.

Guilt about the lodge. Oh, dear God, the lodge. Why did he ever accept the invitation to attend the gathering? The carnage he’d witnessed that night would forever be etched into his memory. There were some things in life that could never be unseen, no matter how hard one might try.

Sunnyside Meadows looked inviting and appealing in realtor magazines and on roadside billboards. At one time, it was. The modern-style ranch houses were stunningly beautiful. The spacious floor plans allowed for oversized rooms throughout the house. The massive size of the residences, the affordable prices, and the inclusion of community amenities sent home buyers scrambling for mortgages before the development even opened. The homes continuously sold for thousands of dollars over the asking price. Potential buyers were so eager to get in that they constantly outbid one another.

The lucky ones were those who’d cancelled their mortgage applications once they’d learned that no children or pets were allowed. They didn’t know how fortunate they were to have never purchased a home there.

Falling in love with the house at first sight, he and Barbara had been one of the first couples to move in when it opened five years before. They’d loved living there, and had enjoyed participating in the community barbecues, parties at the clubhouse, and drinks at the poolside bar while engaging in neighborly conversations with the other residents.

That’d been during a time when things were normal in the community.

Before she ruined it all with her sick and twisted games.

Because of her, everything inside their small village had changed.

Including the residents.

Only a few of the original owners still remained and continued to participate in community events, although they were now more cautious and reserved, careful who they spoke to and what they talked about. Before the community was turned upside down, a handful of owners had to sell and relocate, driven out by outlandish mortgage payments on loans with fluctuating interest rates. Those who came afterwards moved in without knowing the truth about their new neighborhood. As it turned out, they weren’t the least bit bothered by the abnormal activities that took place inside the hunting lodge. In fact, they reveled in being part of a secret society clique, elated to have found a place where their eccentricities were overlooked and accepted. They were welcomed into a club that allowed them to freely be their true selves without judgment.

Sunnyside Meadows wasn’t the utopian paradise that dreamers on the outside longed to move into.

Not anymore.

Nothing inside its stony walls was what it seemed.

A malicious and toxic infection had taken over the community and its residents, and he and Barbara no longer wanted to be a part of it.

If members of the hunting lodge knew they were preparing to make a run for it, they’d kill them. Of that, he felt certain. Members would never allow their dark and private secrets to be publicized.

Bill Hamner knew precisely what went on inside the lodge. He’d been there. Barbara had been there. Both were sickened by what they’d witnessed at the last meeting they’d attended.

They would never forget what they’d seen. The imagery would haunt them forever.

If only he’d never accepted that damn invitation, things would be different for him and Barbara now, and fleeing their million-dollar home wouldn’t have been a consideration.

They should’ve known something was amiss about the newly implemented lodge rules when they were forced to sign non-disclosure agreements containing extremely specific details of what would happen to them if they breached the contract.

Already a months-long member of the club, he’d been surprised about receiving an invitation. They’d never been sent before.  Members didn’t need to be invited to attend club events.

Belladonna changed all that.

The invite requested their presence at a masquerade party. It seemed innocent enough and sounded entertaining. What harm could come of dressing up and having fun with friends? If only. The gathering started out that way but ended tragically.

If he could go back to the day he removed the invitation from the mailbox, he’d rip the damn thing into a million pieces and toss it into the garbage can.

But he couldn’t.

What was done was done.

He had, however, made it flagrantly clear that neither he nor Barbara would be attending another event at the lodge, much to Belladonna’s chagrin.

“Shall I remind you of the consequences you’ll suffer should you ever discuss what took place here tonight?”

“You’ve made that perfectly clear,” he told her. “A reminder isn’t necessary. You don’t have to worry about us talking. I would never want any of my friends or family members to know I was associated with such a heinous act of inhumanity.”

They’d kept their word and had never mentioned it. Although he and Barbara didn’t physically participate in the act, they had still been there and saw what happened. They’d stood idly by, disturbed by what they were witnessing, their intense fear rendering them incapable of doing anything to help that poor girl. In the privacy of their home, they’d discussed that night on multiple occasions. Talking about it helped to ease their grief. It was a cleansing of the soul that washed away their deeply rooted regret.

The memory was months old, but in their fevered dreams, they could both still hear the cries and screams of the innocent.

The more they talked and thought about that night, the more convinced they became that they couldn’t keep what they’d seen to themselves any longer. Belladonna and her clan needed to be stopped before more innocent victims fell prey to their immoral desires.

As long as they remained inside Sunnyside Meadows, they could never go public.

So, they decided to leave.

Quietly, secretly, and immediately.

No one with their level of knowledge about the events that took place that night would ever be allowed to depart voluntarily.

Belladonna would make sure of it.

Screw her, Bill determined. The outside world needs to know what really goes on behind the private, solid rock walls of the most envied sub-division in Newton.

Once he was free of this wretched place, he intended to tell a reporter everything he knew about Sunnyside Meadows, the hunting lodge, Belladonna, and the residents.

Bill was jolted from his musing when a tinny, scratching sound came from the back of the house. Had someone tapped on the door or window to get his attention? Or was someone trying to break in? Was his irrevocable fear of Belladonna sending her flock after him and his wife finally coming to fruition?

Barbara was in bed, so she couldn’t have caused the noise.

All the doors and windows were locked, the curtains pulled shut, and he damn sure wasn’t going to pull the cords and look outside to see a gaunt face staring back at him.

Bill slowly rose from his chair when he heard the distinct sound of a key slipping into a lock.

Someone was at the mud room door at the rear of the house.

Cautiously and quietly, he slipped into the kitchen and peeked around the corner, the solid glass door of the mud room entrance visible from his position.

It was too dark outside to tell if anyone was standing on the porch. The door was still closed and intact, so whoever was out there hadn’t tried forcing their way in.

Bill guardedly inched towards the mud room, bracing himself for the shattering of glass when the intruder pushed through the door.

Only feet away, he abruptly stopped and turned back toward the living room, the icy fingers of death caressing his spine when he heard the soft click of the front door closing.

Someone was inside the house. How had they gotten in through the front door without him hearing them forcing their way in? Only he and Barbara possessed keys.

“Hello, Bill,” a familiar voice uttered when he entered the room. “Going somewhere?” she sneered.

“You?” Bill’s voice quivered when he spoke. His expression was one of utter confusion. “You’re Belladonna?”

“Were you expecting someone else?”

This had to be a mistake. He’d been to enough lodge meetings and heard her voice enough to know who Belladonna was, and the woman standing in his living room was not her.

Unless it was and had been all along.

“Why did you pretend to be someone you’re not? Do the others know?”

Belladonna remained silent as she slowly and deliberately approached him.

Bill swallowed back the lump that rose in his throat as he stared in horror at the shiny metal object pointed at his chest.

A Sig Sauer M17.

Equipped with a Vanisher-46 silencer.

The gunshots would be suppressed.

No one would hear them and come running to their rescue.

Would his and Barbara’s dead bodies remain inside the house undiscovered while their flesh rotted away until all that remained were the bony structured remnants of the people they used to be?

No. Belladonna was too smart to do anything that stupid. Rotting flesh stinks. The stench emanating from the residence would raise eyebrows. Nosy neighbors would pry.

Provisions to deal with their dead, limp bodies had been prearranged.

There was only one reason Belladonna would be confronting him. She was aware of his plans to escape. If she knew about that, then she also knew he’d spoken with a journalist and was planning to disclose her darkest secrets to the world.

Why else would she have broken into their house to kill him?

She was going to kill Barbara, too.

Leave no loose ends, he thought. Dead lips can’t sink ships.

“Who said I was going anywhere?” he asked hoarsely.

“I have my resources.”

“I’m sure you do,” he retorted sarcastically.

“I’ve received word of a nasty rumor, Bill. Would you like to know what I was told?” Without giving him a chance to respond, she continued. “You’ve come to an agreement with a journalist to tell her a story about our secret club once you abscond from here. What exactly did you plan to tell her, Bill?”

“That’s not true,” Bill replied. “I haven’t spoken to a journalist.”

“Liar!” she yelled.

It would do him no justice to argue with her or defend his actions. She came there for a purpose and nothing he said was going to change her plans. She knew he’d spoken to a reporter, and that was enough to convince him that Belladonna would never allow him or Barbara to go free.

“How the hell did you get inside my house?” he shouted angrily.

“With this,” she said, dangling a key chain on her finger.

“Who gave you a key?”

 “It was a gift from a loyal follower.”

Bill shook his head in disbelief. “What do you want from me?”

“Isn’t that obvious?”

“Bill?” Barbara wiped sleep from her eyes as she entered the living room and stood next to her husband. “I heard you shouting.”

“Nice of you to join us,” Belladonna uttered. “Keeps Legion from having to drag you out of bed.”

“You took away all my fun, boss lady,” her guard countered.

Bill spun around, startled by the loud, deep voice. Standing rigidly behind him was a mountain of a man who eagerly awaited to assist with his boss’ dirty work. Nearly seven feet tall, he was dressed in black from head to toe, his mallet-sized arms crossed over his crotch as he awaited Belladonna’s orders.

Lodge members referred to him as Legion.

Bill now understood how this had happened. Legion purposely made noises at the mud room door as a decoy to distract him from Belladonna’s unwelcome and unlawful front way entrance. Once she was inside, he slipped in stealthily through the mud room door and now stood threateningly behind him and Barbara, grinning evilly as he awaited his master’s command.

There was only one way Legion could’ve gotten in. He had keys, too.

Bill knew the thuggish-looking guy personally. He’d played golf and tennis with him, had eaten at his table. Although Bill knew that Legion was a member of the lodge, he hadn’t known until that moment that he was the bitch’s top dog, willing to do whatever it took to please her, no matter what she demanded, as long as it kept him in her good graces.

“What’s going on?” Barbara asked sleepily.

“Don’t pretend like you’re innocent,” Belladonna spat. “I know you’re a part of this, too.”

“Part of what?”

“I know all about your conversation with a certain journalist, and that you were planning to give her a story about what you think you know about me.”

“We haven’t told anyone anything,” Bill argued.

“Thinking about doing it is as good as actually following through with it. No one betrays me and gets away with it. After all this time, Bill, I would’ve thought you knew that,” she said, taking a step closer. “Do you have any last words before receiving your punishment? If so, now is the time to do it.”

Bill grinded his jaws angrily. He knew everything he needed to know about her, knew firsthand what she was capable of doing to those who opposed or defied her. She didn’t give two shits about whether he had anything to say or not. Her decision to murder him and Barbara was decided well before she showed up in their house. Once Belladonna made a decision, it was a done deal. “What do you want me to say?” he remarked heatedly. “Would you like me to crawl on my hands and knees, groveling and begging for your highness’ forgiveness? If that’s what you’re expecting, you’ll be waiting an awfully long time, you evil, twisted bitch,” Bill raged, lunging at her.

Barbara screamed when a sharp Pop! Pop! resounded through the living room.

Bill crumpled to the floor at Barbara’s feet. Blood poured from a bullet wound to his forehead, soaking into the light blue carpet and turning it a pale shade of purple.

“I hope you burn in hell,” Barbara seethed, hearing only the first Pop! before collapsing to the floor beside her husband.

“How should I handle this?” Legion asked.

“Leave the trash where it belongs,” she told him. “Check his pockets for a cellphone.”

“There’s not one on him,” Legion told her after patting him down.

“Then search the house until you find it. It’s here somewhere.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“When you find it, use it to place a call to 9-1-1.”

“What do I tell them?”

“That your name is Bill Hamner and you’re about to kill your wife and then turn the gun on yourself. And Legion?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Make sure to arrange the bodies so they match the crime. Here, you’ll need this,” she said, removing the silencer and passing him the Sig Sauer. “It wouldn’t be much of a believable story if there’s no weapon at the crime scene.”

Legion cast her a questionable look. “Are you sure you want to leave your gun at the scene?”

“It’s not registered, so it can’t be traced back to me. Or anyone else, for that matter,” she added as an afterthought. “There won’t be any shell casings for the crime lab to run ballistics tests on, so whoever investigates the scene will have no choice but to rule their deaths a murder-suicide and close the case.”

“Boss lady, there will be empty shells left behind. You fired four rounds.”

“Not after you collect them all.”

Legion smiled crookedly. “You think of everything, don’t you?”

“That’s why I’m the boss, as you like to say.”

“Anything else?”

“Place the gun in or near his hand, and make sure the doors are locked before you leave.”

Legion opened his mouth to speak. Belladonna held up a hand, cutting him off. “I know what you were about to say. How could a suicide victim put two bullets in himself when either of the wounds would’ve killed him?”

“You read my mind.”

“I did allow my anger to get the best of me,” she sighed. “We’re not going to worry about it because we were never here. It’s the duty of the police to figure out the details. This should keep them busy for a while.”

“Whatever you say, boss lady. I hope this doesn’t cause us any unnecessary problems.”

Chapter 2

            Wyatt Anderson dropped into his swivel computer chair, popped a handful of cheese puffs into his mouth, and scanned the bank of security monitors set up in the guest bedroom of his house.

            There were six of them. One for each of the six houses being monitored. Of the twelve rooms inside each home, only five were of interest. The three bedrooms, great room, and kitchen/dining area. Each monitor displayed five different time-stamped frames, one camera per room.  

            Bathrooms were omitted from the list of places to surveil. He had no interest in watching any of his neighbors brush their teeth or take a shit while reading the morning news on their smart phones.

            He’d rather be stretched out on his couch in front of his brand new sixty-five-inch color flat screen television watching a Blu-Ray movie or comedy show on Netflix. He found his current task to be rather tedious, primarily boring, and an unnecessary misuse of his time. If the choice had been left up to him, he wouldn’t be wasting valuable hours watching and listening to what the residents of Sunnyside Meadows were up to. For reasons only she knew, Belladonna had demanded that the Hamner house be closely watched tonight. What Belladonna wants, Belladonna gets. Or else.

            When she’d contacted him and requested that he secretly install security cameras inside certain homes, then disclosed the obscene amount of money she’d pay him to complete the project and oversee the camera monitoring, he couldn’t say no. Being a security software programmer and familiar with the installation of cameras had made the task simple. All he’d needed was a couple of hours in each house to install the software and cameras, then link them all to his home computer. She’d even provided him with keys for each residence, allowing him the opportunity to slip in and out without the homeowners knowing.

            To his knowledge, none of those being surveilled knew they were being closely studied. If they did, they’d never mentioned it. Belladonna didn’t have to give him a reason why she wanted the cameras installed for him to know what her reasoning was. She wanted to keep a close eye on the lodge members to ensure they kept their mouths shut about lodge activities. He hadn’t bothered to ask for confirmation on his theory for the installations. He knew better than to question her.

            He did often wonder what would happen if any of them learned about the hidden cameras. Being surveilled by anyone other than law enforcement was against the law and punishable with fines and a jail sentence. He had no doubt that Belladonna would pin the blame on him if they ever found out. God forbid she should ever confess to a crime that would spoil her image in the eyes of her faithful followers. If she told them he was responsible, they’d believe her. Just like they believed every word that came out of her mouth. He wouldn’t have much of a defense since everyone knew what his profession was. No one else in the Meadows was qualified to perform the installations and monitoring. What would he say if anyone questioned him about it? That Belladonna had put him up to it? That he’d only done it because she’d ordered him to? If it ever came to that, he might as well bend over and kiss his ass goodbye because he’d be a dead man walking with a bullseye target on his back.

            Wyatt laughed as he recalled some of the crazy shit he’d seen and heard his fellow residents do and say. The demented couple over on Sunnyvale Street truly believed they were vampires. The husband, Vaughn, legally changed his last name to Dracula when he turned eighteen. He and Drucilla, his wife, had fangs implanted where their incisors used to be, and they wore red contact lenses to achieve the ultimate macabre look of the living dead. They owned a vampire-themed nightclub in downtown Newton, were always dressed in black, and never went out into the sunlight. Instead of beds, they slept in separate coffins. He supposed it was because, unlike tandem bicycles, caskets weren’t built for two. They kept it so dark inside their home that it was an assault on his eyes to monitor the cameras. They both professed to drink blood, but he’d never seen either one of them do it, and hoped he never did. He’d puke his guts out if he witnessed them indulging in such a grotesque act. He believed the claim of blood drinking was all part of their vampirism schtick to boost their nightclub business, and to keep their unwanted neighbors at bay.

            Jasmine Rothman. Masturbation Aficionado. A woman who was truly in a league of her own. Wife of Doctor Phillip Rothman, a prominent plastic surgeon who’d surgically altered the appearances of hundreds of women. Including his wife. Everything about Jasmine was fake. Her tits. Her ass. Her face. She’d had so many facial procedures performed that Wyatt was convinced that every time she smiled with her collagen injected lips, her ass cheeks flapped like butterfly wings. She was literally a walking, talking plastic factory and an obsessive nymphomaniac who’d mount anything to get her rocks off. Bedposts, broom handles, glass soda bottles. Her behavior was understandable since her dead-dick prick of a husband never did anything to sexually please her.

            He’d watched her delight herself with cucumbers, zucchinis, and corn cobs, oftentimes wondering if there was anything that wouldn’t fit inside her cavernous chasm. “No wonder you never get any man-meat shoved inside you,” he’d muttered while watching a gigantic cucumber disappear inside her womanly tunnel. “Your snatch is a damn vegetarian.”

            His most memorable experience was when he’d watched her sustaining herself with what looked to be a battery operated dildo that she’d apparently forgotten to put fresh batteries in before commencing on her self-guided pleasure trip. As she was reaching her climax, the dildo stopped working. If she’d smack her husband’s lifeless dick as hard as she did that dildo while trying to restart it, she might get a rise out of him. She got so angry at the fake rubber dick that she threw it against the wall and slapped the piss out of her poontang, as though she were punishing a bratty, misbehaving child. All he could think was, “Why are you spanking your pussycat? It didn’t do anything wrong.” Weeks later, whenever the image crept into his mind, he’d laugh as though imagining it for the first time.

            Greg and Marsha Fournier were his favorites. They were both outgoing, friendly, and likeable. They also had extremely off-the-wall bizarre sexual quirks.

            They relished in the act of sadomasochism.

            Greg was neither gay nor bi-sexual; however, he loved wearing women’s clothes. Dresses, high heels, lingerie, pantyhose. Wyatt speculated whether they ever fought over who was going to wear which heels with what dress or skirt.

            Marsha eagerly allowed, even encouraged, her husband to cross-dress without any arguments. By allowing him to be himself, it provided her with an excuse to break out her dominatrix leather and whips so that she could show him how a real man should behave.

            Most of the residents in his small community were amiable in their own peculiar sort of way. Others, not so much. Those like him, who were members of the hunting lodge, were a unique group of folks. As in Vegas, “what happens in the lodge stays in the lodge.” Unless they wanted to feel the full wrath of Belladonna rain down upon them, they knew better than to ever disclose any secret information. To anyone. For any reason.

            The unfortunate souls who had either attended a gathering at the lodge or had been a member, then dropped out, deciding the newfound activities weren’t for them, had been personally warned by Belladonna what would happen to them should they violate the sacred oath of the lodge.

            Until now, there’d never been a breach.

            With the installation of the security cameras, Belladonna discovered a way to learn everything she needed to know about her members, intending to keep them in check and ensure they toed the line where the lodge was concerned.

            That’s how she learned that Bill Hamner had been the first brave soul to break the pledge by talking to a newspaper reporter, promising her that he had one hell of a story to tell her once he no longer resided at Sunnyside Meadows.

            He’d been instructed by Belladonna to closely monitor the Hamner home tonight and report back to her with any conversations between him and his wife that she needed to know about.

            When he’d heard Bill and Barbara discussing their plans to flee in the middle of the night, he immediately called her and reported the news. Her only response was to tell him to stand guard and man the cameras.

            That was over two hours ago. Barbara had gone to bed. Bill was sitting in the living room reading a book. Nothing was happening at…

            “Shit,” Wyatt exclaimed, tossing the bag of cheese puffs to the side and sitting up in his chair. “What the hell is she doing?”

            Belladonna entered the house through the front door, disappearing from camera view for several seconds before reappearing inside the frame directed into the living room. An earlier noise coming from the back of the house had brought Bill to his feet. Wyatt watched as he tiptoed from the den into the kitchen, then peek around the corner toward the mud room door.

            He must’ve heard the front door close because he turned from the mud room and headed for the living room, halting when he saw Belladonna standing inside his home.

            A brief exchange of heated words between Belladonna and Bill woke Barbara up. She staggered sleepily out of the bedroom and down the hallway, taking a stand next to her husband.

            Another argument ensued. Bill made an inaudible remark before angrily lunging at her.

            “Son of a bitch!” Wyatt yelled, springing from his chair when he heard the Pop! Pop! from the gun that Belladonna was wielding.

            A scream from Barbara, then another Pop! Pop! and she crumpled to the floor beside her husband.

            Wyatt screamed, grabbing onto his head and pacing in circles. “What the hell have I done?” he cried. “You killed them!” he screamed at the monitor.

            Wyatt hadn’t noticed until that moment that there was a forth person in the room. When Barbara fell to the floor, his legs came into view.

            “How should I handle this?” Wyatt heard the man ask.

            “No way,” Wyatt muttered. “Legion?”

            Belladonna looked directly into the camera lens long enough to show her face, and then smirked.

            Wyatt stared at the monitor momentarily before bursting into laughter. “Nice try, you crazy bitch,” he muttered. “You can disguise yourself all you want, but I know who you really are.”

            Had she heard him yell? Did she know she’d scared the hell out of him when he saw Bill and Barbara hit the floor after she shot them both? Before tonight, he’d only heard rumors about how brutal she could be. From the moment he’d first encountered her, he’d known she could be a cold hearted shrew. But a murderer?

            Wyatt took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “Get it together, Anderson,” he said aloud. “Show no fear. Whatever you do, don’t let her see you panic. Act like nothing’s wrong and you’ll be fine.”

            Except that everything wasn’t fine.

            Belladonna’s reaction to the news that Bill and Barbara were planning to leave the Meadows and go public about the lodge was off the rails.

            And it was all his fault.

            He should’ve kept his big mouth shut.

            His failure to do so had gotten the Hamners killed.

            Wyatt’s cell phone rang, startling him.

            Recognizing the number, he answered on the second ring.

            “Did you get all that?” she asked in her signature, unmistakable croaky voice.

            “I did,” he replied, hoping she didn’t hear the small quiver in his voice. “What would you like me to do with the recording?”

            “Copy it onto a DVD and then do what you do with all the others. Delete it.”

            “Is the DVD for you?”

            “Who else would it be for?”

            “It was stupid of me to ask.”

            “Agreed. How long will it take you to make the copy?”

            “Thirty minutes,” he told her. That wasn’t true. Ten minutes was more accurate, but he needed the extra time to calm down and pull himself together.

            “Good. Make sure the copy gets to me as soon as it’s complete.”

            “If you don’t mind me asking, why do you want a copy of this particular recording? You’ve never asked for copies before.”

            “I do mind you asking. Frankly, why I want a copy is none of your business. Quit squabbling and do what you were told,” she ordered before disconnecting the call.

            “Delete it, my ass,” he said, popping a blank disc into the computer’s DVD drive. “That will not be happening. I’m covering my ass and keeping a copy of this one for myself.”

            The chances of him ever having to publish the DVD showing the murders of Bill and Barbara Hamner were slim, but if the real Belladonna was planning to do what he suspected, he’d have the evidence in his possession to prove otherwise.

Wyatt Anderson couldn’t understand how she’d disguised herself so perfectly as Gloria Wainwright. A mask or makeup, he supposed. It didn’t matter. Looks were one thing, but there was only one unique voice like hers. Although she’d only spoken briefly on the audio, there was no mistaking that the woman who’d pulled the trigger was none other than Belladonna herself.

            “In the event of an emergency, break glass,” Wyatt thought as he sealed the DVD in a plastic case and locked it safely away inside the file cabinet.

Chapter 3

Two Newton Police Department cruisers, followed by an Emergency Medical Team vehicle, turned into Sunnyside Meadows and sped down Sunny Parkway, sirens blaring, blue and red lights flashing, screeching to a halt in front of the Hamner residence.

Previously darkened homes suddenly lit up. Probing eyes peeked out windows while other residents ventured into their yards or onto back porches to see what the deafening commotion was about. Residents from three blocks away ran from their homes and gathered on the sidewalk near the Hamner house, curious to know what was happening that’d brought the police and an ambulance into their neighborhood.

“Newton Police Department!” one of the officers shouted while banging on the door with his night stick. “Open up!” When no one answered, he called out again.

“We’ll have to tear it down,” he told the other officer.

“Or shoot out the lock,” the officer said. “That’s a thick, sturdy door and neither of us has a battering ram.”

“We’re not shooting out the lock. The two of us can force it open. On three. Ready?”

“Ready.”

“I heard the wood crack. One more time.”

Both officers stumbled through the doorway when the door flew inward against their weight. Pieces of shattered wood fell from the jamb, littering the porch.

“Bill Hamner?” the officer yelled when he stepped into the foyer. “This is Officers Blakeney and Higgins with the Newton Police Department. We’re responding to your call.”

“We’re too late,” Higgins said, nodding toward the living room. “Looks like they’re both dead.”

Blakeney keyed his shoulder mike and spoke. “Dispatch, I’m on scene at one-one-two Sunnyside Lane. Notify the medical examiner and advise him that he’s needed at this location. We have two fatalities here.”

“Ten-four. Will advise the M.E. to be enroute.”

“Guess he meant it,” Higgins said absently.

“Looks that way,” Blakeney replied. “Alright, let’s cordon off the area and leave it for the coroner and detective. We need to get those rubber neckers out of here before the rest of the crew arrives.”

“Any idea what’s going on?” Wyatt asked his neighbor, Gloria Wainwright. As if you don’t know, asshole. You saw it happen.

“No idea,” she said. “But it’s serious enough to bring the police and paramedics.”

“Bill and Barbara must be dead,” Jasmine Rothman stated. She hadn’t bothered donning a robe before going out in the cool night air while wearing a short, sheer negligee. Her erect nipples looked like two plump raisins pressing against the white satin gown.

“Why would you say something stupid like that?” Wyatt snapped. “Was a lobotomy included with your latest procedure?”

“No, smartass, it wasn’t. If they’re not dead, then why are those police officers standing outside twiddling their thumbs instead of being inside dealing with whatever the situation is?”

“Good Lord, Jasmine, have you no self respect?” Gloria scolded. “Running around in your nightgown in front of everyone, showing off your new fake breasts. It’s shameful.”

“Eat shit, Gloria,” Jasmine retorted. “Old farts like you are just jealous because you’re not as young and desirable as I am.”

Wyatt bit his tongue. Desirable? To broom handles and dildos maybe. Definitely not to your husband. “Did it occur to you that maybe they’re standing outside so they don’t get in the way of the paramedics?”

“Whatever,” Jasmine shrugged. “Maybe he can tell us.”

“Is that Greg Fournier?” Gloria asked.

“Looks like him,” Wyatt replied.

“If he’s friends with that officer, maybe he’ll tell Greg what happened,” Gloria said. “Then he can tell us. The residents have a right to know.”

“Especially if they were murdered,” Jasmine said. “The murderer could still be here. He might be watching us right now,” she said, rubbing her arms and glancing around the neighborhood.

“Murder-suicide,” Greg announced when he approached them. “Seems as though Bill killed Barbara and then turned the gun on himself. He placed a 9-1-1 call beforehand and told them what he was going to do.”

“That’s a shame,” Gloria said. “Such nice people, too. I wonder what prompted him to do such a dreadful thing.”

“Who knows?” Greg said. “According to my cop friend, there’s a nasty mess in there to be cleaned up.”

“By mess, you mean blood?” Jasmine asked.

Greg nodded. “Lots of it. Brain matter, too.”

“Becca will make sure it’s taken care of,” Gloria said. “She knows no one will buy the house until it’s cleaned and restored. Speaking of Becca, I wonder why she hasn’t come out here to see what all the fuss is about. Especially since she makes everything that goes on around here her business.”

“All the lights are off at her house,” Jasmine said. “She’s probably asleep and doesn’t know what’s going on.”

“How could anyone sleep through all this commotion?” Gloria pondered.

“My friend told me Bill’s death is unusual,” Greg offered. “They’re waiting for a detective to get here to investigate.”

“Oh?” Gloria asked. “Unusual in what way?”

“Bill shot himself twice. They’re puzzled about how he managed to do that when both wounds are what’s called killshots.”

“He likely got scared and missed his mark the first time,” Gloria offered. “Could be that he was having second thoughts about killing himself.”

“Impossible,” Greg responded. “The wounds are to his chest and head. If he shot himself in the chest first, that injury alone would’ve killed him, so how was he able to fire a second shot? Same scenario if the initial shot was to his head.”

“I’m no gun expert, but I’d say the first shot didn’t kill him or else he wouldn’t have been able to fire a second time.” Gloria sighed heavily, expressing her sadness. “Only Bill knows, I’m afraid,” she said. “Unfortunately, he can’t tell us why he did what he did.”

“I’ve seen enough,” Jasmine said. “I’m going home. It’s cold out here. If the police need to question me about anything, they can knock on my door. Goodnight.”

“Night, Jasmine,” Gloria said. “I’m going back inside as well. Call me if you find out anything else.”

“Will do, Gloria,” Greg replied.

            Since this book is a compilation of horror short stories and novellas, no chapters will be offered. The story contents of the book are as follows:

1. Snowbound
2. Midnight At the Morgue
3. Autopsy
4. What Grows In the Garden
5. Riders On the Storm
6. Dentophobia
7. Kitty Kibbles
8. The Rocking Chair
9. Scenic Route
10. Flight of Fancy