CONTENTS

Dedication

Disclaimer

Newsletter

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Gabby Wells Thriller Series Continues

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my daughter, Dorothea.  Without her love, patience, faith and support, this book would not have been possible.  Her humor kept me sane and her passion kept me focused.  Thank you, beautiful!

Disclaimer

Copyright © 2015 Pete Bauer

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

Want more Gabby Wells?

Sign up for Pete Bauer’s newsletter to receive the latest updates on book releases, get early access to new material and win free books!

Visit petebauerbooks.com to get started.

CHAPTER ONE

This wasn’t the first time Gabby Wells had snuck her way through Safety Harbor High unnoticed. It probably wouldn’t be the last. Heck, she could do it blindfolded.

Actually, she had, once. But that wouldn’t help her now. Not today.

Down the long, empty hall, the gray cinderblock walls resembled a prison and the harsh florescent lights cast a light green hue. Flanked on either side by two-tiered lockers, classroom doors interrupted the repetitive pattern. Each door included a window resembling a square porthole peering in on the students and teachers.

All was quiet, except for two grumbling figures ducking behind a large trash bin at the far end of the hall.

Traversing the school during seventh period unseen was difficult, especially on a Friday. Impatient students, struggling to maintain focus during last period, let their minds and eyes wander. They gazed into the halls, longing to be on the other side of the door, daydreaming about a life outside of school.

Gabby wouldn’t normally risk getting caught navigating the school when she should be in her history class. Well, not again. But today was different. The stakes were high and the clock was ticking.

She slid out from behind the trashcan and glided up next to the first door, motioning for Emma to join her.

Emma. Her best friend was now her biggest obstacle. Gifted with the agility of a lead anchor, Emma plodded up behind her. She might be funny, spontaneous, and wild at parties, but today, Emma was a liability. With the clock ticking, Gabby had no time to give her a crash course on moving with stealth precision and avoiding areas of high visibility. She simply tried to pull her along, hoping the wake she left behind wouldn’t undermine the task at hand.

“We should head back!” Emma said, her gaze darting down the corridor.

“Lower your voice,” Gabby said. “We’re almost there.”

Detention today would be worse than expulsion. Okay, maybe not that bad, but pretty close. Today was the last day of Gabby’s freshman year and no one, especially Gabby, wanted to have to stay after school when that last bell chimed. It would be like eating a chocolate-covered peanut with the peanut missing. Like winning the lottery and losing the ticket. Not that those two things were at all similar, but never mind. It would suck.

Which was why Gabby had to hurry and pray Emma wouldn’t blow it. Why, in situations like this, Gabby preferred to work alone. Why she would have today, if she had a choice. But she didn’t. And, whining about it wasn’t going to help.

Bobbing and weaving their way through the hall left Gabby, and a panicked Emma, outside Mr. Thompson’s empty office. Gabby tried the knob. It was locked.

“We’re toast,” Emma said, glancing down at the man’s wristwatch in her hand. “And we’re down to ninety seconds.”

“Plenty of time.” Gabby knelt in front of the door.

“What are you going to do?”

“What I always do,” she said, pulling a pair of bobby pins from underneath her fashionably tattered baseball cap. “Improvise.”

If Gabby had a vice, it was her love of hats. She didn’t remember when her affinity for them started; she just knew she looked better wearing one.

Plus, they were a great place to hide things.

She felt for the tumblers, wiggling the bobby pins in the lock like a skilled thief.

Emma peered over her shoulder. “You really have to show me how you do that.”

“I don’t think so. You are many things to many people, Em. You’re a great friend, you’re smart, and you tan really easily…”

The tumblers fell into place and made a satisfying click. Gabby swung the door open. “But you can’t keep a secret to save your life.”

“You did it!”

“Was there ever any doubt?”

“Considerable.” Emma closed the door behind them. “And you’d better hurry.”

Gabby slid Mr. Thompson’s chair up to his worn wooden desk and turned on the monitor of his ancient computer. The high school was way past its prime, but Gabby didn’t complain. Older technology meant easier access.

With a quick crack of her knuckles, she began to hack into Mr. Thompson’s computer while Emma stood on her tiptoes and kept watch through the small window.

“I can to keep a secret, Gabs,” Emma said.

“Like how you and Jake are dating again?” Gabby asked as she typed.

“We are not,” Emma blurted. “We only went to the movies. And got something to eat. And made out for a while in his car. But we’re not dating. I guess some would call it a date, but I wouldn’t. I didn’t. I don’t.”

Gabby chuckled and raised an eyebrow.

Emma bit her lip. “You had no idea, did you?”

“But I do now.”

“Don’t tell anyone, okay? Everyone hates Jake after what happened last fall.”

“And so should you,” Gabby said. “Most people don’t like getting duct taped upside down to the school fence. I know I didn’t.”

“I’ve forgiven him. You should too.”

“No. Forgiveness isn’t exactly my strong suit. And Jake’s not worth the effort.”

“He is to me,” Emma said, glancing at the watch. “We’re down to sixty seconds.”

“Just one more sec.” Crunch time. Gabby loved it. That was when things finally got interesting.

Thompson’s computer hummed as Gabby scanned the files. Then she saw it: a folder labeled “Final Exam.” A few keystrokes later, the test printed out behind her. She held it out to Emma with a flourish.

“This is really it?” Emma asked.

“Yup.”

“I’m both impressed and concerned.”

Gabby smirked. “You should be.” She folded the test and stuffed it under her cap.

Emma looked at the watch in her hand again. “We’ve only got twenty-five seconds left!”

“I hope you have on your running shoes!”

They ducked and dodged through the corridors like pinballs being thrust from one bumper to the next. Adrenaline pumped through her veins, and a smile crept across Gabby’s face. When everyone else panicked, she felt calm. For Gabby, chaos was comforting.

They sprinted past the principal’s office and burst into the auditorium — running straight into Mr. Thompson’s class.

Thompson stood in front of the students, his arms crossed. “Ladies,” he said. “What a surprise.”

“Hey, Mr. Thompson,” Gabby panted.

“Do you have something you’d like to show me?”

Emma swallowed hard.

Gabby reached under her hat and removed the stolen test. “Is this what you are looking for, Mr. T.?”

Mr. Thompson snatched the paper and scanned it closely, jutting out his chin as he read each page.

Gabby surveyed the rest of the class, trying to gauge the tension in the room. Hoping for some support, her gaze stopped on her friend Hamilton.

Mr. Thompson sighed. “Well, Hamilton?”

Hamilton looked at his vintage watch and smiled. “One minute, fifty-eight seconds! She did it!”

The class cheered in victory, and Gabby bowed.

Mr. Thompson held up a single finger for silence, and the buzz in the room quickly diminished. “I am a man of my word. Pizza is on me!”

The cafeteria staff brought in boxes of pizza, and hoots, whoots, and all sorts of other celebratory chants erupted from the class.

Emma returned Mr. Thompson’s watch to him. “I never doubted her for a second.”

“I bet.” Thompson said with a smirk.

As Gabby watched her grateful classmates devour their year-end pizza, she allowed herself to enjoy the moment. Partly because of the smiles on their faces, but mostly because she won the bet. No one knew she couldn’t turn down the challenge even if she wanted to.

Gabby felt a firm hand on her elbow. “Well done, Ms. Wells,” Mr. Thompson said. “I guess everything I’ve heard about you is true.”

Gabby blushed. “I hope not everything.”

“A lesson learned. I’ll know better than to challenge you again.”

“Yup. The odds were definitely stacked against you.”

“Confidence. I like that. All said—the cost of a pizza party was worth knowing what you are capable of, Ms. Wells. I’ll have to keep that in mind for the next three years.”

“What I’m capable of, Mr. Thompson, is worth a heck of a lot more than a pizza party.”

CHAPTER TWO

Thirty minutes and two slices of pizza later, the school year officially ended and the student body surged from the building like a pimpled-skin tsunami.

Gabby kept a steady pace toward the parking lot as the wave passed around her. Emma trudged next to her, lugging her stuffed backpack on her back, the searing June heat adding to her suffering.

Gabby, carrying nothing but a notebook, smiled. “You need any help?”

Emma grunted. “Nope.”

“You sure?”

“I got it. I should have emptied my locker before today.” Emma readjusted the straps cutting into her shoulders. “That was a great way to end the year, Gabs.”

“Yeah, it was better than finding Marcus’ tablet or proving Sandy didn’t cheat on a test. At least I got paid this time.”

“In pizza,” Emma said.

“Still counts.” She laughed.

They stopped on the border of the parking lot and watched the juniors and seniors screech off the school property with joyful urgency.

Gabby sighed. “Look at them. It’s not fair. In middle school, it used to be cool to be a year older than everyone else in my class. But now, I’m the only fifteen-year-old freshman— “

“We’re sophomores now,” Emma said.

“Freshman, sophomore, it doesn’t make a difference. My dad still won’t let me get a driver’s permit. I’ve been stuck riding my bike since sixth grade. It’s…”

“Embarrassing,” Emma said.

“That’s a good way to put it. I want a car so bad! What about you? What kind of car do you want, Em?”

“I’m in no hurry.” She motioned across the parking lot. A short blast from a police siren split the exiting cars like the Red Sea and a sheriff’s cruiser approached. Emma grinned. “I like my ride.”

“Your dad isn’t going to let you drive that around town, you know.”

“Well, not with permission.”

Gabby laughed. “You are an awful influence.”

“You wanna ride home?”

“I’m not going home.”

“Right,” Emma said. “Father Peters.”

“Yup.”

“That’s okay. We can drop you off there too.” Emma leaned against the cruiser like a television model showcasing a contestant’s potential winnings. “This ride will be substantially sexier than your pedal-powered two-wheeler with nubby pink tassels.”

“True.” Gabby grinned. “Yours has cool lights. Mine only has reflectors.”

Emma opened the door and leaned in. “Dad, can you pop the trunk?”

The trunk creaked open. Gabby retrieved her bike and tossed it inside, using a bungee cord to hold the trunk down, the front wheel dangling out of the back.

Easing into the back of the police car, she slid across a hard, plastic seat with two indentations wide enough for two average-sized butts or one massive ass with two large cheeks. Each seat included a deep notch for cuffed hands.

“New back seats, Mr. Durant?” Gabby asked.

“Do you like ‘em?” Sheriff Durant said, putting the car in gear.

“Not my first choice, no.”

“Our passengers aren’t too kind to the furniture. This should help ‘em last longer. Besides, it’s easier cleanin’ up the vomit.”

“That’s… nice,” Gabby said, raising her butt off the seat to make sure she wasn’t resting in day-old bodily fluids. “You have a lot of vomit, do you?”

“Mostly just the drunks,” he said.

“Can you drop her off at the church?” Emma asked.

“Sure. You still meetin’ with Father Peters after all these years?”

“Every Friday at three,” Gabby said. “It still helps. I guess I’ll stop going when it doesn’t anymore.”

As the car bounced out of the parking lot, Gabby glanced over to the empty seat next to her, wondering, conflicted.

Gabby knew God had given her gifts, great gifts that allowed her do things most kids her age couldn’t do, like take on Mr. Thompson’s challenge without a second thought. But she also knew those same gifts might direct her here one day, to the backseat of a police cruiser, with her hands cuffed behind her back. It wouldn’t be because she was pursuing something illegal, probably. It wouldn’t be for a slice of pepperoni pizza. In fact, it would probably be for all the right reasons. Yet, no matter how noble her intentions, Gabby was certain such a ride was inevitable. She just hoped Sheriff Durant would be the one to put the cold, metal cuffs around her wrists. At least he’d be gentle.

She sat back and tried to enjoy the air-conditioned ride, knowing the drive to the church wouldn’t take long. Safety Harbor was only five square miles. It took her less than thirty minutes to ride her bike from one edge of town to the other. It’d take a lot less in a sheriff’s car.

She knew most people in town and nearly everyone at her high school. Gabby loved that.

She knew few as well as the Durant family. The town elected Emma’s dad as the sheriff seven years ago, and he had ran the small police force ever since. They had ten officers in all. Five full time, and five part time. The bigger cities surrounding Safety Harbor had claim to bigger crimes and that was fine with Gabby. Her small town wasn’t perfect, but she couldn’t imagine a better place to grow up, despite the scars it had given her.

As it turned out, their ride to the church would not be direct. A blare from the police radio pierced Gabby’s thoughts.

“Ten-eighteen, Sheriff Durant,” the radio chirped.

Durant pulled the hand set from the dash. “This is the sheriff. I am en route to Espiritu Santo Church.”

“We have a ten-thirty-three across from the Depot Ice Cream Shop,” the dispatcher said. “It involved a train.”

“Oh God,” he mumbled as he hit the sirens and turned on the lights. “Hold on, girls.”

Gabby’s body pressed into the plastic seat as the businesses on Main Street flashed by in a blur.

“What’s a ten-thirty-three?” Gabby asked.

“An accident,” Emma said.

“Dispatch, how many cars were involved?” Durant asked.

The radio hummed with an ominous pause. “None, sir. It was a pedestrian.”

Gabby could see Durant’s head drop slightly and his hands grip the steering wheel a little tighter. There was no way he could shield himself from the gruesome scene that awaited him.

“When we get there, you two will stay in the car. Do you hear me?” he said with a fatherly tone. “Do not get out, and do not approach the crime scene. I’ll have one of the other officers take you where you need to go.”

“Yes, sir,” Gabby and Emma said.

Other than her father, Gabby trusted few people. Sheriff Durant was one of them. Not because he was the top dog in local law enforcement. That was just a side benefit. It was because Emma and Gabby had been friends since preschool and had rarely spent a day away from each other. The Durants were as close to blood as Gabby had known and she needed that. Within her was an unrelenting void she couldn’t define, and it drove her to create a patchwork of friends to fill the emptiness.

The Durants were the first she let into her heart, and they had helped stem a rising tide of loneliness that seemed to grow inside of her each year.

The car lurched as it slowed, and the tires shuddered as they passed over the raised railroad tracks. Gabby peered through the window at city and county vehicles scattered along the side of the road, their lights sparkling the sky. Police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances. It seemed as if every city employee with flashing lights showed up.

Between two fire trucks Gabby spied a large, taped-off area near the tracks, in the middle of which lay a body covered with a bloody cloth. Almost two hundred yards further, she could see the end of a long train. A shaken engineer rubbed his forehead as he relayed to an officer the events that led to a mangled body lying in the grass.

“You girls wait here,” Durant said as he thrust the car into park. He hurried over to the scene, his large frame moving with surprising speed.

Gabby and Emma sat in the idling car, the fan of the air conditioner dulling the sounds outside.

“I wonder who it was?” Emma asked.

Shivers ran up Gabby’s spine. “I hope it’s not someone we know.”

“Gabs, it’s Safety Harbor. We know everyone.”

“I know, but…”

Above the whirl of the air conditioner, through the noise of cars, onlookers, and the occasional siren, Gabby heard a sound she recognized.

“Oh God, no,” she said.

She opened the door to hear the pained cry of a wailing child.

CHAPTER THREE

The child’s cry echoed in Gabby’s mind. She had heard it so many times before. She hopped out of the police cruiser and closed her eyes, using her ears to lead her to its source.

“Gabs, we’re supposed to stay in the car,” Emma said through the window.

Guided by the child’s screams, Gabby jogged toward the back of an ambulance. Jasper, a paramedic, struggled to calm a small five-year-old girl fighting his tight grip, using all her strength to squirm away.

“Girl, you have to sit still!” Jasper said. “Please! Stop moving!”

“Her name is Stacy! She’s deaf,” Gabby yelled. “And she doesn’t read lips.”

Gabby grabbed Stacy’s tear-streaked cheeks and looked into her frightened eyes. Stacy looked up with recognition, stretching her arms out to Gabby, who spoke as she signed.

“Are you okay?” Gabby asked.

Stacy yelled, her arms stiff, her fingers opening and closing, trying to draw Gabby near.

“Are you hurt?” Gabby signed.

“No,” Stacy signed back. Her hands then burst into a flurry of movement.

“What is she saying?” Jasper asked.

“She wants to know if her mom is okay.”

Jasper’s pause told Gabby everything. He shook his head. “No, she didn’t make it.”

Gabby lifted Stacy into her arms and embraced her, feeling the child’s chest heave with nervous, shallow breaths. Gabby knew she should say something, comfort her in some way, but words weren’t enough. She didn’t know how to explain to the child that her mother had just died. No more than when Gabby’s second grade teacher had met her on the playground with a worried look and told her the same thing.

There was no good way to tell someone terrible, life-changing news or avoid the damage it would cause. There was nothing good about death.

“No,” Gabby signed. “I’m sorry, sweetie, but your mom is not okay. She… she passed away.”

She burst into tears, unable to hear her screams rising above the turmoil. Stacy signed the same words over and over again, tears of anguish streaming down her face.

“What is she doing? Is she okay?” Jasper asked.

“She keeps saying it was all her fault,” Gabby said. “It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault. Over and over and over again.” She pulled Stacy to her chest and whispered “Sshhh,” into ears that couldn’t hear.

“Are you family?” he asked.

“No. I used to babysit her.” Gabby looked over Stacy’s shoulder and asked the paramedic. “What happened?”

“From what they could tell,” he started, “it looked like the girl’s mom…”

“Regina,” Gabby said.

“Regina was getting two cones over at the Depot and…”

“Stacy.”

“Stacy wandered over near the railroad tracks. She didn’t hear the train coming, so Regina ran over and pushed her out of the way, but she got caught under the wheels.”

Gabby looked toward the Depot and spotted ice cream splattered on the road, the white and brown cream melting into the gutter.

“The mom, Regina, saved her daughter’s life,” Jasper said. “She’s a hero.”

Gabby stepped back and glared at him with enraged eyes. “I think Stacy would prefer a cowardly mother rather than a heroic corpse.”

Jasper’s brow furrowed with confusion. “But… but, she saved Stacy’s life. The girl would have died.”

“Maybe she would have preferred to have been the one to die instead.” Stacy buried her head into Gabby’s shoulder, and she returned the affection by caressing her hair.

“Gabby!” Durant yelled as he approached, his thick form towering over her. “I told you to wait in the car.”

“Stacy was crying,” she said. “She needed me.”

“I understand that, but you should have done what I told ya to do.”

“I do, Mr. Durant. Usually.”

“Well, try harder. How’s Stacy doin’?”

“Her mom just died. How do you think?”

“I mean, is she hurt, physically?”

“Just some scrapes and bruises,” Jasper said. “Nothing serious.”

“Nothing serious?” Gabby whisked around and punched Jasper in the chest. “What the hell is wrong with you? Nothing serious!”

Durant put his arm around Gabby and pulled her aside. “I know you’re upset, Gabby. We all are. Regina was a brave woman, handling Stacy all on her own after her husband walked out on ‘em and all. But, punchin’ poor ol’ Jasper for doing his job ain’t exactly the right way to express it.”

“The guy’s heartless!” Gabby said loud enough for Jasper to hear.

“He is not. He’s a professional.”

“Yeah, a professional idiot.”

“Now, I know this is churnin’ up bad memories for ya. Nobody would blame you for revisiting it all. But, we need to be focusing on Stacy and Regina right now.”

“What do you think I’m doing?” she asked.

“I think you’re doin’ a little bit of both. Now, Regina’s sister is on her way to pick up Stacy. Why don’t ya pass her along to me and we’ll get you on your way?”

Gabby pressed her face into Stacy’s hair, smelling the familiar scent of the coconut shampoo Stacy liked. “I can wait until Rhonda arrives. Father Peters will understand.”

Durant gently pried Stacy from Gabby’s hands. “Let’s get you to your appointment.”

Stacy rested her head on Durant’s muscular shoulder and Gabby kissed her on the forehead, signing as she spoke. “I’ll see you soon, okay? You be a good girl. And it’s okay to cry, no matter what anyone says. Don’t forget that.”

Stacy nodded, tears welling up once again. Gabby gave her hand one last squeeze and walked back toward the police cruiser in a daze. She knew what was heading Stacy’s way, and every step was going to be difficult. Overwhelming. Depressing. The loss would feel like it was going to linger forever. And it would. Things wouldn’t make sense. Colors would look like they were washed with gray, and days would blur into months and years. There was no way to avoid it or make it go away. This was going to be her life from now on.

As Gabby slid into the hard, plastic backseat, she felt a guilty moment of relief. At least she wasn’t responsible for her mother’s death, even inadvertently, like Stacy. That weight on Stacy’s soul was something Gabby couldn’t fathom. It was a burden that may well crush her, breaking her into a million pieces that no priest, relative, or psychologist would ever be able to reassemble.

One of Durant’s officers drove Gabby to the church. On the way, Emma inundated her with questions that Gabby couldn’t answer. She didn’t know what to say or how to say it in a way that Emma would understand. Emma had never experienced loss like that. Her prime mission was to pry joy out of every mundane moment. Her life was full of fun and frivolity. It was one of the reasons Gabby loved spending time with her. Emma brought a light into the world Gabby wouldn’t normally see. But she couldn’t explain to her the purpose of the tragedy. Her dad would have to do that. She was certain he had done it hundreds of times before.

Gabby left her bike unlocked outside of the church rectory. Actually, she left it unlocked everywhere, hoping someone would steal it. Unfortunately, thieves had the same aversion to it as she did.

She entered silently into Father Peters’ small and cramped rectory office. There was only one place in the room where a chair would fit for his infrequent visitors, in the back corner next to a fake potted plant in serious need of dusting.

Father Peters stood behind his big desk with his back to the door. Piles of things he needed to do, things he wanted to do, and things he’d been avoiding sprawled across it. It appeared his prayers for tidiness had not been answered.

Behind the desk, and wrapping around two of the walls, were floor-to-ceiling shelves. He filled them with books on faith, marriage, addiction, abuse, and forgiveness. It seemed like a lot of books for one man, but Gabby knew he relied on them to help him do his job.

Father Peters hunched over and scoured through an opened shipping box. Gabby slid across the room, plopping into the chair with a loud thump.

“You’re late,” he said without turning around.

“Sorry. Regina Simpson died.”

He tilted his head to peer over his shoulder. “What happened?”

“Got hit by a train. But she saved Stacy, so I guess that’s something.”

“Dear Lord, that’s horrible. Regina was such a nice woman. I’ll have to call on the family later. They’re not Catholic, but grief doesn’t have a denomination. Was Stacy okay?”

“No physical injuries.”

He stopped and eased his rotund form into his desk chair. “No physical injuries,” he said. “But she has others?”

“She will. You know that.”

“Yes, her life will be different now, but she’ll overcome it. You have.”

She chuckled. “Have you been listening to me for the last seven years? I haven’t overcome anything.”

His chubby cheeks rose as he smiled. “Don’t exaggerate. When your father suggested I help you, do you remember what we did that first meeting?”

“No.”

“Nothing. You sat with a scowl, much like the one you have on your face right now, with your arms crossed, slumped in the chair. You stared at me for sixty straight minutes.”

“I don’t remember much from back then,” she said.

“It took three months for you to tell me anything substantial. You were quite adept at internalizing your pain. You still are. You were beyond wounded. You were broken. But, look at the young woman you have become. Faithful. Determined. Gifted. You help people. Granted, I still don’t approve of all of your methods, but that’s for another day.” He motioned to a ceramic vase filled with silk flowers on the table next to her. “Do you remember knocking that over?”

“No,” she said.

“Thrown would be a better word. Anyway, once something breaks, it will never be the same again. It can heal and function like it did, but the scars will always remain. You and I have spent our time together gluing you back together one piece at a time. You may never be able to go back to before your mother died, but you are still a tremendous young woman.”

“Wow. Compliments. I must really look like shit.”

“Crap. We don’t say shit here.”

“But you just did, Father.”

“Don’t be a smart-aleck.”

Gabby tried to enjoy her attempted humor, but the weight of the morning would not abate. She shifted in her seat.

“Something is on your mind?” he asked.

“Yes, Father. I don’t get it,” she said.

“Get what?”

“The point.”

“To…”

“Today, Regina died saving Stacy…”

“As tragic as that may be, considering the alternative, that’s a good thing, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Is it? With all the stuff with my mom, what happened to her and all, I was wondering if maybe it was Stacy’s time. Maybe Regina got in the way of how things were supposed to play out.”

“Parents aren’t wired that way, Gabby. Regina couldn’t sit by and watch her child get hurt.”

“But aren’t they messing with things? Destiny or fate or something?”

“Gabby, you are the last person to let fate play out.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Your friends, your classmates, they come to you with a problem and you help them. You step in. You fix it when you can. Often times, you make a mess doing it, but, you, of all people, never leave it to fate.”

“That’s not the same thing, Father. Finding a missing cell phone or helping a kid stop getting picked on isn’t changing lives.”

“It is for the person you’re helping,” he said.

Gabby stood and paced the room. “I’m not talking about petty things, Father, the stupid stuff that I do. I’m talking about… My mom died. It was her time. That’s it. In God’s master plan, her life ended on that day, at that moment. All of our clocks run out, right? Only God knows when. Then why fight it?”

“So, what you’re saying is Regina should have done nothing?”

“I’m saying, her sacrifice didn’t mean anything. She just shifted some of her minutes to Stacy’s clock, but nothing changed. We all die.”

“Yes, we do.”

“And it’s supposed to be better afterwards, right? Heaven and all?”

“That’s the general idea, assuming you’ve lived a holy life,” he said.

“Then, why fight it? Why stick around here with sadness, accidents, husbands who walk out, and daughters who are born deaf?”

“You expect life should be without suffering?” he asked.

“No. Life is suffering. I just don’t see the point in hanging out to indulge in it when your clock is supposed to run out.”

“Gabby, I know the events of this morning have brought you back to a dark place, but you have to fight the urge to stay there. Yes, life has suffering, but it is not just a burden. It’s more than that. God has a plan for you. A path. And yes, that path may be difficult and we may not know when our journey ends, but that’s not important. What’s important is what we do while we’re here.”

“Like saving a daughter,” she said.

“Yes, like saving a daughter.”

Gabby sat back into the chair. “No offense, padre, but I think I’ve had as much of God’s planning as I can take.”

Father Peters spun around and slid the cardboard box onto his desk. “You see this? My mother cleared out her closet. She’s in her eighties now and growing more fragile every year. To prevent any family squabbling, she decided to go through the house and send us the things she thinks we’d want ahead of time.” He frowned. “Her goal is to die in an empty house.”

“I’m sorry, Father.”

He pulled out an old Little League baseball trophy wrapped in thick bubble wrap. “When I was a kid, I played baseball. Loved the game. Had major league dreams… everyone does at that age. I was the starting pitcher my last year. I loved trying to outwit the batter. Set him up with an inside fastball, strike him out with an outside change-up. I was in my element.”

“Is that a championship trophy?”

“Dear, no! We lost every game that year.” He leaned back in his chair, his eyes scanning through memories as if he was watching a movie. “I was so frustrated, Gabby. Borderline depressed, because no matter how hard I worked, the outcome remained the same. We lost. Every time I tried, we failed. I remember asking my mother why God wouldn’t let me win. Do you know what she said?”

“You’re not a good pitcher?” she teased.

“No, she told me God must be preparing me for something. Something that would make sense later on in life.”

Curious, Gabby leaned forward. “And what was that?”

“To never give up. To focus only on what you can control and let God handle the rest.” He moved the trophy atop a filing cabinet next to an Integrity Award given to him by the bishop. “If God didn’t teach me that lesson, to keep pitching no matter what happened, I’m certain I wouldn’t be where I am today.”

She sat back in the chair, frustrated. “God doesn’t seem to be as clear with me as he was with you. I mean, what is Regina’s death supposed to teach me?”

“You have to have faith.”

“Is that your answer for everything?”

He nodded. “It is the answer for everything.”

Gabby stared at the floor and sighed. She was private about her faith and relied on it more than anyone realized. Especially on days like today. She wasn’t preachy about her beliefs. She wasn’t flashy. She wasn’t even sure she was any good at it. In fact, the older she got, the more questions she had about it. Her church’s teachings were strict, unyielding, and out of step with the rest of the world. So many questions, one piling on the other, with no satisfactory answers waiting for her.

Faith. That was tough, at times. Trust. That was harder.

Gabby turned and stared out of the window overlooking the rattling air conditioner. Only a few hours ago, she was enjoying a piece of pizza and hoping to figure out how to use her God-given gifts in a way that didn’t offend him. And, if she was lucky, maybe keep herself out of prison in the process. After Regina’s death, all those concerns went away. The world lost its light again.

If Stacy was to live a longer life, why did Regina have to pay the price? Why couldn’t God have stepped in and nudged Stacy out of the way? Or kept them from getting ice cream in the first place?

Why did Gabby’s mom have to leave the house and never come back? Why didn’t God put obstacles in her way, forcing her to stay home? Why did God sit and watch our lives collide with brutality and do nothing about it?

She had asked these questions of Father Peters many times. Sometimes eloquently. Sometimes with a lot of words not allowed in his office. He would explain the consequence of sin, of free will, and of a number of other precepts. As much as Gabby’s mind could wrap itself around those concepts, she couldn’t figure out a way to turn that knowledge into faith.

The silence after all her questions to God was an expression of her doubts. She was finding the world moving from simplicity to harsh complexity. She was no longer sure if she was heading in the right direction.

“How do I know if I’m on the right path, Father?” she asked.

He looked over to the cardboard box and smiled. “I think I have a way to explain it that will be easy to understand.”

“That’ll be a first,” she teased.

“Smart aleck.” He unrolled the rectangular piece of bubble wrap and held it up in front of her. “Let’s say this bubble wrap is your life.”

“Not as impressive as I had hoped.”

“And let’s say each one of these bubbles represents a major decision in your life. Since you have free will, you can choose to follow God’s path or your own.”

“Free will again, huh?” she asked.

“Yes, free will. Now, listen.” He held his thumb over one unpopped bubble. “Let’s say this bubble is the decision on whether you will smoke marijuana or not.”

“Not.”

“Okay.” He popped the bubble. “That decision has been made. And every decision that would result if you had said ‘yes’ also disappears.” He popped four other bubbles. He then hovered his thumb over another bubble. “And on to your next decision. And so on.”

“So, God knows every decision I could make?”

“Yes. And the effect of every decision you could ever make. That’s his omnipotence.”

“That doesn’t sound like free will to me. Sounds like we’re pieces on a game board and he’s just hanging out, watching how it all turns out.”

“He’s not just watching. He has a path all mapped out for you. It’s a hard and narrow road. Whether you take it or not is entirely up to you. That’s your free will.”

“So, how do I know which bubble God wants me to press?”

“Through prayer and through listening, you’ll know.”

“I pray a lot, Father, but I don’t hear too much.”

“Keep trying. And stop talking. He’s very polite. He doesn’t interrupt.”

“Okay. So, what you’re saying is God has a bubble wrap of my life, he has some bubbles he wants me to press, and it’s up to me to press them or not.”

“Yes. And the cool thing is, no matter which bubble you’re on, God always has a path back to him. That’s his eternal mercy.”

“I can see the giddiness in your eyes. You’re going to use this in your next homily, aren’t you?”

“I’m considering it.”

“Okay, padre, let’s say you’re right.” She took the wrap and rubbed her fingers over the pillow-like bubbles. “Then which of these is when my time runs out?”

CHAPTER FOUR

The downtown gazebo was the center of Gabby’s universe. Located on Main Street, catty-corner from her father’s hardware store, the old, wooden structure with a circular roof looked like something out of a Mark Twain novel. Gabby and her friends, self-dubbed The Gang, considered it their home away from home.

The Gang started when she and Emma met in preschool. Hamilton and his geeky persona joined them a few years later in second grade. In an environment where most boys ate paste, Hamilton wore rectangular glasses, matching clothes, and always carried a book in his hand. He was a dorkish man among boys. Meeting him was quite a shock for Gabby. She was at the age where she had just started becoming aware of the differences in people. Confused by Hamilton’s darker skin, she stopped by the hardware store and asked her dad, “Why can’t I have a tan like Hamilton?”

“He’s black. You’re white.”

“So?”

“His ancestors come from Africa. Yours come from Europe. Different climates, different skin color. That’s the way God made us.”

“Oh. He’s nice. And smart.”

“Good.”

“But I’ll never be able to tan like him?”

“No, honey.”

“That’s not fair.”

Her father smiled. “No, it isn’t.”

After that, she never thought about it again and had zero tolerance for those who did. One of the things she envied about Hamilton was how comfortable he was in his own nerdy skin. She marveled at his lack of interest in what other people thought of him, even if that made him an outcast.

And then there was Scott. His family moved into town at the start of middle school, and that was when Gabby let him into the fold. Back then, he wasn’t the tall, handsome, athletic star he was today. He was awkward, a little shy, and one of the most sincere people she had ever met. His inclusion into her extended family gave it a depth and humanity it didn’t have before. As Scott started to grow into a man, so did his stature in The Gang. The rest of the group, including Gabby, were happy to follow his lead, knowing it would usually point them in the right direction.

This, the last day of school, was to be a joyous event. Instead of being with The Gang and relishing in the months of freedom that lay ahead, the events at the train tracks changed all that. Her meeting with Father Peters extended into the evening. By the time she pedaled up the sidewalk and to the stairs of the gazebo, everyone else had already arrived.

Hamilton stood in the middle of the raised, wooden floor, rambling on about some life-altering book he had recently read, which was a common occurrence. Hamilton loved to read and felt every book changed his life even when that seemed impossible. Gabby couldn’t understand how a book about snowflakes could come in handy in the hot and humid Florida weather. Or how a story about Asian trade routes in the second century would affect his life as a freshman.

Scott and Emma sat on the floor like kids around a campfire, listening to Hamilton’s excited views about horned frogs. Gabby lumbered up the stairs around the point Hamilton was exalting the benefits of the frogs’ third eye.

“I’m sorry, a third eye?” Gabby asked.

“Hey Gabs,” Hamilton said. “Well, it’s not really a third eye. It’s a gland on the top of their head that looks like one. But, what’s cool is when the horned frogs get angry, they can squirt a four-foot stream of blood from their eyes!”

“Eww,” Emma said.

“Sounds like something out of a horror movie,” Scott said.

“I know, cool, right?” Hamilton asked. “Even today, in parts of Mexico, the folklore insists that the creatures that weep tears of blood are sacred!”

Gabby sat on the floor next to Scott, resting her head on his shoulder. “So that’s your book of the week, Ham?” she asked. “Horned Frogs?”

“Sacred Frogs of the Desert by Philmore Sandusteen, Ph.D.,” Hamilton said.

“Well, if a doctor said it, it must be true,” Gabby said. “Are you going to take a break from reading over the summer, Ham?”

“No. Just the opposite. I got a part-time job at the library! I start tomorrow.”

“That’s perfect. How’d you score that?” she asked.

“Funny story. They have these things called employment applications. If you fill them out and they like you, sometimes they offer you the job.”

“Fascinating!” She smirked. “Has anyone else filled out any of these application doohickies?”

Scott raised his hand like an excited toddler. “Ooo! I have!”

Gabby sat up and slid back against the railing. Playing along, she asked, “Yes, Mr. Summers. Do you have something you would like to share with the class?”

“Yes, Ms. Wells. I am happy to announce that I’m going to be a lifeguard over the summer. At the pool at the spa.”

“Nice.”

“Perfect,” Hamilton mumbled. “You’ll get to flex your muscles in front of all the girls.”

“Don’t be jealous, Ham,” Emma said. “We each have our gifts. But I will say this… if I didn’t think of Scott like a brother, I’d be all over him.”

“Eww!” Gabby said.

“You know what I mean.”

“I know. That’s the problem.” Gabby patted Scott on his shoulder. “No offense, but thinking of you that way gives me the willies.”

“It should,” he said. “We’re like family. Family doesn’t sleep together. Well, except maybe Hamilton’s.”

Hamilton jumped on Scott, and they began to wrestle. Emma slid over to Gabby as the boys tumbled across the gazebo floor, Hamilton’s black skin and Scott’s tanned hue spinning around like a pinwheel.

“How long before Scott pins him?” Emma asked.

“As long as he wants,” Gabby laughed.

“I heard that!” Hamilton said, caught in a headlock while Scott gave him a noogie.

Emma leaned forward and whispered, “Are you okay, Gabs?”

“Yeah,” she said, removing her hat and running her hand through her hair. “How about you?” Gabby asked.

“Unfortunately, I hear stories like Regina’s all the time at home. Murder, suicide, domestic violence… comes with being the daughter of the sheriff.”

“Must make for interesting dinner conversation.”

“Let’s just say my dad has a unique way of killing my appetite. He usually reels it in when you’re around.”

“I just… I know what Stacy is going to go through. It’s going to be hard. At least I had my dad. He’s been great. Stacy, she has no one.”

“She’ll have you,” Emma said.

Gabby smiled. “Yes, she will.” She looked past Emma and noticed a figure standing across the street, watching them. “Who’s that?”

Emma turned and peered through the railing bars. “That looks like that girl from history. Oh, what’s her name? Melody? Monica? Mitzy?”

“Mitzy?” Gabby placed her hat onto her head. “Remind me to never let you suggest names for my children.”

“I know it begins with an M.”

“Maureen,” Gabby said.

“That’s it. Maureen something or other. She always sat in the back row. Quiet. Weird.”

“I wonder what she wants?”

“To creep me out.”

“I doubt she wants that,” Gabby said.

“Well, she’s doing it. Want me to go say something to her?” Emma pulled a pair of handcuffs out of her purse. “I could scare her.”

Gabby laughed. “Why do you carry those things around?”

“Because she’s kinky,” Hamilton said, his face pressed against the floor, Scott sitting on his chest. Hamilton flailed for three seconds, but Scott didn’t budge.

“Okay, Scott, I think you won,” Gabby said.

“No. I can take him,” Hamilton said. “I’ll out-think him. Use my intellect to overcome his brawn.”

“That hasn’t worked yet,” she said.

“Then I’m due.” Hamilton raised his free hand up to Scott’s head and pressed his temple.

“Ow!” Scott yelled, slapping Hamilton’s hand away. “That hurt.”

“Okay,” Hamilton said. “Now I’m out of ideas.”

“That was it?” Gabby asked. “That was your grand intellectual move?”

“My next book will definitely be on self-defense.” He held out his hand to Emma. “Can I borrow those cuffs?”

Scott turned Hamilton around and pinned him. “Too late!” he said, rising victoriously.

Hamilton stumbled to his feet, brushing off his clothes. “Next time, Summers, you will feel my wrath.” Hamilton smiled.

“I can’t wait,” Scott said, giving him one more playful noogie. “You’re getting better though.”

“Really?

“No.”

Hamilton laughed and punched him in the arm. “Just wait. Soon, I won’t need to compete with the likes of you.”

“Why not?” Gabby asked.

“Because, I’m creating my own signature look. It will impress the men and dazzle the ladies.”

“This I have to see,” Emma said. “Do you need my help?”

“No.”

“But I’ve dated a lot of guys.”

“A lot of guys!” Gabby said.

“And, I could give you some tips,” Emma said.

“No thanks, Em,” Hamilton said. “This is going to be all Hamilton. No one else on the planet will look like me.”

“You’ve already got that nailed down,” Gabby joked.

“Just wait, Gabs. Next year, no one, not even you, will be able to keep your eyes off the Hamilton.”

“The Hamilton? You’re not going to start referring to yourself in the third person, are you?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“I have!” Emma said. “No. Never. Ever.”

“Fine,” Hamilton said. “I’ll let my fashion do my talking for me.”

“Good. Because, right now, it’s not speaking too highly of you.”

They all laughed again, and Gabby allowed the levity to sink into her pores. She needed The Gang as much as she needed oxygen. They kept her from fixating on the parts of her life she couldn’t change and allowed her to indulge in a smidge of optimism.

As the jokes and laughter continued, Gabby glanced across the street where Maureen remained standing, staring at them. She stood and walked to the edge of the gazebo, transfixed by Maureen’s anxious gaze penetrating the darkening sky. To Gabby, Maureen was one of the high school enigmas, much like herself. Even though she sat in her history class every day for a year, Maureen was forgettable. It may have been by choice or because the gods of Safety Harbor High deemed her insignificant.

She thought Maureen had a brother. A senior. Also forgettable. His name began with a P. Or a D. Why was she standing there? Did she need to talk to them?

“Do the thing!” Hamilton said to Gabby.

She spun back to The Gang. “The what?”

Emma held up her handcuffs with a growing grin.

“Seriously? Again?” Gabby asked. “When is this going to get old?”

“When you can’t do it,” Scott said.

Gabby took the handcuffs and slid her fingers across the circumference of each metal cuff. “This is the last time,” Gabby said.

“You said that before,” Hamilton said.

“I mean it this time.”

“You said that before too,” Scott said.

She slapped the first cuff around her wrist and clicked it tight. Placing her hands behind her, she turned her back to Emma. “If you would do the honors, Em.”

Emma closed the dangling cuff around her other wrist and pressed it closed, pinching Gabby’s skin.

“Ow,” Gabby said.

“Sorry. I just want to make sure it’s secure this time,” Emma said.

Gabby turned to face The Gang, hiding her hands behind her. “Ready?” she asked.

“Do you want me to time you?” Hamilton asked, his retro watch at the ready.

“No need.”

Gabby pulled her hands out from behind her back and tossed the cuffs to Emma, who stared at them with an opened jaw.

“How do you do that?” Scott yelled.

Emma shook the cuffs in Gabby’s face. “These were my dad’s handcuffs! He used them every day for years. Really bad criminals couldn’t escape them!”

“She must have a key or pick or something,” Hamilton said.

“I don’t have a key, and I didn’t use anything to pick the locks. I swear,” Gabby said.

“Then how?” Emma asked.

Gabby smiled, “You’ll have to figure it out.”

“Okay, Ms. Show Off. Challenge accepted.” Emma spun around and stepped backward toward Hamilton. “Put the cuffs on me, Ham,” she said. “If Gabs can do it, so can I.”

“You said that last time,” Hamilton said.

“This time will be different.”

“You said that last time too,” Scott said.

“Just put them on!” Emma said, holding her hands out behind her back.

Hamilton shrugged and placed them on each of her wrists. “How tight?”

“As tight as you want.” A few clicks later, she said, “Don’t go crazy, though.”

Hamilton shook the cuffs, making sure they were secure, and stepped away.

“Time me,” Emma said.

“My watch doesn’t go to infinity,” he replied.

“Time me!”

“Just free yourself, and we’ll call it a win,” Scott said.

“Okay, you of little faith,” Emma said. “Watch and be amazed.”

“I’ll be amazed if you’re not crying like a little girl in five minutes,” Hamilton said.

“When I get out of these cuffs, I’m gonna hit you.”

“Color me scared.”

Emma looked into Gabby’s eyes, a confident smile forming on her lips. Behind her, the cuffs clanged against each other and her arms moved with an intense fury.

“I think I got it,” Emma said. “Just one more second and…” Click. “I think I just made them tighter. Okay. Scratch that approach off my list. No problem. I got this. I grew up with handcuffs in my house. They’re as common to me as a hair straightener.”

“You ever get locked to one of those?” Scott smirked.

“Shut it, smart mouth. I’m close. Just one more second and…” Emma pulled, her elbows bowing out from her sides. Nothing. She pulled again. Nothing. She thrashed and flapped, exerting an immense amount of effort, resulting in a series of tightening clicks.

“Okay, I think I made it worse,” she said. “Yes. Definitely worse. They’re too tight. I’m losing feeling in my fingers.” She twisted to turn the cuffs toward Gabby. “Okay, Gabby. Get me out?”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can!”

“No, seriously. I can’t open them for other people. It doesn’t work that way. Don’t you have a key?”

“Yes. At home. On my dresser.”

“That’s problematic,” Hamilton said.

“Thanks, Mr. Obvious. If my dad has to uncuff me one more time, he’s gonna be pissed. Pick them, Gabs. If you can pick Thompson’s classroom door, you can save me from being grounded on the first day of summer.”

Gabby chuckled. “I’ll give it a shot.” She knelt down and pulled the bobby pins from under her hat, wedging them into the small handcuff keyhole. As she maneuvered the pins inside the lock, she looked back across the street.

Maureen was gone.

CHAPTER FIVE

Energized by her time with her friends, Gabby headed over to the Safety Harbor Hardware Store to visit Harold, her father. She loved stopping by. It was a piece of home and smelled like wood, paint, cardboard, and metal all mixed together—like a potent cologne.

Before entering, Gabby stopped outside and stared at the small, two-store strip mall with its bland, beige exterior and blocky architecture. The hardware store occupied the left side of the building and above it hung a large, white sign with thick, red letters displaying the word HARDWARE. It flickered to life, and the once-plain sign illuminated to brilliant effect.

Adjacent was the town convenience store and was home to the only pharmacy within city limits. Gabby was no stranger to the aisles in either store, spending hours wandering through them as a kid. She’d stare at candy, toys, tools, and all sorts of neat things that sparked her imagination. She gave a friendly wave to Derrick, the night clerk behind the convenience counter, and bounced into her father’s hardware store. The bells above the door announced her entrance.

Her father’s strong voice lifted above the aisles in the back. “Be with you in a minute,” he said.

The shop had a little bit of everything and a lot of some other things. Most importantly, it had plenty of door lock samples for Gabby to practice on. The aisles were thin to accommodate as many shelves as possible and from the ceiling hung everything from wash bins to bungee cords. They didn’t waste an inch of space.

As she entered the long aisles, she imagined what it must have been like when her dad started working there in middle school. Grampa Wells taught her dad the ropes, just as Great Grampa Wells did for him. Owning a small store in a small town was becoming much more of a challenge than it was for his predecessors. National chains continued to poach their customers, and Gabby could see the stress on her father’s face when he came home from a quiet, unprofitable day at the store. Her dad never talked about their money problems, but she got the feeling they were a lot closer to shutting their doors for good than he would ever admit. As difficult as things might be from day to day, her dad seemed invigorated by the challenge. He was a math nerd at heart. For him, it was all about the numbers.

In many ways, Hamilton was a lot like him. Maybe that was why she found him so comfortable to be around. Like Hamilton, they bullied Harold growing up. Unlike Hamilton, he was able to use his quick wit and sharp mind to rise above the fray. Despite Scott’s attempts to protect Hamilton, he has had his share of scuffles with school thugs, where Gabby’s dad had the unique ability to talk his way out of it. Sixth grade was the closest her dad ever came to a fistfight, and it was one of Gabby’s favorite stories.

Behind the school gym, some guy named Ted Maas, a large, slow, and angry kid, rolled up his sleeves in preparation for taking out some unknown aggression on her dad’s face.

Not looking forward to the impending pain and public humiliation, her dad stepped forward. “Ted, do you think I’m a jerk?”

“Yes,” Ted said.

“Good, because I think you’re a jerk, too.”

Ted did a double take. “You think I’m a jerk?”

“Everybody does, Ted. But that’s not the point.” Her dad had placed his hand on Ted’s oversized shoulder. “So, here’s our problem. You’re going to beat me up, and I’m going to take it. But, when you’re done, I’m still going to think you’re a jerk and you’re going to think the same of me. So, what are we really accomplishing? You’ll get in trouble, and I’ll spend a couple days at home trying to avoid my friends while my face heals. What’s gained? Nothing. So, instead of beating me to a pulp, what do you say we forgo the planned pummeling and just agree that we don’t like each other? It’s the right thing to do, Ted. You know it. And I know it. How about it? Truce?”

Confused, Ted looked at the kids surrounding them who came to watch a fight. Her dad’s words appeared to have changed their minds and Ted followed their lead, deciding a truce would be a good idea. “Don’t let it happen again,” he blustered.

Her dad didn’t know what he meant by that, but it afforded Ted an exit line, which he took, puffing his feathers like an insecure peacock. And that was that.

The best part was that a cute girl named Carolyn attended the fight that never happened. She was so impressed by him that she secretly started following him around. She eventually got up enough nerve to talk to him at a dodgeball game. A few weeks later, she started sitting next to him in the lunchroom. Years later, she found herself standing next to him, in front of a priest, getting married.

Gabby’s mother was stunning. She had soft, olive skin and piercing eyes. Her dad would joke about the looks they got when they went for a walk, holding hands. People couldn’t figure out how he landed such a beautiful girl. Gabby’s dad wasn’t bad looking, he was just, well, average. Strangers asked him questions about his portfolio and future investments, assuming he had to be incredibly rich or successful. But his vast mind and kind soul was what attracted Gabby’s mom. She thought he was clever, inventive, funny, and faithful. She never shut up about it.

She and Harold both wanted a large family, and they started almost immediately. Ten months after saying, “I do,” they welcomed Gabrielle Catherine Wells into the world.

Her dad told Gabby about their grand plans. It seemed her mom didn’t come from the most loving of families, and she wanted to create one for her husband and children.

All that changed when Gabby’s mom went to run errands during a heavy rain, lost control, careened off the road, and crashed into the swollen Tocobaga River. A recent tropical storm had raised the river to near-flood stage, and the currents were swift and dangerous. The water pushed the car twenty yards downstream, and her body was never recovered. The police determined she had drowned and been swept into the wilderness. History told them the hungry wildlife would make finding the body nearly impossible. Eventually, the case went cold.

For Gabby, it was hard to find closure. How could she, when they buried an empty casket? What could you say to a tombstone affixed on top of grass with nothing but dirt underneath?

Gabby was too young when her mother died to understand it all. All she knew was that one day, her mother was there, and the next, she wasn’t. Her mother’s crucifix was the only tangible connection she had left. Found tangled on the rocks on the river’s shore, it now never left Gabby’s neck.

Lucky enough to have her father’s mind and her mother’s looks, Gabby tried to move forward. Often driven by compulsion more than wisdom, she attempted to move passed that one moment on that one day. Sometimes she did, too many times, she couldn’t.

People called her many things, most times behind her back and sometimes, to her face. Some of them call her a sleuth. Others, a thief. And a few jackasses called her a jerk. They were all right.

A select few, The Gang, could call her a friend.

Her classmates came to her when they ended up in a situation they never foresaw, facing circumstances they couldn’t escape. She was never their first choice and often their last, but they always called.

Gabby’s eyes refocused on the present and the neatly stacked rows of electrical cords displayed in front of her. She inhaled deeply, taking in the store’s comforting scent, and happily bopped her way to her dad in the paint section, checking inventory.

“Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven…” Harold mumbled.

Gabby greeted him with a kiss on the cheek. “Hola, Papasito.”

He smiled. “Hey, sweetheart. Did you hear about Regina?”

“Yes, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay. I just figured it may bring back bad memories and—”

“And that’s why I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Father Peters and I covered that ground already.”

“Oh. And what was the outcome?” he asked.

“I’m still screwed up, but undeniably adorable.”

“Are those his words or yours?”

“My interpretation. He used a lot of words like faith, patience, and stuff like that.”

“I like his version better.”

“Busy day or slow?” she asked.

“Slow, but steady.”

“Speaking of steady—”

“No, you cannot get a car.”

“I’m not saying that. I’m suggesting—”

“No, you cannot drive my car,” he said.

“But, Dad! Why? You won’t even let me get my driver’s permit.”

“Once you get that little piece of plastic, my insurance rates double and we can’t afford it.  We’ve been through this, Gabby.”

“You and your facts. It’s all math and accuracy with you. Where’s your adventurous side, Dad?”

“All that math and accuracy keeps the lights on, your stomach full, and a roof over your head.”

“Can I at least get a new bike?”

“That may be a possibility.”

“Awesome,” she said. “I saw one for sale by our house. It has four wheels, a two-hundred and-twenty-five horsepower V8 engine and a wicked, white stripe painted down the middle.”

“I’m not buying Mr. Rob’s sixty-five Ford Mustang.”

“Dad, you have no vision.”

“My vision is fine. It’s my checking account that has the problem.” He rescanned his inventory sheet. “Okay, where was I?”

“Twenty-seven,” Gabby said.

He continued counting.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll succumb to your evil logic. Then what am I going to do all summer with a bike and no money?”

He sported a large and cheesy smile.

“Besides help you out at the store,” she said.

“I’m sure you and your friends will figure some way to get into trouble.”

“We don’t make trouble, Dad.”

“I know, trouble finds you.”

“What can I say? I’m a magnet?”

“Can you magnetize straight As and a detention-free school year?” he asked.

“I’ll work on it.” Gabby moved behind him and looked over his shoulder. “So, what’re we making for dinner?”

He chuckled. “You can make it.”

“Yes!” Gabby loved to cook; she was just bad at it. Her meals frequently tasted like burnt wood and soggy socks. She bounded toward the exit, eager to leave before he changed his mind.

“No, wait!” He popped his head out from behind the shelves. “I’ll make pork roast, noodles, and… you can cook the veggies.”

“You know what? I’ll show you. This summer, I’m going to learn how to cook.”

“That would be a miracle.”

“Just for that, I’m making broccoli.”

“Just for that, I’m making liver.”

Gabby stewed. “Fine. I’ll make green beans.”

He smiled. “And I’ll make pork roast.”

“You’re a hard negotiator, Dad.”

“Remember, you can’t win a negotiation if you don’t have the most leverage.”

“Did Mom teach you that?”

“Yup,” he said. “How do you think she got the back patio?”

“Interesting. What did she hold over you?” Gabby asked.

“I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

“So, sex. From what I’ve read, that works like a charm.”

“No comment.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she said.

Harold disappeared back behind the shelves. “Now, what number was I on?”

Before the door closed, she yelled, “Thirty-two!”

* * *

That night, Gabby and Harold sat down to their peaceful routine of eating dinner at the kitchen table. Even though their house was small and every square foot was used to its fullest potential, one room remained idle—the dining room. It was her mom’s favorite room, and they abandoned it after her death. It was too painful to use, so Gabby and her dad moved their nightly dinners to the kitchen.

For most people, eating dinner at ten at night would be odd, but it was the only time Gabby and her dad could sit down together. Gabby loved hearing her father’s thoughts. In a single meal, their conversations could range from gaseous anomalies in the solar system to the gaseous anomalies that escaped her dad as he got older. Or from the damaging effects of sin to why pink was never the correct color for a football uniform. She never knew where their discussions were going to lead, but Gabby always enjoyed the ride.

Harold wiped his plate clean with a piece of bread and plopped it in his mouth. “And the next thing I knew, I had tomato sauce on my back.”

Gabby laughed. “How is that possible?”

“I have no idea. It was a miracle of physics. My father-in-law was not amused. He had never seen ravioli explode like that.”

“What was he like?” she asked.

“He was a hard man. Nothing like your mother’s grandfather. I only met Grampa once. He was a quiet man. Gentle man. He lived most of his life in Italy. Worked in a small town called San Giovanni Rotondo. He didn’t speak English very well, but he always had a smile on his face.”

“Then what happened to Mom’s father?”

“I don’t know. He was a bitter guy. A pessimist. Never believed in much.”

“If she grew up with a grumpy man like that, where did her faith come from?”

“Well, Gabby, when you grow up, you have two choices—embrace the life you have or rise above it. She could have turned into her father. Most children would have, in a situation like that. But, she chose another path. She believed life served a purpose, and it was our job to figure out what that was.”

“What was her purpose?”

“To be a mom and a wife and go to church. That’s all she ever wanted.”

“Then I’m glad she got that, at least for a little while. What about you? You were born to own a hardware store?”

“You have to think beyond one’s profession. Owning a store is my job. It doesn’t mean it’s what I’m here to do.”

“Then what are you here to do?” she asked.

“Raise a pain-in-the-ass kid who uses her immense talents for everything but schoolwork.”

“Then I’m glad I could make your life so fulfilling.” Gabby looked down at her plate, spinning a leftover green bean with her fork. “What do you think my purpose is, Dad?”

“I think you’re going to do something great with your life, Gabby. Not good. Great. I don’t know what it is or if I’ll still be around to see it, but it’ll be something for the ages.”

She smirked with embarrassment. “No pressure, Dad.”

“Or, you’ll own a hardware store.”

“If it’s good enough for three generations of Wells, it’s good enough for me.”

He stood with a yawn. “It may be good enough, but it’s not great. You’ll do better than that.”

“You’ve done a great job, Dad. And not just with the store.”

“Thanks, kiddo.” He kissed her on the forehead. “Do you need any help with the dishes?”

“Nope. I got this.”

Gabby earned her keep by taking care of the house and doing the dishes after dinner. She didn’t mind. It was probably what her mom would have done if she were still alive. Putting the plates into the cabinet or folding the laundry made her feel close to her, churning up vague memories of helping her as a child. She was certain she got in the way more than she helped, but her mom always accepted her assistance with a smile.

She missed that smile.

Gabby ended the night as she always did, in the living room, looking at the pictures on the wall of her mom holding her as a baby.

“Hi, Mom, it’s Gabby,” she started, sitting on the arm of the couch. “Today was the last day of school. I’m no longer a freshman! How cool is that? I bet you never thought that day would come. I know I didn’t.” Gabby lowered her eyes and softened her voice. “Oh, you may have someone joining you up there. Regina. Stacy’s mom. She died today. It was tragic and beautiful at the same time. When I saw her body covered on the side of the tracks, I wondered what her last thoughts were. Did she wake up that day with any hint this would be her last? Did you? Does God give you any sort of clue? You know, to get your soul in order? Say your good-byes? That morning, you dropped me off at school, kissed me, told me you loved me, and waved to me as I left the car. Did you know that was going to be the last time you spoke to me? I sure wish I did. I would have stayed in the front seat, held your hand, and never let you go. I wish I had been with you in that car, Mom. That way you wouldn’t have had to die alone. And I wouldn’t have to live alone.”

Gabby wiped away the tears forming in her eyes. “Damn. When does this get easier?” She stood up and kissed her fingers, then pressed them against her mom’s picture.

“Good night, Mom. I’ll see you tomorrow. Show Regina around the place. And tell her I’ll keep an eye on Stacy. Tell her not to worry. I’ll make sure she didn’t die in vain.”

CHAPTER SIX

The popcorn ceiling looked like an alien landscape. With the full moon spraying its light into Gabby’s room, she stared up from her bed, her eyes exhibiting no interest in sleeping. The clock was nearing two in the morning, and Gabby did her best to convince herself it was time to dream. She didn’t peruse her favorite websites on her computer or try to get the top score on her latest phone app. She knew those would only awaken her mind further.

Instead, she tried reading a book Hamilton suggested about chronic intestinal disorders. The varying ways one’s body could attack itself and turn the intestinal tract against its host fascinated him. After three chapters, Gabby lost interest in all the ways a body failed to make poop correctly.

After that, all her attempts at encouraging unconsciousness failed. She was left staring at the ceiling, examining each bump on the textured surface, wondering if this was how snow-covered mountains looked to God.

Her mind also flashed with images of the bloody sheet covering Regina’s body. She imagined those might have covered a bed once. She ran her hand across the thin one covering her body, looking at its white purity, and speculated how much bleach would be necessary to remove bloodstains. Not the ones she got when she cut her legs shaving. But the saturated bloodstains that soaked into every fiber from gaping wounds oozing from unnatural openings. Could those sheets ever get washed clean? Would the washing machine ever be able to remove the discoloration of its history? Or would there always be a darkened imperfection that remained, like the mental one seared into Gabby’s brain from this morning?

Under that sheet was something so awful no one, not even the police who had witnessed murderous crimes of unrelenting brutality, wanted to peek under the cover. And those that dared looked away in horror. Regina’s mangled body caused them to cringe as if they were visiting a crime scene for the first time.

Gabby kicked the sheet off her body as if it were crawling with ants, repelled by its dual purpose of covering warm and cold bodies alike. She sat up against the headboard and closed her eyes, laying her head against the wall, trying to replace the silence in the room with her mother’s tune. God granted her mom a soft and melodious singing voice that had the ability to wash away Gabby’s fears and wrap her in a peaceful calm.

When Gabby was a young child, she would often awake from night terrors. Her screams would travel through the house and the thumps of running feet would approach from her parent’s bedroom. Her mother would run to Gabby and hold her in her arms. No matter how many times she was asked, Gabby could never remember the source of her nightmares. She would find herself sitting up in bed, covered in sweat, screaming at the top of her lungs. Her own panicked voice would jar her awake moments before her mother rushed to her side.

Her mom would rock her back and forth, pressing her head against her chest. She would begin with a hum, barely audible, that would grow into a song. The tune was one her family had passed down about traveling to a mythical river. It was ironic her mother would eventually die in one. The song was nonsensical, but on those nights where fear seemed to have replaced the oxygen in the room, her mother’s soft voice surrounded her like a protective shield, buffering Gabby from fright and insecurity. Her mother’s fingers would swipe the tears from her cheeks and reassure her everything would be all right.

Sitting up against her headboard, Gabby strained to find her mother’s voice in her memory. She tried to pull her warmth from the darkness and safeguard her from the images of the violent and unnecessary death of Stacy’s mother. Gabby had her fill of untimely deaths. She had no appetite for another. Yet, as she thought back to those night terrors, something gnawed inside of her, buried among her fading memories. Deep down, Gabby feared those dreams were not random synapses firing in her brain, but portents of her future. One where such screams of terror were not dark fantasies, but certain realities that had yet to reveal themselves.

Gabby spun her body, dipping her legs over the edge and placing her bare feet onto the cool hardwood floors. Stepping out of the bed, she walked over to her window, looking out at the palm fronds swaying in the night breeze. The world felt ominous. Threatening. The sea of darkness illuminated by the cold blue moonlight pressed against the glass like a porthole on a sinking ship.

Maybe she had it backwards. Maybe everyone did. Maybe the sun didn’t show us the world, but hid it. Maybe the world’s real identity was in the night’s shifting shadows filled with evil intentions. If heaven was overflowing with divine love and the world was fallen and corrupt, then perhaps earth’s true nature was different than everyone expected. Maybe the planet wasn’t full of good people interjected with a few bad apples. Maybe it was really a worm-infested bushel of rotten cores topped with a few shiny ones unaware of the layers of decay below.

Father Peters warned her this would happen again. He cautioned her to keep her thoughts away from desperation and hopelessness. She wasn’t doing a good job. She took a deep breath and stared at the moon, its glow hiding all but the brightest stars, trying to focus on its light diminishing the darkness, not the darkness surrounding the light.

Pushing away from the window, she walked to her nightstand. She cracked open her worn Bible, fighting her mind’s attraction to sinister thoughts, and flipped through the book’s thin pages, hoping one of them would cry out to her. The pages fluttered by, and her heart started to race. The negative voices in her head rose like a chorus until she slammed her hand on the Bible.

The room was once again silent.

She lifted her hand off the page to reveal a passage from the Old Testament. “For I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future of hope.”

Gabby stared at the words and laughed out loud.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, big guy,” Gabby said, “but the distance between that passage and my life are light-years apart. You’ll have to do better than tossing a few random words at me. I’ve risked hoping before, God. Didn’t work out too well. I’ve had too many motherless nights. Too many times, I’ve looked in the mirror and wanted to be different. If I could, I’d go back in time, erase it all, and start again. I know that’s not being faithful. But it is being truthful.”

Gabby used to be a lot more fun. Lighthearted. A prankster. At least, that was what her dad told her. He said she’d get a gleam in her eye and her mouth would form a crooked smile when she was hit with a moment of devious inspiration. Gabby shook her head at the thought. She had no memory of that girl. If they met, it would be like meeting a stranger from another world. That version of Gabby was lost forever, buried in her mother’s casket.

“For I have plans for you…” Gabby read aloud. “Yeah, God, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

Behind her, the table vibrated and a small light shined onto the popcorn ceiling. She glanced over her shoulder at her cell phone pulsing with each ring. The number was unlisted. Her impulse told her to answer.

“Hello?” Gabby said.

No one answered, but she could hear the sound of cars passing by in the background.

“Hello?”

A bell chimed, like the ones above the door at the hardware store. But these were pitched higher. They were familiar.

“Hello?”

Someone was breathing into the phone. Not deep and creepy, but light and quick. Then a voice mumbled like a moan.

“Stacy? Is that you?”

If it were Stacy, Gabby knew she couldn’t hear her. She knew Stacy didn’t have a cell phone. Where was she calling from?

The phone beeped four times, each with a different tone. If this was Stacy, she was pressing an old touch-tone phone, like the one Gabby had in the kitchen. The four tones repeated. Gabby hurried to her wall phone next to the oven and held it to her ear, pressing one number at a time, trying to identify the four numbers being repeated.

“Four… three… five… seven…”

That was it. The four numbers, repeated in that order. Four. Three. Five. Seven. Gabby’s mind scoured for connections. It wasn’t the beginning of an address she had visited or a phone number. It wasn’t part of a social security number or a birthday of anyone she knew. Four. Three. Five. Seven. What was it?

She stared at the wall phone, looking at the numbers.

“Four, three, five, seven.”

Her eyes widened as she looked at the three letters below each number. Within seconds, she uncovered the message.

“H… E… L… P…”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Gabby pressed her phone hard against her ear.

“Stacy!” she said, growing frustrated as the name left her mouth, knowing the ear on the other end of the phone could not hear her. Her hands wanted to sign her pleas to an empty kitchen. “Damn it!”

The four beeps chimed once more and stopped. Gabby heard the bells ring in the background again.

“Where have I heard those before?” she muttered to herself. She could hear a mumbled conversation along with what sounded like a man with a deep voice humming to himself.

Then the phone went dead.

“Stacy!”

Gabby hurried into her room and started to get dressed. She didn’t know where she was going, but she was certain she’d be leaving.

“Those bells. They’re like the ones hanging above the entrance at our hardware store.”

Gabby sifted through her memories of chiming bells. There were the annoying loud rings announcing the change in classes. There was the small bell fastened to Mr. Deidrich’s handlebars. He liked to ring them and wave as he passed through her neighborhood. There were also bells that rang at church during mass when Father Peters consecrated the bread and wine. There were the singing bells on the ice cream truck that cruised near the gazebo, playing simple melodies that always reminded her of chocolate éclairs. But the bells in the background on Stacy’s call were none of those.

Their location was on the tip of her tongue, dangling in her mind just out of reach. “Those bells. They sound like…”

She remembered.

Gabby slipped on her shoes and snuck out of the side door in the kitchen, pulling her bike out from behind the garbage cans. She gently walked up the side of the house, passing her father’s bedroom window. She ducked down to avoid the moonlight casting her shadow against his curtains, her creaking wheels whining as they spun.

It was always times like this that Gabby wished she had taken better care of her only mode of transportation instead of wishing it would collapse into a pile of rust or magically transform into a two-seater convertible. She hated her bike, but she needed it. As much as she wished it would be crushed by a passing semi-truck, she knew it wouldn’t easily be replaced. Not unless her father won the lottery.

As much as sitting on it embarrassed her, she couldn’t get by without it. Sure, most of her friends had more money than she did, or had generous relatives that gave them the things she always wanted. But that was life. She couldn’t do anything about that.

Plus, at the heart of it, Gabby knew she was her own worst enemy. If she charged people for her services, she could have bought her dream car by now. Maybe even two. Yet, she wasn’t wired that way. God gave her gifts and events in her life made her different from the rest of the teenagers in Safety Harbor, but turning someone’s moment of need into an opportunity for cash seemed heartless. She couldn’t do it. No matter how much she really wanted to. If Father Peters was right and she could really earn treasures in heaven by sacrificing here on earth, then Gabby expected an uber-awesome supercool massively bejeweled bike waiting for her at the pearly gates. And it better not have pink tassels. She hated pink.

The squeaking wheels did not awaken her father, and Gabby hopped onto the seat and pedaled toward Main Street. The bells she heard on the phone had to have come from the convenience store next to her dad’s hardware store. It was that and the deep humming that finally coalesced in her mind. Derrick, the night clerk, had a resonating voice and a mouth full of teeth touched by King Midas. For a man who drove a car with mismatched wheels and no air conditioning, he spared no expense when it came to capping his randomly spaced teeth with the finest gold his dentist could provide.

The fact that Derrick wasn’t the one on the other end of the line concerned Gabby. It meant Stacy was in trouble, or hiding, or both.

Stacy should have been in the care of the city. With her mother dead and the police unable to contact Stacy’s aunt Rhonda on short notice, Stacy was placed in a foster home or a state-run juvenile care center. Either one of them were not fond of candy runs to the convenience store in the middle of the night. Once she verified Stacy was there and uninjured, she’d call Sheriff Durant and make sure she got back home, wherever that was.

As her bike hopped over a crack in the sidewalk and onto Main Street, Gabby enjoyed the breeze running through her hair and the silence of the sleeping city. She had been to New York City once, the summer after her mother died. Her dad thought she could use the distraction and, thinking back, Gabby was sure he needed one too.

So, he did what he never did, closed the store for a week during the busiest time of the year, and drove up the East Coast to New York City. Other than playing a few car games like twenty questions or trying to spot license plates from all fifty states, they didn’t talk much on the ride up. All the subjects brought them back to the death of Gabby’s mom.

Her dad tried to sing her mom’s river song, but he could never remember all the words and, worst of all, he couldn’t hold a note to save his life. His voice wavered back and forth and up and down as much as the car did on the mountain roads. She appreciated his attempt, but it only made her miss her mom that much more.

By the time they arrived in New York City, it was really late. They parked in an expensive parking garage. She was certain of that. Her dad kept telling Gabby all the things they could buy at home for the price of parking their car. “I can park my car in New York or I could repaint our living room. I can park my car in New York or we could eat at every restaurant on Main Street.” This went on and on until they reached Times Square.

That was when he stopped talking and Gabby stopped listening. The activity in the square astounded her. Lights lit up the sky like the sun and people walked, shopped, ate, and anything else they would normally do in midday. The streets were packed with cars barely abiding by local traffic laws, and no one seemed to realize or care that it was nearly four in the morning.

At first, it was invigorating. The city was alive at all times, never taking time to rest. It was like a fantasyland where you could follow your dreams no matter when they called you. The skyscrapers stretched into the night sky and disappeared into the clouds above her. Her mouth stood agape.

People lived in the clouds.

It was the most amazing thing she had ever seen. She looked at the people swarming around them, and none of them realized what an enchanted world they lived in. Their heads were down, and they didn’t make eye contact. They all seemed to be in a hurry and few seemed happy. They looked as if they were locked in their own world, like being in Oz and forgetting they were walking on streets of gold.

Gabby felt her dad’s hand wrap around her own and they walked through the streets, taking in performances by street artists on the corners and the stores showcasing their wares.

“I wonder how much their rent is?” her dad said.

“Dad!”

“Sorry. This place is pretty amazing, huh?”

“Yes. Seeing pictures isn’t the same as being there.”

“It never is.”

They continued to walk, the loud noises from honking cars, music, and the mass of humanity passing around them, keeping them busy. And it gave them an excuse not to talk about the reason they had escaped Safety Harbor in the first place.

As distracting as the lights and sounds were, Gabby most remembered the smell of garbage tucked away in the alleys waiting to be picked up. Maybe it bothered her more because she was shorter than her dad and closer to the bags of spoiled food and rotting trash. Either way, it was one of her strongest memories of the city that night.

After a few hours, the sun was preparing to rise and the exhaustion of their long trip had caught up with them. By the time they made it to the hotel and paid for the room, which her dad said could have covered a down payment on a new car, they were ready to collapse.

After making sure Gabby brushed her teeth and changed into her pajamas, her dad collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep, fully dressed. Gabby slipped under the covers in the other bed, the sheets tight against her body. She tried to push them away from her, but it was as if they were fastened by some invisible force. She felt like she had slid into a straitjacket and the hard mattress would not welcome her to sleep.

She closed her eyes and tried to relax her tired body, but the sound of her dad’s rambunctious snoring forced her eyes back open. It was then that she noticed the churn of the city permeating through the window. Their room was on the twenty-second floor and she hopped out of bed, looking out at the lights and people small enough to be ants. The bottom of the low clouds were only three floors above her and the light of the city lit them up as if they were glowing from the inside.

She placed her face against the window and tried to look in either direction, the activity and the people extending out as far as she could see.

It was the first time she felt homesick. As magical as New York City could be, she missed the quiet streets and the darkened houses. She missed the Florida breeze and the smell of salt coming from the water. She missed her bed, her soft sheets, her cozy mattress, and her firm pillow. She missed her friends, the gazebo, and, most of all, she missed her mom.

Gabby thought about all the people in this one big city and all the questions they must have about their lives. She had them too, even though she hadn’t reached third grade. Life was still this big thing that didn’t make a lot of sense to her, and she always thought her mom would be there to guide her. If she wanted to know about business, money, and stuff like that, she could turn to her dad. But, who would answer all the stuff her mom would talk to her about? Like how to braid your hair? Or what shoes went with certain dresses? Like what boys meant when they did the stuff she didn’t understand? Who was going to teach her how to wear makeup? Or put on lipstick? Who was going to tell her what size bra to wear when she eventually needed one? And who was going to help her when she became a woman?

Moms were here for a reason. Gabby needed hers, and now she was dead. That wasn’t fair. That was wrong. It made Gabby want to cry and punch her fist through the glass at the same time. Her sadness overwhelmed her anger and she shuffled back onto the bed, pushing herself under the immovable covers. Eventually, the sound of her crying grew louder than her dad’s snoring. At some point, after she had moistened her pillow with tears, she fell asleep.

The sound of the rusted bearing in Gabby’s pedals brought her back, onto the quiet street in her small town. Home.

Main Street was dark, sans for a single building competing with the moon to illuminate the road. The convenience store.

Her heart quickened, as did her speed. Gabby approached the lone car parked in the parking lot. The four-door sedan with three doors beige and the remaining one green was Derrick’s humble ride. Gabby rode onto the sidewalk and parked below numerous advertisements for beer and cigarettes displayed on the large store windows. She raced inside, and the bells above the door rang as she entered. A man’s deep voiced hummed from across the room.

She smiled. She was in the right place.

Derrick leaned his large body out over the cashier’s counter. “Gabby? Is that you? What you doing here?”

“Where’s Stacy?”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Gabby’s eyes scanned the aisles as she approached Derrick at the counter. The familiar rows of candy and drinks were unoccupied, void of customers or deaf little girls.

“Derrick, where is Stacy?” Gabby asked.

“Stacy? Who that?”

“Five years old. Can’t hear. Can’t speak. She’s here somewhere.”

“I ain’t seen her, Gabby. I’ve been kinda busy and all, so maybe she snuck ‘round here somewhere.”

“You have a push-button phone?”

“A what?”

“A landline. An old desk phone or a wall phone with push buttons?”

“Oh, yeah. Back in the manager’s office behind the beer refrigerators. I think he got one back there. But I don’t know if it’s open. Do you need—?”

Before he could finish, Gabby ran down the aisle past the closed pharmacy counter and through the rows of chips and chocolates. She rounded the corner with the refrigerators full of colas and beer to find an office door whose paint color was inspired by diarrhea. The door handle hung away from the surface, missing all but one of the screws holding it attached.

The door was open a crack, and a sliver of light ran up the wall outside the office like a line of yellow paint. Gabby pulled the door open to the closet-sized workspace with a filing cabinet on one side and a small desk on the other. On top of the desk, sitting next to a pile of unpaid invoices, was a push-button phone smeared with dirt and ink. Sticking out from under the tiny chamber where the backless and armless chair rested beneath the desk were two small feet wearing pink shoes with loosely tied pink-and-white striped laces.

Gabby bent down and looked past the desk chair where, in the shadow, the light reflected off Stacy’s eyes. They were moist and frightened. Gabby touched Stacy’s foot, and her eyes found Gabby’s face. Stacy pushed the chair onto its side and rushed out, leaping into Gabby’s arms, knocking her backwards onto the floor.

“I’ve got you,” Gabby whispered. “You’re okay.”

She let Stacy’s tight clutch linger until her shivering little body relaxed and her head sunk into Gabby’s chest. The moment had a familiar déjà vu. It was as if she were comforting an earlier version of herself, a frightened child coming to grips with her mother’s unexpected death.

When Stacy’s breathing slowed, Gabby eased her away and sat up, signing as she spoke. “What happened?” she asked. “Why were you hiding under the desk?”

“I was scared,” Stacy signed.

“Of what?”

“The place where they kept me. It was dark. I didn’t know anyone. And the woman wasn’t nice.”

“The social worker?”

“She wasn’t nice,” Stacy repeated.

“Did she hurt you?”

“No.”

“Was she mean?”

“No.”

“Then what?” Gabby asked.

“She wouldn’t hug me. Like my mommy hugs me. Like you hug me.”

“I’m sorry, Stacy, but that’s no reason to run away.”

“It isn’t? Why not?”

“Well…” Gabby looked at Stacy sitting across from her. No words would bring reason to a scared little girl who just wanted to be held. “If you were scared, why didn’t you call the police?”

“I didn’t want the police,” Stacy said. “I wanted you.”

Stacy slid over and crawled into her arms. Gabby sat against the file cabinet and let her rest, running her fingers through Stacy’s hair. Gabby started to hum her mother’s song, hoping she could feel its vibrations against her body. Maybe it would soothe her the same way it had calmed Gabby.

Gabby wasn’t the warmest person in the world, but what little motherly instinct resided inside of her came to the surface when Stacy was around. Her vulnerability and disability compelled Gabby to protect her from a world that often detested differences in people. Gabby remembered many conversations she had with Regina at her kitchen counter after her babysitting duties had ended. Regina knew Stacy would always be different, but she wanted her to believe she was as normal as the next kid. Her expectations for Stacy didn’t change because her ears didn’t work. Or her mouth couldn’t form words. If anything, it pushed her harder to have her child fit in, not for the world’s benefit, but for Stacy’s.

Regina had dealt with enough ignorant people who saw her, a single mother with a disabled child, and thought they had them all figured out. They must have been a welfare family, content with sucking on the government teat and uninterested in moving up the class structure. They’d be a burden to society and a waste of taxpayer dollars for the rest of their lives. Their future was set in stone. Ten years from now, it would look exactly the same.

Nothing could have been further from the truth. Regina worked three jobs, all part time. None of them offered health insurance. All of them offered no chance for advancement. But she wouldn’t give up. She wanted a better life for her daughter and didn’t care how many hours it took to give it to her. Her hectic schedule was the reason Gabby babysat so often. And their struggling income was why she rarely accepted payment.

Regina had little dreams for herself, but extravagant ones for her daughter. Stacy had a penchant for animals. Maybe she could be a veterinarian. She loved riding and taking care of horses on a property at the edge of town. The family that owned the horses let the neighborhood kids ride them once a month, and Stacy never missed an opportunity to go. Gabby was usually the one to bring her there.

Stacy’s favorite horse was a pinto named Misty. Its hair was brown and white, and Stacy thought she was the most beautiful thing in the world. Misty was a bit on the feisty side and usually protested when her owner placed a child on its back, their small hands jerking on the reins with careless pulls, yanking the uncomfortable bit in its mouth. But, when Stacy straddled her short legs on Misty’s powerful back, the horse relaxed and was uncanny in her patience. Stacy would lay her head onto Misty’s brown mane and put her small hands under her neck, hugging her tight. Unlike with her other riders, Misty would remain perfectly still while Stacy clutched the reins. She would carefully respond to Stacy’s gentle kicks on her side and start moving down the well-worn paths that intertwined on the property. She’d answer Stacy’s pull on the reins without a whine or an angry jerk of the head and together, they enjoyed the stroll through the woods and back again.

In many ways, Misty was Stacy’s best friend and recently, she had grown dissatisfied with having to wait for a month to pass before she could see her again. That day, Gabby got a call from Regina in the middle of Algebra class. Turned out that Stacy had left school during lunch and walked two miles to the farm, asking if she could work there instead of go to class. By the time Gabby arrived, Stacy was fully infatuated with Misty again, and it took Gabby thirty minutes to pry Stacy from the barn.

So much would change now. Rhonda, Stacy’s aunt, would probably take her in. She and her family seemed like loving people, for the brief time Gabby had met them. If not, then Gabby’s dad would have to make room in their house for one more, whether he liked it or not. Even if that meant Gabby would have to forgo owning a car for the rest of her life.

Regina’s attempts at raising Stacy to think of herself as normal gave her a level of independence many children in her situation did not have. It was what made Stacy play near the railroad tracks. Or run away from home and hide out in a convenience store. Or call Gabby in the middle of the night. Hopefully, it would lead Stacy into a normal, fulfilling life.

After what happened today, however, that might be too much to ask. It was for Gabby.

Stacy was fast asleep in Gabby’s arms. She hated to wake her, but staying huddled for the night on a filthy office floor wasn’t really an option. Gabby eased her cell phone from her pants and scanned through her contacts until she found Sheriff Durant’s personal number. He wouldn’t like being awakened in the middle of the night, but Gabby couldn’t just throw Stacy back into the same system that allowed a five-year-old child to walk out at two in the morning.

As she was about to dial, Gabby heard angry yells coming from the front of the store. She couldn’t hear exactly what was being said over the loud hum of the nearby beverage refrigerators, but the conversation didn’t sound pleasant. Gabby slid out and laid Stacy’s sleeping head on the floor. She rose and stepped down the short hall where Derrick stood at the counter, facing a short customer wearing a dark baseball cap and an olive green shirt.

Derrick’s gold teeth were fully exposed in an awkward smile, but the rest of his face didn’t exude an iota of happiness. It was locked in fear.

It was only then that Gabby saw the man pointing the gun at Derrick’s chest.

CHAPTER NINE

Gabby ducked down and turned back to Stacy, who was still fast asleep on the office floor. Her hand trembled as she glanced at her cell phone, the sheriff’s number already selected. She dialed Durant and held the phone to her ear, her finger tapping the side as she waited for the call to connect.

She shouldn’t be here. Stacy should be in bed at the foster home, and Gabby should be staring at her popcorn ceiling. Life had a funny way of doing this to Gabby. The ripple effects of other people’s decisions often turned into a tidal wave of misfortune for her. A desperate call from Emma had Gabby taking a shortcut on her bike near the water tower that left her dodging a swarm of angry bees. She found a wallet on the sidewalk and when she tried to return it, she was nearly run over by a flurry of Shriners speeding around in their go-carts. And once, she went looking for Mrs. Templeton’s beagle and ended up sprinting out of a burning building just as it collapsed behind her. Turned out the dog was hiding under her front porch the entire time.

Gabby shouldn’t be crouching down next to cans of bug spray with a gunman less than twenty feet away. And she shouldn’t be waiting for the call to connect any longer. She looked at her phone and realized she had no bars.

The phone bleeped as the call dropped.

“What was that?” the perpetrator said.

Gabby held her breath, frozen, clutching her phone against her chest.

“I didn’t hear nuttin’, man,” Derrick said, his voice breathy and quivering. “Why don’t you take the money and go? I ain’t interested in stopping ya.”

“Someone else working which you?”

“Nah, man. I work alone. Ain’t nobody here.”

Gabby could see the perp’s figure distorted in the reflection of a shiny ice cream display as he backed up toward the edge of the aisles, all the while keeping the gun pointed at Derrick. He stepped toward the aisle nearest the exit and looked down its length.

The convenience store only had three aisles, and she was two away from him. He’d be on her in seconds.

If it weren’t Derrick behind the counter, Gabby would have expected the police to arrive at any second, responding to his nine-one-one call. But his affable and chatty nature no doubt left him ill prepared for someone approaching him with illegal motives. Derrick always said if you couldn’t greet people with a smile and a hug, you were greeting them with the middle finger. He wasn’t exactly a poet, but he had a kind heart. His opened-arms approach might just stop his heart with a bullet.

Derrick lifted onto his tiptoes, trying to see over the perp, knowing Gabby was hiding down there somewhere.

“Man, point that gun somewhere else,” Derrick said. “I don’t want you shooting me all distracted. Just take the money and get out of here.”

The perp turned back to Derrick. “Shut up, fat man.”

Gabby used the distraction to snag a can of bug spray and slip over to the first aisle, hoping he wouldn’t look there again.

The perp glanced down the middle aisle, and then the third.

Gabby cowered behind a pile of bags of charcoal stacked next to a selection of outdoor barbecue supplies. She spotted a gas match lighter in the shape of an oddly designed pistol and pulled it off the hook.

As the perp moved back to the counter to a trembling Derrick, Gabby spotted the office door swing open and Stacy standing there, rubbing her tired eyes.

Gabby frantically waved, signing for her to stay there and keep quiet.

Stacy awoke from her haze, stepped out of the office and asking with lazy hands, “What?”

“Don’t move!” Gabby signed. “There is a bad man here. Get back in the office. Quietly! Pick up the phone on the desk and dial nine-one-one. Then leave the phone off the hook. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” she said, her sleepy daze replaced by an urgent stare.

Stacy reached back and picked up the phone, doing as instructed. She gently placed the phone on the desk and stood in the doorway, closing her eyes, swaying back and forth. It was one of her escape mechanisms that Gabby had witnessed when she first started babysitting her.

Gabby tried to wave again, but Stacy’s eyes were firmly closed, blocking out the reality she didn’t want to face. Who could blame her on a day like today? The problem for Gabby wasn’t that Stacy was no longer looking at her. It was because of what was about to come next.

She knew she only had a few moments before Stacy would reveal her location. She hurried up the aisle, keeping her head low, listening for approaching sirens.

“Okay, fat man, put all the money in a bag,” the perp said. “No skimping.”

“Ain’t my money,” Derrick said. “You can have all of it.”

“Good. Now how about yours? Put your wallet in there too.”

“I ain’t got much. Just enough for food and whatnot.”

“I don’t give a shit about your sob story. Just hurry up and you may live through this.”

The perp’s anger didn’t instill confidence that he would keep his promise.

Derrick’s hands fumbled with the money and the bag while the perp’s head darted side to side.

“You got three seconds, fat man.”

“I’m hurrying. I’m…”

The sound of Stacy moaning came from the office in the far corner of the store.

“What’s that?” the perp asked.

That was what Gabby had feared. When Stacy was nervous, she’d close her eyes and moan to herself, sounding like she was humming and chewing food at the same time. Of course, Stacy didn’t know she was doing it. She couldn’t hear herself, though the vibrations from her vocal chords must have sent tremors through her body. None of that mattered now. The perp knew where Stacy was hiding.

“Here! Here! Take it!” Derrick yelled, holding out a plastic bag full of cash and coin.

“You got a girlfriend back there?” the perp asked. “Maybe she’d like my company.”

“I ain’t had a date in two years and three months.”

“I guess I’ll finish my business with you before I start my business with her.”

The perp raised the pistol up to Derrick’s face and Gabby rushed out from the aisle, holding the bug spray out like a gun.

The perp caught her movement out of the corner of his eye and spun to face her.

She sprayed the bug repellent at his face and clicked the lighter, turning it into a miniature flamethrower.

The perp stumbled back and fired the gun into the air, the bullet piercing the drop ceiling.

Derrick, overcome, screamed like a child and passed out, his heavy body thumping onto the ground behind the counter.

Gabby continued to charge, spraying the flames onto the perp’s face, the ignited liquid splashing onto his skin and setting his hat and hair on fire.

The perp flailed around, his shirt now ablaze. He twisted and tried to shoot Gabby, firing down the aisles. Gabby ducked down, bullets ricocheting off the walls and shattering glass. His finger continued to pull until his clip was empty.

When Gabby heard the click, click, click of his finger pulling the trigger, she ran across the broken glass and pulled out a gallon of milk from one of the refrigerators. She ran at the inflamed perp and swung the large, plastic container, knocking the gun from his hand. Her backswing connected with his head, and he crashed against the wall and fell to the ground.

Standing above him, Gabby opened up the milk and poured it across his face and chest, dousing the fire and, with the flames squelched, lifted the jug to her mouth and enjoyed the last few drops.

Gabby leapt at a tug on her pant leg, and she raised the empty milk gallon like a club. Stacy looked at her, confused. She pointed to the moaning perp on the ground and signed.

“Is he the bad man?”

“Yes,” Gabby said.

“Was he thirsty?”

She smiled. “Yes. In a way.”

“I’m thirsty. And hungry. Can I have some?”

“You can have anything you want. I’m buying.”

Stacy’s eyes lit up. “Anything?”

“Sure. Just be careful of the glass, okay?”

Stacy bopped into the candy aisle, unaware or uninterested in the events that had just transpired. Who knew what walls Stacy had put up after her day at the railroad tracks? Gabby wasn’t going to press her. If a few chocolate bars could get her through the next few hours with a smile on her face, that was fine with her.

“Derrick!” Gabby yelled. “Are you okay?”

She heard the large man fumble behind the counter until his hand landed next to the cash register, and he pulled himself up.

“What happened?” he asked.

“You were a hero.”

“I was?”

“Yup. Saved the day.”

He looked out into the store, seeing the perp writhing on the floor, his body and ground covered with what looked like white blood. A number of the glass doors on the beverage refrigerators had been turned into broken shards and a few of the carbonated drinks were spewing out their contents from what appeared to be bullet holes. And Stacy happily sat on the floor in the middle aisle, snacking on a large array of chocolate bars.

“But, how did I end up back here?” he asked.

“Hard to tell,” Gabby said. “In all the excitement, anything is possible.”

A knowing smirk turned into a grateful smile, his gold teeth reflecting the police lights pulling into the parking lot.

“You saved my life, didn’t you?” he said.

“Who’s to say?” She smiled.

“I guess I do.”

“I just did what anyone else would have done.”

“Nah, Gabby. What you do is something else entirely.”

Officer Johnson was the first to arrive, and he secured the assailant. Once word got back to the sheriff that Gabby had disarmed a robber with a gallon of two-percent and Stacy was in the throes of a massive sugar high, he rushed over too.

For a few hours, the night was as active as New York City, full of crime, a lost girl, a brave working man, and an assault with a dairy product. After surviving a murderous felon, it was yet another reason Gabby never needed to go to New York again. A few thugs sprinkled here and there was more than enough. She’d take her sleepy little town over anywhere else in the world.

Gabby’s dad arrived grumpy, but grateful. He was too tired to give her the yelling she deserved, and she was happy she just had to avoid his angered stare. But, the reason she snuck out of the house hadn’t been resolved. What about Stacy?

“Gabby,” Durant said. “Can you come here a second?”

Gabby walked past the bandaged perp being escorted into a police cruiser and up to the checkout counter where the sheriff waited with Stacy.

“Yes, Mr. Durant?” Gabby asked.

“Can you help me talk with her?”

“Sure. What do you want to say?”

“Ask her if she’s okay.”

Gabby bent down to Stacy’s level and signed, “The sheriff wants to know if you’re okay.”

Stacy’s hands moved with speed and grace.

“She says she’s fine. But her stomach hurts a bit. She may have had a little too much candy.”

“Okay,” Durant said. “Did she see anything? Was she in harm’s way?”

“No sir. She was hiding in the office in the back of the store.”

“Good. Let her know she won’t have to go back to the foster home. We were finally able to get in touch with her Aunt Rhonda. She’ll be staying with them from now on.”

“Really?” Gabby asked. “That’s great!”

“I know. Maybe you should tell her that.”

“Oh, right!” Gabby turned back to Stacy. “The sheriff says you’re going to be staying with your Aunt Rhonda.”

Stacy clapped and jumped up and down, her face beaming.

“I take it she liked that idea,” Durant said.

“I’d say you’re right,” Gabby said.

“Let her know one of my officers will drive her there personally. She’ll be with her family within the hour.”

Gabby signed as Durant directed, and Stacy jumped toward Gabby and hugged her tight.

“Thank you, Sheriff,” Gabby said.

“Just tell me one thing, Ms. Wells. Why is it so many of our visits occur at a crime scene?”

“Happenstance? Serendipity? Fate? Karma? Luck?”

“How about we take a break from crime and punishment for the rest of the summer, okay?”

“Sounds good to me, Sheriff,” she said.

An hour later, Gabby found herself lying back in bed, staring up at the popcorn ceiling. This time, the darkness was gone. The festering blackness inside of her had subsided. The nightmare of her long day had finally ended. She might not have been able to fix all of Stacy’s problems, but she was able to help a little. She was there for her when her family wasn’t. She was able to save her.

At least for today. And, as exhaustion overtook her body, Gabby knew that would have to be enough.

Tomorrow, it would start all over again.

CHAPTER TEN

The morning started with a bang. Or, more accurately, a ring.

July had arrived, and Gabby had already entered a boring routine. She wasn’t happy about it. It was neither productive nor fun. It was way too grown up.

With Stacy getting acclimated to her new home life, Hamilton working at the library, and Scott working at the spa, a summer of silly fun seemed to have passed her by forever. Hamilton was saving up for a car, Scott was waiting to save lives, and Emma was with her family at their lake cabin an hour north of Safety Harbor.

Thankfully, the Durants were on their way home. Just in time for tomorrow’s Fourth of July festivities. As far as Gabby was concerned, they couldn’t get back soon enough.

Not having The Gang around was starting to grate on her. Nothing to do, no mysteries to solve, and no classmates to help. She was going frickin’ nuts.

Also, with everyone gone, she had no excuses. She had to help her dad at the store. All day. Every day. Stocking shelves. Mopping floors. Hanging up new displays. Washing the windows. This was not the way she had imagined her summer would unfold. Movies. The beach. Theme parks. Joking around at the gazebo. Hanging out at Emma’s house. That was what Gabby should be doing, not putting sale prices on paint cans or wiping dead bugs off emergency lights.

She only had twelve weeks before her sophomore year started and, other than Stacy’s jaunt to the convenience store, four of those had already passed without a hint of excitement or interest, let alone anything epic.

Things had to change.

Turns out July third was her lucky day. An early morning call was just the diversion she craved. The voice on the other end of the phone needed Gabby, and she leapt at the chance to do something, anything, new.

The voice belonged to Dr. Simon Rathe, whom she had met once before when Gabby was in middle school. When Mrs. Smith keeled over from a heart attack while explaining parallelograms, the school brought in Dr. Rathe to offer grief counseling. Gabby had years of grieving experience under her belt. She didn’t need Rathe’s services. He seemed like a nice enough guy, though. If he had lived in Safety Harbor when her mom passed away, she might have spent every Friday for the last seven years at his office instead of with Father Peters.

Rathe located his practice in one of the ugliest buildings on Main Street. It was bland, uninspired, and with ill-conceived stucco arches preceding each office door. Surrounded by beautiful, artistic buildings on either side, his office looked woefully inadequate.

Rathe’s practice and an insurance company were the only businesses to call the building home. His practice didn’t need a splashy entrance or a heavy investment in marketing like most of the other shops on Main Street, like the hardware store. He was a psychologist. His mere existence and good word of mouth was enough to keep his calendar full of people requiring his services.

This morning, he needed Gabby’s help. Wearing her lucky fedora, she was more than happy to ride her creaky bike past the hardware store and empty gazebo to park it against the stuccoed archway. His waiting room was dark and small and the receptionist had just arrived, putting her purse under her desk and placing the sign-in sheet on top of the check-in counter. The overhead lights flicked on, revealing Stacy and her Aunt Rhonda sitting in the corner.

“Oh, hi!” Gabby said.

Rhonda waved her bloated hand. She was plump, jolly, and rarely let the world diminish her chubby smile. Whether it was her birthday or Armageddon, you couldn’t tell by her jovial demeanor. All days were good days in Rhonda’s life. Gabby supposed it was her way of coping with life. Or maybe she was just perpetually bubbly.

Stacy sat next to her, her head lying on Rhonda’s pillowy legs. Gabby eased into the seat next to Stacy and rubbed her back. She wasn’t sure if Stacy was asleep, but was happy to see her again.

“Good morning, Rhonda,” Gabby said.

“Morning!” Rhonda smiled. “Up and at ‘em earlier than the birds, are you?”

“Yes.”

“Got Stacy up with the smell of pancakes. You like pancakes, Gabby?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Better than an alarm clock on most days.”

“How has Stacy been doing?” Gabby asked. “I was planning on stopping by, but I thought she’d need a little time to get used to living with you and your family.”

“She’s a trooper. Like her mom. She’s been quiet and all, but that seems normal enough. So far, she hasn’t worked a smile on that pretty face since the accident and I ran out of ideas on how to make her better. A friend of mine said Dr. Rathe was a good guy to see and here we are, sitting in the waiting room before the crickets finish chirping.”

“Has she cried?” Gabby said.

“Some. Not a lot, poor munchkin. She needs to open up those valves and let all those tears out. Let them flow.”

“If only it were that easy. Has she said anything?”

“Not a lot. My signing has been a little rusty, but it’s coming back. Stacy’s hands have been as silent as her voice most days.”

“That’s not good, you know,” Gabby said.

“That’s why we’re here. Maybe the doc can figure it all out, get her out of her shell.”

Gabby leaned down and stroked Stacy’s hair away from her closed eyes. Putting up walls was easy for her. She couldn’t hear the world around her and, by simply closing her eyes, couldn’t see it either. She was happier lost in her own world.

“You have any gum?” Gabby asked Rhonda.

“In my purse, I think.”

“Mint flavor? Peppermint, spearmint, anything like that?”

“Possibly…” Rhonda rummaged through her purse, her hands digging through the large bag, clacking its contents from side to side.

“Found it. One left. How ‘bout that!” Rhonda said.

“May I?” Gabby asked.

“You asked for it.”

Gabby slid the gum out from the pack and unwrapped it, placing the strong-scented stick just under Stacy’s nose.

As if out of a trance, Stacy’s eyes opened and she popped up, suddenly aware.

“Well, how ‘bout that!” Rhonda said.

Stacy noticed Gabby for the first time and wrapped her arms around her, pulling her close. Gabby greeted her with a smile and signed as she spoke.

“Good morning,” Gabby said, holding up the stick of gum. “Do you want som—?”

Stacy snatched the gum before she could finish and tossed it into her smiling mouth, chomping on it with the satisfaction of a cow with a mouth full of grass.

“Thanks,” Stacy signed.

“Where’d you learn all that?” Rhonda asked.

“Halloween,” Gabby said. “When she was about three, I guess.”

“Well, I’ll be. You’re like one of those soothsayers. Except with candy.”

“A soothsayer can see the future. I can’t do that.” Gabby smiled.

“Oh. I always thought soothsayers said soothing things,” Rhonda said.

“That makes sense, but that’s not what it means.”

“Learn something new every day. Smelling gum and telling fortunes. What a morning!”

Gabby tilted her head to meet Stacy’s eyes and asked, “How are you doing?”

“That’s what we’re about to find out,” Rathe said.

They turned to Dr. Rathe, his long, thin frame standing in the doorway leading into his office. “Why don’t we chat in here?” he said. “It will be more comfortable.”

Rhonda led the charge, holding Stacy’s hand as they entered. As Gabby passed, Rathe pulled her aside.

“Thank you for coming, Gabby. In speaking with Stacy’s guardian over the phone, I wasn’t confident she’d understand the importance of what I’m trying to do with Stacy. In going over the case file with the police, Sheriff Durant suggested you might be able to help. It seems you are close to Stacy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. And she trusts you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” he said. “Then let’s get started, shall we?”

“Doc?” Gabby said. “Can you sign?”

He smiled, signing as he spoke. “You mean like this?”

Gabby chuckled. “Something like that.”

She walked into the large and sparsely furnished room, light spilling in from large floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked a small patch of grass. It was nothing like Gabby imagined. It lacked a long, comfortable couch on which patients could spill their emotional beans. Instead, the room had a single bookshelf containing no books. There were only a few generic knickknacks and some pictures of Rathe and his wife. His desk was equally empty, with only a phone and a notebook sitting on top and above which he proudly displayed his multiple diplomas. Across from it, where Gabby expected the couch to be, were two soft chairs and a matching ottoman.

“Gabby, would you mind sitting there?” Rathe said of the footstool.

“Sure thing,” Gabby said as she removed her hat and squatted onto the velour cushion.

Rhonda squeezed her soft and round bottom into the chair and Stacy sat next to her, her hands stuffed under her legs. She wasn’t ready to talk.

Rathe signed as he spoke. “The first rule is that we do not speak without signing. We are here to help Stacy and all questions and answers must be made in her sight. Do we all understand?”

Rhonda and Gabby signed, “Yes.”

“Good,” he said. “Stacy, I don’t want you to be afraid or confused. You’re feeling a lot of things right now, but remember that loss, even a really big loss, is something you will overcome. Isn’t that right, Gabby?”

Gabby’s back stiffened. “What?”

“Your mother. Tragic. Unexpected. You were about Stacy’s age when it happened, were you not? A little older, I believe?”

Gabby looked down, her breath suddenly missing. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t—”

“Sign, please. For Stacy’s sake.”

Gabby raised her head and signed. “Sorry. I wasn’t prepared for… I didn’t think…”

“That’s fine. Take your time,” Rathe said.

Gabby didn’t want to take her time. She didn’t want to talk about it at all. She never wanted to talk about it. It was private. It was special. It was between her and her mom. And her dad. And sometimes, God. And with Father Peters when he made her. But, not with strangers. Not for a doctor. Not even for Stacy.

Gabby cleared her throat, “It’s hard. But you’ll make it, Stacy. If I can, then you can.”

“Very good,” Rathe said. “Modern culture doesn’t like to think about death. And yet, that is what happens to us all. When that occurs, feeling sad is natural. We all live and we all die; that is the natural way. You would be surprised how many of my patients are dealing with loss. It’s quite a large group, so know you are not alone.” He opened up his notebook, but did not look at its contents.

“Because we can’t avoid dealing with death, nature has armed us with the proper emotional tools to overcome loss, even when it is unexpected. It normally shows itself in stages. The first is denial, where we refuse to believe the loss has occurred. Perhaps this is where Stacy is now? Waking up in the morning, expecting to see her mother? Or, maybe she has moved onto anger, where we ask ourselves why this happened. It’s not fair. We want revenge. We want justice. After this, there is bargaining, where we pray to a higher power in the hopes of making a deal to change the outcome of the loss. Next is depression, where we realize we are powerless to change the events that have affected us so greatly. And finally, there is acceptance. It is during this last stage we realize there is nothing we can do to change what has happened. We are powerless and we learn to come to terms with our new reality, a reality without the someone or something that meant so much to us. This is the normal order of things, the way they usually unfold. But they can change. The order may flip-flop here and there but, in the end, nature gives us the chance to heal and we heal by acceptance, by realizing this is the future. Stacy is not there yet…” he offered her a smile, “but we’ll get there. Together.”

Gabby was uncomfortable with Rathe’s direct approach. He had a clinical assessment of life-changing events. It felt like he was minimizing what happened when you lost someone you loved, someone you relied on. Someone you had spent your entire life with. The way he spoke felt cold. Maybe it was because this was his job, not his loss. Or maybe his years of practice had made him numb. Either way, Gabby didn’t like it much and she squirmed on the ottoman, her displeasure visible in her discomfort.

“Gabby,” Rathe said, “perhaps you could share your own journey with Stacy?”

“What?” she asked.

“Your mother died. How long before you found a healthy place to deal with the loss?”

“I don’t know—what day is it?” she scoffed.

“I mean, could you share how you felt at this point, after your mom died?”

Stacy’s eyes, which had been avoiding direct contact since they started, looked into Gabby’s for the first time, anxious and afraid.

Gabby thought back and began to panic. She dove deep into her memory, and there was nothing there. Blackness. A void. Missing time. Months. Maybe a year. She wasn’t sure. Her mind flashed with fragments of the aftermath. Crying. A lot of crying. Mostly in her room. Alone. Standing outside of her father’s door at night, hearing him weep as well. Immense sadness. Anger. It was all a mess. Jumbled. Missing birthdays. Jagged thoughts. Father Peters’ soothing eyes. Praying in front of candles. Looking up at a statue of the Virgin Mary holding the infant Jesus. A mother who lost her son. Gabby, a daughter who lost her mother. Stacy. Stacy’s eyes.

“Gabby!” Rathe said, reeling Gabby back into the office. “Are you okay?”

“Sorry, I was just trying to remember and, honestly, I can’t. Well, nothing that will help.”

“That’s okay,” Rathe said. “For some people, like Gabby, our minds protect us from the most painful moments of our life by cloaking them in fog, keeping us from recalling them. There are others, however, whose painful moments are as raw as the moment they experienced them for the first time. For example, I see this in military veterans coming back from intense warfare. Once they have seen the horrors of war, they rarely return as the same person that left. Stacy’s loss, though tragic and painful, can be dulled with therapy and proper grieving. She will be happy again. I promise you that.” He smiled. “Let’s move on to what Stacy can expect over the next few visits.”

Rhonda raised a tentative hand. “Doc?”

“Yes?” he answered.

“That sounds all helpful and pretty and all, but I’m not sure little Stacy grasped all you were trying to say. You were spouting big thoughts there.”

“I’m sorry. It’s not often I get patients so young.” Rathe leaned forward with a smile. “Let me see if I can do better.”

His voice grew distant, like white noise, and Gabby’s focus shifted through the room. Stacy looked intently at Rathe’s hands signing, her eyes expressing a sad hope. Rhonda sat, her arms across her wide lap, a large smile etched on her face, nodding with each of Rathe’s points. The morning light pierced through the window and accentuated Rathe’s angular features. His face was stoic and his skin like that of a mannequin. His hands signed with smooth and effortless motion.

Why was she there? How could she help? She wasn’t a role model for Stacy. She had nothing to offer her, except a comforting smile and a familiar face. It would have to be enough. It was all she had.

After the appointment was over, Gabby escorted Stacy back to Rhonda’s car, Stacy’s warm hand gripping hers. Their arms swayed together with each step, the morning sun warming their faces, and Gabby welcomed the feeling of normalcy. It occurred to her that this was what Stacy had to hold onto; the small, insignificant moments that made up every day. If she could focus on those moments and not the overwhelming shift in her life, she could find comfort in simple things. A monotonous ride on her bike. Doing homework. Even stocking shelves with a new supply of screwdrivers. Most of Stacy’s life would consist of the irrelevant. If she could embrace the inconsequential, she might just diminish the effect of the most consequential moment of her life.

“Do you want me to come again?” Gabby asked.

Stacy signed, “You don’t mind?”

“Of course I don’t mind.”

“Your eyes look like they mind,” Stacy said.

“Don’t listen to them,” Gabby said. “My heart wants to be here.”

Stacy lunged into her arms.

“She loves you something special,” Rhonda said.

“The feeling is mutual,” Gabby said, kissing Stacy on the forehead. “I’ll see you next week.”

As the car drove off, for the first time in weeks, Gabby had a craving for more normalcy, more monotony, and sped her bike over to the hardware store. Upon her entry, she found her dad ringing up an early customer.

“How did it go?” Harold asked.

“It was weird, but good,” Gabby said. “Dr. Rathe is… different. Prim, proper, and intellectual. Seems strange he’d be the guy to help people dealing with all these ugly emotions.”

“Maybe that’s why he’s so good. He can remain distant. It’s nice of you to help Stacy like that.”

“I don’t know if I’m helping. I’m just trying not to hurt anything.”

“She’s got all the hurt she can handle, Gabby. Don’t worry, you won’t add to it.”

His words always had a way of calming her. She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.

“What’s that for?” he asked.

“For being a great dad.”

“I already have a mug for that.”

“Consider the kiss a bonus,” she said. “Would it be okay if I spent the night at Emma’s tonight?”

“You’re having withdrawals, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” she said.

“Sure. I’ll see you at the fireworks tomorrow night, right?”

“Of course. Now, I’m ready to get my hands dirty. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Yes. I’m expecting a steady stream of customers prepping for the Fourth of July tomorrow. Actually, I think there’s still a customer in back. She’s been here since we opened. See if you can help her find what she’s looking for.”

“Sure thing,” Gabby said, moving through the aisles with a graceful gait. As she passed the wood tools and paint rollers, she spotted a young woman staring at a wall of color swatches.

“It’s your lucky day,” Gabby said. “We’re having a great sale on paint.”

The woman turned. She wasn’t there for paint. It was Maureen.

“Gabby?” she said.

“Maureen. You’ve been… stalking me.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“What’s wrong?” Gabby asked.

“This is so stupid. Maybe I shouldn’t be here.”

“Well, you are, so don’t be shy. Trust me. People come to me for the weirdest things. What’s up? Do you need me for something?”

“Yes,” Maureen said. “I need you to stop my brother.”

“Stop him from what?”

“I think he’s going to kill someone.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Gabby yanked Maureen into a small storage room in the back of the store and closed the door.

“Your brother is going to do what?” Gabby asked.

“I think Patrick’s going to hurt someone,” Maureen said.

“Hurt or kill?”

“I’m not sure. I think kill, maybe.”

“What makes you think that?” Gabby asked.

“He’s been acting strange. Different and stuff. Jabbering on about conspiracies and stuff like that. And I found something in his room. Notes under some papers on his desk. Stuff about something coming and violence and stuff like that.”

“That could mean anything. What did he say exactly?” Gabby asked.

“I don’t know word for word.”

“When is this supposed to happen?”

“I’m not sure. Soon, I think.”

“Have you gone to the police?”

“No, I came to you,” Maureen said.

“I need to talk to your brother.”

“You can’t. He’s missing.”

“For how long?”

“A couple of days. He snuck out one night and never came back.”

“And your parents didn’t file a missing person’s report?” Gabby asked.

“No. Patrick’s eighteen. Besides, my mom hasn’t been feeling well. She’s been too sick to notice. I just thought he’d come back. When he didn’t, I checked his room for clues and found his notes saying stuff about someone about to die.”

“Then I need to see his room.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Maureen said. “My mom… it’s not a good time.”

“I’ll be quiet. I promise. Now, let’s go.”

Gabby’s heart was racing and her mind cleared. When most people panicked, she focused. It was one of her personality quirks. A few years ago, she stopped wondering why and chose to follow her God-given talents instead. Those talents were leading her to Patrick’s room. She pulled open the storage room door and escorted Maureen to the front of the store.

“Dad, I’m going to lunch,” Gabby said.

“What? It’s not even nine,” he said.

“Breakfast then.”

“You already had breakfast.”

“Brunch then. Pick any meal category that works. I have to go,” Gabby said.

Harold chuckled. “When are you coming back?”

“Later than sooner.”

The bells above the door chimed as they left, and the humid morning air greeted them like a thick wall.

“What do you mean your brother was worried about conspiracies?” Gabby asked.

“I don’t know. Weird stuff about war, websites, and sounding all paranoid and stuff.”

Maureen’s family lived a few blocks off Main Street in a lower income part of town. Within minutes, they had crossed an invisible threshold between business owners and those struggling for work. Many of the homes were in desperate need of lawn care and a good pressure washing. Gabby’s brisk pace approached a jog, and Maureen struggled to keep up.

“Which way?” Gabby asked.

“Two more blocks, then take a left,” Maureen said.

“Does your brother have any enemies? People that hate him or give him a hard time?”

“No. But he’s usually quiet most of the time, so, if he did, I wouldn’t know. I didn’t know I should be paying attention to him.”

Maureen’s inability to give Gabby specifics was starting to piss her off. Telling her someone was about to commit murder and then having nothing but “stuff” and “I don’t know” for answers made her want to punch her in the face. Gabby tried again.

“Does he have any friends we can talk to? See if he’s staying with them?”

“A few, I think,” Maureen said. “Not a lot though. We move around a lot. My dad is in the military. Was in the military.”

“That’s honorable. What did he do?”

“He was in the Army. A staff sergeant.”

“What’s he up to now?” Gabby asked.

“Nothing. He’s dead.”

Gabby stopped in her tracks. “I’m sorry.”

“He died last year in an attack. We’re not really sure how. Some special mission, I guess. The Army doesn’t really tell you much. That’s when Patrick started getting all conspiratorial and stuff. Talking strangely. Online all the time.”

“I’m… I’m really sorry for your loss.”

“My dad was away a lot, so it didn’t hurt as much as it could have, I guess. We went to therapy afterwards, and I guess that helped a little too. At least, some of us.”

“What’s your mom do?”

“Mo!” a crackling voice yelled. “Where have you been?”

Maureen’s mother stood in the front door of a faded pink house with chipped paint around the windows.

“That’s my mom,” Maureen said to Gabby. “And to answer your question, she drinks. That’s about it.”

“Mo! Do you hear me?”

“Everyone hears you. I’m coming,” she said, leading Gabby up the broken sidewalk and through the knee-high, uncut grass.

Gabby extended her hand. “I’m Gabby.”

“I’m Myra.” She looked disheveled, her hair floundering and her makeup smudged. Her clothes were worn and wrinkled, her hands shaking with small tremors. Gabby looked in her eyes, bloodshot and glazed. It was sad, really. She was probably a beautiful woman once, but her face was aging faster than her whiskey. She smiled at Gabby with condescension. “Are you a friend of Maureen’s or another one of Patrick’s whores?”

“Mom!” Maureen yelled.

“What? Patrick’s a handsome boy. But he doesn’t pick the most respectable of women. Easy girls. Ones that will put out.”

“You’re one to talk,” Maureen mumbled, pulling Gabby inside.

“Do not talk to your mother that way!” she said, slamming the door closed.

“You drank all night again, didn’t you, Mom?”

“No. Not all night.”

Maureen rolled her eyes, and Gabby could see the skin around her neck redden with embarrassment. “This way, Gabby,” she said.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” Myra said.

Gabby offered her hand, smiling as if it were the first time. “I’m Gabby. Maureen’s friend.”

“Ha! Maureen doesn’t have any friends!”

“I wonder why!” Maureen yelled.

Myra leaned into Gabby and whispered, her breath flammable enough to ignite over an open flame. “My boy Patrick got all the looks. Like his father. Poor Mo got the leftovers. No wonder she’s such a lonely little girl.”

“I can hear you!” Maureen said.

“I think your daughter is beautiful, Mrs.…”

“Severson. Myra Severson.”

“Maureen takes after her mother,” Gabby said. “She has your expressive eyes.”

“Now I know you’re lying! But I’m glad she finally has a friend. Mo, when I was your age, I had plenty of friends! Some were boys. Cute boys.”

“Mom, we have things to do,” Maureen said, motioning for Gabby to follow her.

“It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Severson,” Gabby said.

“Miss! No more Mrs.”

“Sorry. Miss Severson.”

“Mo, I’m going to the convenience store. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Myra searched the pockets of her dingy jeans. “You have ten dollars, baby? I can’t find my purse.”

“No, Mom. You took all my money yesterday.”

“Did I? Where’s my purse? It was on the couch. Or behind the couch…” Myra wobbled as she bent down and pressed her hands under the cushions, swooning forward and falling onto the sofa. She moaned as her body fell limp. She had passed out.

“I’m so sorry,” Maureen said.

“That’s okay,” Gabby said. “We all have things we don’t like about our parents.”

“You’re being nice.”

“I’m being honest. Now, show me your brother’s room.”

As Maureen started down a small, short hall, Gabby noticed a family picture on the wall. It looked like it was taken a few years ago. Maureen’s father was still alive, wearing his government-issued camouflage uniform. He was standing next to a radiant Maureen, a sober Myra, and an attractive Patrick. They were a handsome and happy family. From the current state of the Severson’s life, it looked like when he died, he took the family with it. They might share the same house, but it looked like the bonds had been broken, each sinking into their own isolated existence. Gabby wondered how, after her mom died, she and her dad managed to grow closer instead of apart. What was the secret ingredient? Could it be faith? Was it the countless hours of prayer? Could it be that simple?

“This way, Gabby,” Maureen said, holding open the door to Patrick’s tiny bedroom. It was musty, like the air hadn’t moved in months. The small confines could only hold a single bed, dresser, and a short desk. The floor was covered with dirty clothes no one had thought to pick up, and the walls had pictures of guns and knives taped to it. Gabby peered into his closet. Patrick had stashed a few old and worn board games on the shelf above the clothing rod and dirty shoes lay on the floor, stacked on top of each other. The only clean area was a square section of matted-down carpet.

“Did he have a backpack?” Gabby asked.

“Yes.”

“He took it with him. Did he have any weapons?”

“He had a bowie knife, I think. And a handgun. It was my dad’s. A Beretta, I think. Or something like that.”

“Where did he keep them?”

“In his top drawer. Behind his underwear and stuff.”

Gabby pulled open the dented dresser next to the closet and ran her hand through his top drawer. Besides some formerly white underwear and crispy socks, the drawer was empty of weapons.

“Where are these notes you were talking about?” she asked.

Maureen pointed to the mini desk stuck next to the door. “It’s on some of those papers.”

Gabby sat on the scratched metal folding chair and examined the desk. If Patrick was thinking about killing someone and took the time to write down his thoughts, he did it right there. It fascinated Gabby, getting into the mind of a criminal. She couldn’t help but obsess about the triggers that make murder a viable option for people. From what little she could glean from Sheriff Durant, emotion drove murder and usually fell into three categories. Money. Sex. Revenge. Could one of these things have pushed Patrick to murder? From the looks of his house and their current situation, it didn’t appear to be money, unless he was into something illegal. Myra mentioned Patrick having a full social calendar. Perhaps he was having trouble with a current or former girlfriend? Or maybe, like so many others at Safety Harbor High, the school elite found it enjoyable to mistreat him. Maybe his target was one of retaliation for abuses he’d suffered.

“Gabby?” Maureen said. “Are you going to look?”

“I am looking, Maureen. Did he have a laptop?”

“Yes.”

“He took that too.”

The desk was as sloppy as the rest of his room. A coffee cup with an Army logo doubled for a pencil and penholder and sat on top of a few empty employment applications.

“Did he have a job?” Gabby asked.

“No. He kept trying, but we’re still outsiders in town. He’s always the last on their list.”

“Was he into drugs? Using or dealing?”

“No! Pat was like our dad. He’d never do that. He wouldn’t get into stuff. At least, he didn’t do it so anyone noticed.”

“So, you don’t know.”

“No. I guess not.”

“Did he have any money?” Gabby asked.

“He did odd jobs when he could. Mowed yards. Washed windows on Main Street. He made a couple of bucks here and there. But, I never saw him with more than like forty bucks at a time.”

“What about girls? Did he have a girlfriend? Girlfriends?”

“It’s hard to ask a girl out when you don’t have any money. When my dad died, we moved off base to a nice house about a mile from here. It was cool. Soft grass. A pool. But, when my mom started drinking, well, we ended up here. Since then, most of the money has been going to the liquor store. And don’t listen to my mom. She likes to imagine we do things we’ve never done, like Patrick and dating. Makes her feel better or something. Not good enough to stop drinking, though.”

“What about at your old house? Did he go out with anyone in the neighborhood? Or at school?”

“I don’t think so. He kept to himself, mostly.”

Gabby sighed. It was like trying to get an eyewitness account from a blind man. She shuffled through the loose-leaf papers scribbled in pencil.

“Is this your brother’s handwriting?”

“Whose else would it be?”

“Can you show me what made you so worried?”

Maureen leaned over Gabby’s shoulder and pushed aside one paper after the other.

“There. See?”

Gabby’s eyes followed her finger to an ominous sentence.

It’s only a matter of time before I kill them.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Gabby took all the papers off Patrick’s desk and headed straight toward the Safety Harbor Spa. At this point, there was no telling whether Patrick’s rants were a foretelling of something horrible or just the private thoughts of an angry guy. From the scribbles she was able to decipher, if Patrick was sincere, it looked like he’d been planning this murder for a while. With his disappearance, Gabby felt time to stop him might be running out.

He may have been hiding out with a friend, but Maureen couldn’t give any specifics. No surprise there. She turned out to be a font of ambiguity. Gabby left the house and the Severson’s dysfunctional family behind. The solution to finding Patrick wasn’t in their home. She’d have to go elsewhere.

She’d start where she always did, The Gang. They were with the people who had the best chance to have interacted with him in the last few weeks.

Scott was first on her list. Puberty had been nice to him, and he was already six feet tall. His broad shoulders held strong muscles and his legs were lightning fast, making him one of the most exciting football players in the county. Even though Scott was only a freshman, he won the starting quarterback job on the varsity football team last year and became an early target for college scouts. While most first-year students were the victim of bullying from the upperclassmen, Scott’s status on the team allowed him to rise above the other freshman. As the school’s quarterback, he interacted with the most popular kids in school.

Even though Patrick only attended Safety Harbor High his junior and senior years, his social circle, though small, may have overlapped with Scott’s. Perhaps he would know where Patrick was staying.

Scott’s gig at the spa was in full swing, and Gabby hurried toward the historic building. Influenced by Spanish architecture, the resorts design was graceful, with soft, curved lines. Hundreds of years earlier, Spanish explorers discovered springs they called Espiritu Santo Springs, or Springs of the Holy Spirit. Visitors from all over the world came in search of healing, and those original structures evolved into the five-star resort overlooking Tampa Bay. People from all over the world still came to this small town to take advantage of the spa’s pampering.

Surrounding the heart of the property were tennis courts, hotel suites, and the city marina. In the center was a large two-story structure containing ballrooms, restaurants, and a large pool, where Scott was watching over the wealthy patrons.

Gabby finagled her way onto the grounds and found him sitting on his elevated lifeguard station, overlooking families wading around in the shallow end.

“Can people drown while standing in water that low?” Gabby joked.

“People can drown in just a few inches of water,” Scott said. “My duties may seem unnecessary to you, but don’t worry. I’ll earn my way to the deep end by my senior year. Just watch.”

“At least you’re getting a good tan,” she said.

“I am.” He smiled. “Chicks dig tans.”

“You’re so classy.”

“How’d you get in?”

“I told security you were my brother.”

“That’s almost not a lie,” he said. “What’s up? Here to get some sun on your sad, pale skin?”

“I wish. Sadly, I don’t tan. I’m like a flamingo. I’m either pink or white. The reason I’m here is—”

Scott’s posture suddenly straightened and his stomach muscles flexed, showcasing his six-pack abs.

“What’s wrong with you? Are you okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” he grunted.

“Then why are you…?” She followed his eyesight across the pool deck to find Melanie Collins entering the pool area. She was trailed by her father, the mayor, and some of the spa staff. Dressed in their business attire, they looked out of place surrounded by scantily clad sunbathers.

“Of course,” Gabby said.

Melanie was one of those people average folk tended to hate. Not because she had slighted them in any way. Most people had never met her. No, their dislike was fueled out of envy. Melanie was tall, thin, and gorgeous with long, straight brown hair that ran to the middle of her back. Her high cheekbones accentuated her blue eyes and bright smile and her long legs made every outfit look perfect. She was a super model waiting to be discovered. As the daughter of the mayor, she had all the perks and money associated with one of the most powerful political positions in the small town. She seemed untouchable.

Gabby didn’t know her. They never ran in the same cliques. Rumors were that her dad was a jerk and, in Gabby’s experience, such personality traits didn’t skip generations. Melanie’s entry into Safety Harbor High made all the other freshman girls virtually invisible. After all, when she entered the room, all the boys locked their eyes onto her sensual figure.

Scott’s bulging corneas were no different.

“Really?” Gabby asked.

“What?” he asked.

“You’re ogling Melanie Collins? Can’t you be the least bit surprising?”

“I’m not ogling.”

“Please! You’re working up a sweat just trying to keep your abs flexed.”

“I am not. It’s hot out here, Gabs.”

“And getting hotter by the minute. I don’t see what’s so great about her.”

“Stop lying.”

Gabby watched Melanie move through the crowded pool deck exuding a smoldering sensuality. Drawn to her natural beauty, all eyes, both male and female, followed her every move.

“Fine,” Gabby said. “I’ll admit it. She’s perfect. What is she doing here with her dad, do you know?”

“No. Do you want me to find out?” he asked.

“You can’t. Someone may trip and fall into two feet of water.”

“It’s three feet, Gabs. Don’t diminish my responsibilities.”

She took one more glance at the shallow end. “I really don’t have to.”

“Have you ever considered the shallow end may be one of the most dangerous spots in the pool?”

“No. I don’t think anyone has.”

“Think about it. It’s full of people who can’t swim, Gabs. It’s fraught with danger. I mean, where else would people go if they can’t swim?”

“The mountains?”

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny,” she said.

Scott burst into an exuberant laugh.

“Okay, it’s not that funny,” Gabby said.

She spotted Melanie walking toward the main building, looking over at Scott’s boisterous display. He flashed his white teeth and gave her a subtle wave. She returned his flirtatious smile with an awkward, restrained nod.

Gabby rolled her eyes. “It’s like watching Ken and Barbie before they got their camper.”

“She nodded!” he whispered through his smile, his eyes tracking her like a hunter and his prey. “Did you see that, Gabs? She nodded at me.”

“Yes. The earth moved. The world will never be the same.”

“My world won’t.” He sighed.

“Snap out of it. I need a favor. And you can relax; this won’t require your abs in any way.”

“Once she’s out of sight. Until then, I’m rocking the six-pack.”

“I wanna punch you so bad right now.”

Melanie disappeared into the spa and Scott relaxed, slumping into his chair.

“Whew! No need for a hundred sit-ups tonight,” he said, rubbing his stomach. “What’s up, Gabs? Why are you so angry?”

“You’re acting like a puppy in need of a hug. You’re better than her, Scott. Don’t get caught drooling over the book cover until you know whether she’s worth reading.”

“That’s one homework assignment I won’t mind bringing home.”

Gabby slugged him in the arm.

“Hey!”

“That’s for being a schmuck and debasing women everywhere.”

“It was a compliment!”

Gabby hit him again.

“I’m going to call security,” he said.

“That’ll impress her.”

He looked at Gabby with a furrowed brow. “Why are you here?”

“Do you remember a guy at school? A senior named Patrick Severson?”

“Severson? That sounds familiar.”

She pulled a photo of Patrick from her back pocket.

“Is that him? He’s hunky. Got a crush on him?”

“No. His sister is worried about him. He went missing a couple of days ago, and I’m trying to track him down.”

“Of course you are, because you never have normal conversations with people,” he teased.

“Normal is boring,” she said. “So? Did you see him?”

“Yeah. This morning, actually.”

“Really? Where?”

“Here. At the spa.”

“What was he doing?” she asked.

“I don’t know. It was early. Just before they opened the pool deck. He was walking around the building. He wasn’t talking to anyone. Just looking around. Like he was lost.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“No. Sorry. What’s the big deal, Gabs?”

“I’m worried he’s going to do something. Something bad.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. Any idea where he might have gone?”

Scott scratched the back of his head. “I’m sorry, Gabs. I’m coming up blank.”

“All right,” she said. “Look, I gotta run some info by Ham. Ask around, okay? Let me know if anyone else saw him?”

“I’m on it, Gabs.” He smiled.

Gabby smirked and maneuvered through the crowded pool deck, the air filled with the heavy aroma of competing suntan lotions. She wished she could enjoy the bright Florida sun. Unfortunately, she was graced with her father’s Irish heritage and porcelain skin. Though beautiful, it didn’t react well to tanning rays from the sun. Skin cancer was just looking for an excuse to make a home on her body.

Gabby’s hats and long sleeves kept her protected, but didn’t make her much of a fashion plate. That didn’t bother her. She didn’t like showing off her curves. She’d rather look frumpy and forgettable than memorable. When you were where you weren’t supposed to be, doing things you shouldn’t be doing, it was helpful that no one took notice of you. Her average look was one of the things that made Gabby successful. Well, that and a right hook.

As she hopped down the stairs into the air-conditioned lobby, the country’s next top model confronted her.

“Hi. You’re Gabby, right?” Melanie asked.

“I am. And you’re…” she said, playing dumb.

“Melanie. Melanie Collins.”

“Right. I’ve seen you around school.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Gabby.”

“Like what?”

“Amazing stories. You’ve got quite a reputation.”

“A good one, I hope,” Gabby said.

“Is it true what they say? That you were responsible for the homecoming incident?”

“There’s no proof I was involved.”

“That’s why people say it was you. Only you could create mayhem like that and get away with it.”

“To quote your father, I can neither confirm nor deny those allegations.”

Melanie’s smile faded. Apparently, she wasn’t a fan of her father. Interesting. Gabby made a mental note. A second later, Melanie’s radiance returned.

Gabby held up the picture of Patrick in front of her face. “Have you seen this guy? He was around here this morning.”

“No. Why?”

“Long story. Look, Melanie, I’d love to stay and chat over a spot of tea or while getting mud facials, but I’ve got to go. Sorry.”

“Of course, but before you do…” Ruffled, Melanie looked down and pushed her hair behind her ear. “Um… my dad and I were walking through the spa coordinating with the staff about a special presentation here tomorrow, making sure the accommodations were prepared and so forth for the Independence Day celebration…”

“Melanie?”

“Yes?”

“In a hurry.”

“Right. Right.” She laughed. “Sorry. I was rambling. I do that sometimes. Okay. So, I hear, I mean, I think… are you friends with, um…” Her eyes wandered over Gabby’s shoulder and into the pool area. “With, ah, Scott? Summers? Scott Summers? Friends? Are you friends with him?” Melanie’s eyes captured her smile and her face was growing a light shade of pink.

Gabby smiled. “Yes. I am. Why do you ask?”

“I was wondering, just wondering, if he, if you knew if he had, was dating, a girl. Are you? Girlfriend? His, I mean?”

“Is English your first language?”

“Yes. I’m normally not so tongue tied,” Melanie said with nervous, short breaths.

“No. Scott and I are just friends. Gosh, let me think… does Scott have a girlfriend… interesting question. Do you want the short answer or the long one?”

“I thought you were in a hurry?” Melanie asked.

“You’re right, the short one. The answer you’re looking for is no.”

Melanie beamed and brought her hand to her chest. “Really? That’s great. I mean, interesting. Or informative. One of those things.”

“I’d pick informative.”

“Wow. Thanks, Gabby!”

“I’m happy you’re happy, Melanie, but I have to tell you something, and I want you to look me in the eye when I do.”

“Okay…” she said, meeting Gabby’s stern gaze.

“Scott is one of my best friends. He’s like family to me, and I’m very protective of my family. So, if you plan on using him for some summer fling and dropping him when something better comes along, which, by the way, is impossible, know that I will make sure you never make such a mistake again. If you hurt him, I will hurt you back. I’ll make a homecoming incident of your life. Do you understand me?”

Melanie stepped back, surprised by her intensity. “Yes. I understand.”

“Good.”

“Gabby, I know you don’t know me, but I’m not that type of person.”

“Good. Because you don’t know me either. And I am exactly like the person I described.”

“Well, then he’s lucky to have someone like you to watch out for him.”

“He’d do the same for me,” she said.

Melanie forced a smile and started down the hall. Gabby headed in the opposite direction.

“Compliment him on his abs,” Gabby said without looking back. “He puts a lot of work into them.”

“Okay… thanks,” Melanie said. “I will.”

As much as it would have been interesting to watch young love bloom, Gabby had to stop young hate from doing the same. With a wink to the security guard, she walked out into the midday heat and toward the one guy who may be able to help her find the killer.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

If Hamilton weren’t part of The Gang, he’d spend all his free time at the city library. His mind was like a sponge and, unlike most of the guys from school, he didn’t fill it with porn. He couldn’t wait to crack open the next book.

Gabby wished she loved education as much as she loved investigation. It’d sure make her dad happy. But she’d much rather figure out home security design flaws than hear about the eating habits of lacertilia. Maybe Safety Harbor High will offer a course on investigative techniques. Gabby could ace that. Or teach it.

Inside the library, the smell of dust and books filled the air. Gabby didn’t visit the library often, but when she did, she felt she got smarter just by entering. Being around all those books must have released some sort of hidden hormone in her brain, unleashing immense mental power. Within its four walls, she felt as if everything she read was downloaded right into her cerebrum. Turned out its affect was temporary and disappeared the minute she walked out of the building. Too bad she couldn’t take her tests there.

Gabby found Hamilton in the rare book section looking over a Spanish journal written about forbidden love.

“Am I the only person not looking for love today?” Gabby asked.

“Gabby, this journal is amazing. Look at the penmanship. Back then, handwriting meant something.”

She looked over his shoulder. “It’s in Spanish.”

“I know.”

“Can you read Spanish?”

“A little. But I reviewed the notes on it. See, this rich guy—”

“Ham, as much as I would love to hear about the love life of some guy that died hundreds of years ago, I kind of have a more immediate problem.”

“Oh, sure. What can the Hamilton do for you?”

“Stop it.”

“What?”

“Stop referring to yourself in the third person. If you keep it up, someone will find my journal in a hundred years and read how I buried you in a shallow grave in my backyard.”

“I’m just trying to stand out, Gabs. I don’t have a lot of genetics working in my favor. Not like Scott.”

“Hamilton, you’re brilliant. Just be that.”

“Girls don’t find brains all that interesting. At least, not in high school.”

“I thought you were working on your signature look. You were going to come back next year packaged differently.”

“I was, but I’m not sure a new look is enough. I need to be more.”

“More what?” she asked.

“More of what girls want.”

“Girls want guys that are funny, honest, honorable, and have ambition.”

“And are hot, sexy, and are a bit of a bad boy,” he said.

“Some girls want that. But Ham, you don’t want a girl to like you for being what you think they want. You want one to like you for who you really are.”

Hamilton touched the back of his hand to her forehead. “Are you feeling well? Because you sounded like you were giving me real relationship advice. Have you been reading women’s magazines?”

“No,” she said. “Don’t worry. I won’t let it happen again.”

“Whether you’re right or just got lucky, I’ll take your advice and stick with the original plan,” he said.

“Good. But before you start, I need you to work on something for me. Do you know Patrick Severson?”

“No.”

“How about his sister Maureen?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“She thinks her brother is about to do something illegal, and I tend to believe her.” She flopped Patrick’s notes on top of the Spanish journal. “Patrick didn’t take the same pride in his penmanship as your dead Spanish guy, but I think you’ll find his writing much more interesting.”

Hamilton scanned through one paper at a time, flipping them over one second after another.

“You can’t possibly read that fast,” Gabby said.

“So you think he’s going to kill someone?”

“Okay. I guess you can.”

“You want me to make sense of all these IP addresses and logins he noted here, right? And all the other things he wrote down in the margins?”

“Yes.”

“And you want me to do it in a hurry?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Sounds like fun,” he said.

Gabby kissed him on the cheek. “You rock, Hamilton. And, if it helps, I’ll let you in on a little family secret. Do you know why my mom fell in love with my dad?”

“She liked tools?”

“No. She loved his mind.”

A broad grin grew across Hamilton’s face. “Really?”

“Really. She thought it was sexy.”

“Does she have a daughter?” he joked.

“Very funny. Now get to work. Call me on my cell the minute you figure anything out. I have another stop to make.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to see a therapist.”

“It’s about time,” he said.

***

Having left her bike back at the hardware store, Gabby jogged to Rathe’s building in time to find him locking his office door.

“Dr. Rathe!” she panted, her sides aching with each breath.

“Gabby? Is everything okay?” he asked.

“Other than I’m out of shape?” she huffed.

“I was just about to head over to the veterans’ administration to visit some of my patients over there.”

She bent over and held up her hand. “Hold on… just one more second…”

“Would you like to come inside?”

Winded, she nodded without speaking. Rathe unlocked the door, and they entered under the stucco arch. He led her through the dark waiting room and into his sparse office.

“Would you like a water?” he asked.

“No… I’m okay. I just need… never mind, you’re right… water would be great,” she huffed.

Rathe disappeared back into the waiting room and she leaned against his desk, her breath starting to slow. His notebook lay open, and she took the opportunity to take a quick peek. She spun it to face her and flipped through the pages. Page after page after page were daily notes from his appointments. No days off. No vacations. No sick days. The man was a workaholic. She stopped on a page dated just over a year earlier. His clean, blocky handwriting identified the patients that morning. The Severson Family. That changed everything.

The water cooler in the waiting room gurgled. Rotating the notebook, she flipped its pages back to where she started. She sat on the chair Stacy had occupied earlier that morning, wiping the sweat from her brow.

Rathe entered and offered her a paper cup of water. “I hope this helps,” he said.

She gulped it in one swig. “Hit the spot. Thanks.”

“Would you like more?”

“No. I’m good.”

Rathe sat at his desk and straightened the notebook that was now off center. “So, what can I help you with? Is there something wrong?”

“I think so. A friend of mine has disappeared, and I think you may be able to help me.”

“And how would I do that?” he asked. “Wouldn’t that be a police matter?”

“I hope not. His name is Patrick Severson. His dad died in action last year, and he said something about going to therapy. But now he’s run away from home, and I haven’t been able to find him. I figured, you being a therapist, you may be able to point me in the right direction.”

“I wouldn’t know to where he would run off.”

“No. But I was hoping you could help me understand why he’d run away. If I knew that, then maybe I could figure out where that would lead him.”

“Oh. I see. As luck would have it, Mr. Severson came to me for his therapy.”

“Really?” She feigned surprise. “Small world.”

“Indeed. As you can understand, I can’t betray the doctor-patient privilege.”

“Of course, Dr. Rathe. I wouldn’t want you to do that. But why would someone like Patrick run away?”

“I have no idea,” he said.

“No idea? C’mon, Dr. Rathe. You must have some idea. All your diplomas on the wall have to come in handy sometimes.”

“They do. But none of them can help you, I’m afraid. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Not to be disrespectful, but you haven’t really helped me with the first thing.”

“Gabby, I would love to help you, but—”

“Then help me. Surely, you can tell me stuff I’d know anyway, right? Like, stuff I’d hear at school? Around his friends. Things like that? Non-confidential sorta things?”

“Since you put it that way, perhaps there are some things I could share with you that Patrick has spoken of outside of my office.”

“Perfect,” she said. “I’ll take anything.”

“Your question? Why would someone run away? Many reasons. Depression. Hopelessness. It’s hard to know without more facts. He hasn’t seen me in quite a while. As I’m sure you know, his home life has been less than ideal. My guess is since he graduated high school, maybe he wanted to make a fresh start somewhere else.”

“That makes sense,” Gabby said. “But…”

“Yes?”

“Well, Doc, I think it may be more than that. He’s been agitated lately. Angry at the world or something. I’m not sure. He wouldn’t tell me. But, I think… I think he may do something drastic.”

“Such as?”

“Hurt someone. Or himself.”

Rathe nodded, running his fingers down the length of his wooden desk, his eyes hinting at something greater.

“Is there something I should know, Dr. Rathe?” she asked.

“I can’t say.”

“I won’t tell anyone. I promise. Please.”

Rathe slid his chair closer to the desk, staring at his notes in front of him. He took one finger, placed it under the bottom corner, and flipped the notebook closed.

“I know you’re not allowed to do things, Doctor,” she said. “But don’t stop me from doing what I can do. Help me.”

“What I can tell you… what I should not tell you, is your concerns were mine a few months ago. You see, Patrick looked up to his father. Idolized him. When he died from the explosion in Afghanistan, it broke him. He hid it well. He’s not the type of person to share his feelings. Yet, during our sessions, I could see him getting more disillusioned. He started giving indications of a simmering rage that was coming to a boil. If what you say is true and he has left his family and friends and has chosen to stay nearby, out of sight, then I fear he may be near the edge.”

“Near the edge? What does that mean?”

“All I can say is this. In the past, he’s been unpredictable. And violent. And when those two things have combined, the consequences were… explosive. The next time, it may be exponentially worse.”

Rathe’s words trembled in her. Now it wasn’t a matter of if Patrick was going to kill someone, it was only a matter of when. She thanked him for his candor and exited the office, concerned at how quickly this investigation was spinning out of control. She usually ignored ifs and maybes. Gabby liked to deal with facts and preferred to face her subjects head-on, so she could read their body language and look into their eyes. Patrick, on the other hand, was a ghost hiding in the shadows, an ominous threat based on theories compiled from incomplete facts. She’d have to know more.

Her cell phone rang, and she recognized Hamilton’s number. Her instincts told her he wasn’t about to deliver good news.

“Hamilton? You found something?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Tell me something positive,” she said.

“Okay. I can positively tell you that Patrick isn’t planning to kill someone.”

“Really? That’s great!”

“Hold your enthusiasm.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s planning to kill a lot of people.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Gabby met Hamilton at the Burger Hut on Main Street near the spa. The small restaurant had been around as long as Gabby could remember. The food wasn’t great and the atmosphere could use a complete makeover, but the seating was always packed and they made more than enough money to keep the lights on. But when you put the pieces together, it just didn’t make sense. The ceiling tiles had stains from a roof leak years ago and the booths needed reupholstering. The dented chairs at the counter squeaked as they spun and the Formica tabletops were pocked and chipped.

In spite of all that, there was some sort of magic that kept such an average place with higher-than-average prices open for so long, but Gabby couldn’t figure out what it was. It was as much of a mystery to her as was the reason she and Hamilton always chose it as their meeting place away from The Gang.

Hamilton chomped on a burger and tossed a few fries in his mouth mid-chew, all the while trying to talk. “I fwent tru ul ovda stuftu gave—”

Gabby raised her hand. “Chew, swallow, and then talk.”

He grinned with a mouth bursting with masticated chunks.

“Yes, that’s gross,” she said.

He swallowed and downed a large glass of water. “Okay, where was I?”

“I have no idea.”

“Oh, right. So, I went through all the notes you gave me and it looks like Patrick has been posting his discontent on a bunch of social sites.” He wiped his hands on his pants and pulled the papers from his breast pocket. “He wasn’t real subtle about it either. The guy is mad and wants everybody to know about it. He wants people to feel his pain.”

“But how do you know he has more than one target?” she asked.

He smoothed out the papers on the table and read aloud. “I’m all alone. And not by accident. They are responsible. And they will pay.”

“That could just mean one person.”

Hamilton continued. “All of them.”

She slunk into the seat. “Oh.”

“He’s been saying things like that for about three weeks. At first, they started out like, “I’m so mad” and “Life’s not fair,” but lately they’ve gotten more ominous and threatening. One said…” He slid the papers around, reading, “They represent the cause of my pain, but they don’t feel it like I do. It’s time to change that.”

“Why weren’t these flagged by the sites as potential hate speech or threats?” she asked.

“He didn’t spend a lot of time on any one of them. He spread his online rage like buckshot. One post here, another there. Not enough to make anyone worried as a whole but, together, it looks bad.”

“Okay. If that’s true, are there any indications who he blames for his pain or when he plans to act?”

“All I could figure out was it’s tied to his loss, whatever that means.”

“That makes sense. His father died last year. He was serving in Afghanistan. The whole family has crumbled because of it. It’s so sad, Ham. The pain in their house is right on the surface. I mean, you can feel it, like a fog. They haven’t healed at all.”

“Including Patrick, apparently,” he said.

“I have to tell Sheriff Durant,” Gabby said.

“Yes, you do.”

“While I’m doing that, can you keep looking online, please? Since you’ve found his scent? See if you can find out who his targets are and how he plans to kill them.”

“You and I have the strangest conversations. I wonder what normal teenagers are doing right now?”

“I wouldn’t know,” she said.

“Me either.”

“I’ll head over to the Durants on my way home and tell them the Fourth of July holiday just got a lot more interesting.”

“You know, if he was going to kill a lot of people, that would be an ideal time. The streets by the marina will be packed all day.”

“And any of the people down there could die.”

Hamilton pushed away his half-finished burger. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

“I know the feeling. I haven’t eaten all day.” She reached over and grabbed his boney hand. “Thanks for your help, Ham.”

“No problem. I didn’t want to sleep for the next few days anyway.”

Gabby retrieved the notes and headed for the door, securing her fedora atop her head.

For the first time in a long time, she really missed her bike. Leaving it at the hardware store earlier was a bad idea. The walk from the Burger Hut to Emma’s house wasn’t that far. No distance between two points in Safety Harbor ever really was. But her feet were not accustomed to so many miles in a single day, and they were starting to bark loudly in protest.

She walked toward the Durant’s house one painful step at a time, unsure how to approach the sheriff. She had zero proof of any wrongdoing or impending threats. She only had concern from a vague sister living with a drunken mother. A couple of scribbled notes in Patrick’s handwriting. An in-depth analysis by a librarian with a unique fashion sense. Observations from a distracted lifeguard. And unease from a therapist who required anonymity.

Not a rock-solid case.

Gabby had been in enough situations bordering on illegality that Durant had learned to take her opinion with a certain amount of caution. It didn’t help she was about to tell him one of her most elaborate stories ever. This wasn’t going to be easy.

She approached their house, the setting sun painting it an orange tint. Their car parked in their driveway, a disgruntled Durant stood at the opened trunk, his head buried inside. He grumbled as he struggled to remove a duffel bag. With a tired grunt, he wretched it from their sedan and tossed it to the ground, punctuating his accomplishment with a series of colorful expletives.

“Good evening, Mr. Durant,” she said.

“Gabby? I didn’t see you there. Sorry you had to hear that.”

“That’s okay. I’ve heard worse at school. And at the movies. And football games. And your office.”

“Okay. I get it,” he said, extricating the final suitcase from the car and slamming the trunk closed. “Emma’s in the house.”

“I’m here to talk to you, actually.”

“Can’t. No time. Traffic was slow on the way home. I sure missed having the police cruiser. You’re never late when you have those lights on top of your car.”

“But, Mr. Durant—”

He pulled the luggage into the house, and Gabby followed behind him. Inside, Ms. Lilly, Emma’s mother, was sitting on the couch in front of two piles of clothes on the floor.

“Over here, Charlie!” she said. “I want to start the laundry tonight.”

“Yes, dear.” He sighed.

Gabby tried to move around him. “Mr. Durant—”

“Gabby,” Lilly said. “When did you get here?”

“About a minute ago.”

“Emma’s in her room.”

“I was here to see your husband, actually.”

Durant opened up the duffel bag and dumped the contents into one of the piles.

Lilly glared. “Are those clean?” she asked.

“I don’t know. How would I know that?” he asked.

“Well, then I guess they’re all dirty, aren’t they?”

“I guess they are!” he said, perturbed.

Emma rushed into the family room. “Gabby! I thought I heard your voice. Do you want to sleep over?”

“Yes. I have to get my stuff from home, but I need to talk to your dad first.”

“Cool! I have so much to tell you about my vacation. It was so much fun. There were these two brothers, twins, both gorgeous, both available. Do you want to double date? They don’t live too far from here.”

“My dad won’t let me date until I’m sixteen.”

“Mine, either,” Emma said, whispering. “Doesn’t mean we can’t meet them somewhere, like the movies or something.”

“We’ll see, but first I have to talk to your dad.”

“Lillian!” Durant bellowed. “How the hell was I supposed to know that the pile was clean clothes?”

“You could have asked!” Lilly said.

“You could have told me! Look, I don’t have time for this. I’m late as it is. The boys are waiting for me down by the marina to go over holiday security.”

“Fine! I guess I’ll just do all the laundry by myself!”

“Why are you complaining? You don’t like the way I fold things anyway!”

“Mr. Durant…” Gabby said, trying to interject herself into an increasingly tense situation.

“Not now, Gabby,” he said.

“But it’s important.”

“So is laundry, it appears!”

“Charles Durant, you are not making me happy!” Lilly said.

“I wasn’t trying to, darlin’!” he said.

“Mr. Durant—” Gabby said.

“Not now!” he barked.

“But someone is about to commit murder!” Gabby yelled.

The tension evaporated in an instant, and all eyes turned to Gabby. Durant stared at her, crossing his arms.

“This isn’t another one of your stories about something someone heard is it? The last time I listened to you, I almost shot Mr. Hanson behind the coffee shop. The poor man soiled himself before he could explain he wasn’t actually discardin’ dismembered pieces of his wife’s body. He was looking for aluminum cans in the trash because his pension had been cut.”

“It’s not exactly like that,” she said.

He shook his head. “You’ve got two minutes, Wells. Don’t waste my time.”

Gabby loved Mr. Durant like an uncle, but there were times, like now, when he scared the crap out of her. Taking a breath, she began, her voice lacking in confidence as much as she lacked in evidence. She quickly relayed the highlights of her concerns. Disgruntled kid with weapons. Ominous posts online. An unnamed professional concerned about his mental health. And his own writings expressing anger in need of a target.

Durant took a deep breath, his barrel chest expanding like a balloon, and let out a long sigh.

“Damn it!” he said. “You just made my security meeting a hell of a lot more complex. You better be right or you, your father, and me are gonna have a sit down about you reeling in your imagination. You understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” she said. Relieved, Gabby took a chance and gave him a big hug. “Thank you!”

He stared at her and asked with a softer tone. “You spendin’ the night?”

“If that’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay.” He smiled. “You can help fold laundry.”

Gabby exhaled with relief as he left the room.

Emma hurried over to her. “Yay! You’re spending the night!” she said. “The boys’ names at the cabin are Nigel and Nathan. Why do parents do that? Name twins with the same first letter? Bad enough they look alike and dress alike. Can’t the cuties have their own initial?”

“We’ll discuss it later,” Gabby said. “Let me run home and get a change of clothes.”

“Okay. Hurry! I have so much to tell you!”

Gabby recognized that tone. Emma didn’t want to tell her what happened, but what she already did.

“Wait a minute,” Gabby said. “You already promised them I’d go out with one of them, didn’t you?”

Emma shooed her to the door. “Details, details, Gabs. I can convince you about that over a bowl of ice cream.”

“It better be mint-chocolate chip.”

“It will be.”

“Then I’ll think about it,” Gabby said with a smile.

“See you soon,” Emma said as she closed the door.

Gabby stood on their front porch and looked down at her poor, angry feet. They were less than pleased with the concept of walking home. She couldn’t wait until she could get a car.

As she started down the sidewalk, she chuckled at Emma’s mischievous enthusiasm. If it weren’t for her, Gabby would never consider sneaking out on a date or doing anything social without The Gang. Gabby liked her little world, like her little town. Emma didn’t and was determined to broaden Gabby’s social life whether she liked it or not, and did so, often without asking. When she did, Gabby was usually more embarrassed than angry and, despite her reservations, often had a good time. Who knew? Maybe Nigel and Nathan were nice guys and wouldn’t stiff Emma and Gabby with the bill, like the dolts Emma lined up the last time she played matchmaker.

Maybe the summer wasn’t going to be a total loss.

Just then, a deep voice pierced the quiet.

“I hear you’re trying to stop me.”

Gabby looked up for a brief second and recognized Patrick’s face.

Then everything went black.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The dark hood over her head smelled of old leather and grease. Her frantic breaths heated the air and increased the nervous sweat dripping down her face. Her hands shook as she reached for her phone, but it was gone. It must have fallen on the ground. Or maybe he took it when his thick arms tossed her into the car. Either way, she was screwed. Panic set in. Not the everyday sort, but the industrial strength panic that came from realizing there was a good chance you were about to die.

The blur of the attack started to clear, and she realized she was laying down in the backseat. Her head was bent against the door panel, and she couldn’t extend her legs. This was not a big car. A compact. Above her frenzied heart pounding in her ears, she picked up the sound of the engine’s unhealthy rumbling. It sputtered when it slowed and rattled louder when it accelerated. She ran her hand along the fabric covering the backseat to find it was cloth, brittle and hard in places, ripped in others. Letting her arm drop to the floor, she rubbed her fingers into the matted and sticky carpet. She was riding in a beater. A junker. One of those old and rusty heaps she’d see on the road and wonder how they didn’t collapse into a pile of rust. Just the type of car a young guy with little money like Patrick would own.

The tires ran over brick roads, the shocks bouncing and creaking, which told her they were on the south side of Main Street. That was the historic neighborhoods where one-hundred-year-old homes still stood. When she was younger, she would weave past the old, wooden homes with the ancient oaks that had shaded them for a century. She’d enjoy riding her bike over the bumpy, brick surface, the dips and lifts in the road tossing her on her seat like a cheap roller coaster.

The ride in the backseat of the car wasn’t nearly as fun. Terrifying would be more accurate. Gabby thought back to Father Peters’ office and his silly bubble wrap. Was God answering her question? Was this her last bubble? Was her time actually running out?

She looked over her short life and all the things she was lacking, her mind growing foggy with fear and regret. She hadn’t fallen in love. She hadn’t been married. Or had kids. She hadn’t graduated high school or attended college. She hadn’t worked outside of the hardware store or told her father how extraordinary he was.

Tears started to drip across her nose and onto the damp mask. Life wasn’t supposed to be this short.

Her thoughts drifted to The Gang. What about Emma, Hamilton, and Scott? Without them, she would be nothing. She’d be hiding in her room, alone, sad, and afraid. She had to tell them how much they meant to her.

And Father Peters? Without him, the world would be godless. Without hope. Empty.

This wasn’t fair. She shouldn’t be on her way to die. She was only trying to help.

Gabby prayed with urgency. God, please don’t let this be the end. Father Peters said there is always a path back to you. Please show it to me. I know I haven’t been your best child. I haven’t believed or acted as I should. I want to do more. Please. My life can’t be just about a girl without a mom who helps kids at school with stupid crap. I can do more than that. I can be more, Lord.

She sighed with resignation.

I think of Regina’s sacrifice… please, Lord, let me love that much, even though it terrifies me. If I’m going to die, don’t let it be this way, at the hands of a maniac. Let it be for something, not of something or by someone like Patrick. Please, God. I’m scared. I don’t want to die alone, like my mom. That frightens me more than anything else does. I beg you, God. Spare me a lonely death. Save me, please.

The tires jostled over train tracks and the car jumped and clattered. They were heading west now. Toward Clearwater. Gabby’s breathing quickened. Once they left Safety Harbor, she would lose all sense of direction. She would be lost and helpless.

God, don’t leave me.

Seconds later, the car slowed and pulled onto a dirt road, veering around a corner and over cracking tree roots. The rattle of the engine became hollow and louder, the sound echoing off thin walls. Patrick turned off the car engine, and Gabby could hear the wings of birds fluttering as he exited. She knew where they were. In one of the empty, aluminum-sided buildings in the abandoned industrial park. Home to a thriving drug trade and temporary housing for the local homeless, it was a place for people who wanted to live away from the eyes of others. It was the perfect hiding place for Patrick. And the perfect place for him to kill Gabby unnoticed.

The back door opened, creaking loudly, and his strong hands grabbed her ankles and pulled her out of the car, her butt thumping onto the cement floor. The pain trembled up her body, and she moaned as Patrick ripped the mask from her head.

Their eyes met and time stood still, fear encompassing her. His eyes were not what she expected. They were sad and wounded, round and blue, like the bay waters on a clear day. His face was strong and square with a pronounced jaw and defined features, but dark circles under his eyes and spider red veins in his cornea showed he had not slept in days. He was taller and more handsome in person and his cropped light brown hair sat close to his head, like his father’s military cut. His T-shirt formed against his muscular body, and she could spy the handgrip of the Beretta sticking out of his waistband.

He moved his arm and Gabby flinched, covering her head. When the blows didn’t come, she looked up to find his arm extended, offering to help her up. With hesitation, she took his calloused hand, its rough surface indicating they were rarely pampered. With one tug, he pulled her to her feet.

“Are you okay?” he asked with his deep, smooth voice.

“Let me think…” she said. “Kidnapped. Held hostage. My first response would be no.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“Excuse me if I don’t believe you. Where’s my hat?”

He retrieved it from the backseat of the car and tossed it to her, its brim dented and warped. “This is my favorite hat,” she said, evening out its edges. “It’s dented.”

“Sorry,” he said. “About everything. But I’m running out of options. They’re out to get me.”

“Who’s out to get you?”

“I don’t know.”

“That narrows it down a bit,” she said, pulling her hat on her head. She had read that one never knew how they would react in a crisis until they were in a real-world situation. From the looks of it, it appeared she became a smart-ass.

“They’re using me,” he said. “Settin’ me up. They’re me. Everyone will think they’re me.”

“Patrick, what are you talking about?”

“I just couldn’t let you stop me. Not before I’m done.”

“What makes you think I’m trying to stop you?”

“I ain’t stupid. Don’t insult me, okay?”

“Trust me, you’ll know it when I’ve insulted you,” Gabby said.

He shifted the pistol stuffed in his pants and circled her. “Are you going to try and run?” he asked.

“I try not to interfere with my flight-or-fright instincts.”

“Look, I don’t want to tie you up, but I will if I have to.”

“Well, I don’t want to be tied up. So, I guess we have something in common.”

“Then, just don’t try to run, okay? Not until you hear me out.”

“I don’t think there’s a chance in hell you’ll be able to convince me you should kill people, just FYI.”

“Is that what you think?” he asked.

“Yup. And so does the sheriff. And your sister. And my friends.”

“You told the sheriff?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

He looked down, his jaw clenched. “No. I guess that makes sense.”

“Look, Patrick. I get it. You’re hurt. You want to take it out on people. I’d prefer it if you didn’t start with me, however.”

“Shit! That’s not it.” He motioned her to a broken folding table with a missing leg and a barrel doubling for a chair. “Would you sit down? Please?”

“Do I have a choice?” she asked, eyeing the pistol.

“You can stand, if you want.”

He appeared surprisingly fragile, not something she expected from a murderer. Then again, Ted Bundy was charming and acted vulnerable too… and he killed fourteen people. Sociopaths were good at acting normal. They’d spent their entire life behaving the way people expected. Gabby knew, hidden inside, their true selves resided, waiting for an excuse or opportunity to get out. She didn’t want to be that excuse.

She walked slowly toward the table, scanning the room. She was grateful God answered her prayers and kept her alive. So far. But it would have been nice if the big guy had sent in a truck full of police officers into the abandoned metal shop. Instead, it looked like a chat with an armed conspiracy nut would have to do. As she sat, she glanced over her shoulder to find the garage door blocked by the car. On the other side of the large, open space were the remains of what must have been the foreman’s office, with glass windows looking out into the shop. Gabby could see Patrick’s laptop and his backpack dented like a pillow on top of the desk. That must have been where he was sleeping.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “I have some beef jerky. And a warm soda.”

“No, thank you,” she said. “I ate earlier.”

She placed her clasped hands on the vinyl tabletop while Patrick paced on the other side, scratching his scalp, his large knife now visible, tucked under his belt on his side.

“Something is going on,” he said. “Something bad.”

“I know that. You’re planning to kill a lot of people.”

“No, I’m not. That’s just it, damn it! It’s bigger than that. It’s not about me, but they’re making it look like it’s about me.”

“Who is they?” she asked.

“I don’t know. But they’re setting me up. Don’t you understand? I’m being set up. They’re being me, but it’s not me.”

“Patrick, if I may be so bold… you sound like a nut job.”

“I know.”

“Are you? A nut job?”

“No.”

“Have you been to counseling?”

“Some. Didn’t help much.”

“What about medication? Are you on any medication?”

“I ain’t nuts!” he said, slamming his hand on the table. Gabby lurched back, disturbed by his sudden rage.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“I almost needed a change of pants, but I’m still breathing, so I guess I’m doing all right.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Patrick, why am I here?” she asked.

“Damn it Gabby! Don’t you understand? I need your help.”

“For what?”

“To prove my innocence.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

In a gesture of goodwill, Gabby decided to accept his beef jerky and warm soda, hoping the breaking of bread, or in this case, cured meat, would ease the tension.

Patrick rejoined her at the table, sitting on a sturdy, wooden crate, knowing now she had misread him. He wasn’t wounded—he was terrified. His knees bounced and his fingers tapped on the table, bursting with nervous energy. She casually looked around the room as she gnawed on the jerky and spotted a club-sized piece of metal rebar lying against the exterior office wall, just in case things got hairy. His car, a beat-up Toyota Corolla, sat parked facing them. In a pinch, she may be able to jump up onto the hood, run over the roof, leap down behind it, and race for the exit. That was assuming he wouldn’t catch her. Or shoot her. Or stab her.

“Patrick, why do you think I can help you?” she asked.

“Because. I heard about you at school. The stolen final exam—”

“That was a bet with the teacher.”

“And the homecoming incident.”

“There is no proof that was me,” she said.

“And I didn’t have anyone else to turn to. I asked a friend, and he said you were the best person to ask.”

“No. I find laptops or help students getting bullied or stalked. I track down cheaters and find rare items classmates broke and need to replace before their parents get home. And, perhaps, as the rumor has it, I may have been involved in a school prank that went terribly awry. But what you’re talking about here is murder. Mass murder. That’s way above my pay grade, not that anyone actually ever pays me. I’m sorry, Patrick, but I’m not your girl. You need the police. Why don’t you let me call Sheriff Durant and you can explain this grand conspiracy to him? He does this sort of thing for a living.”

“It ain’t no grand conspiracy, Gabby. It’s the truth. The police wouldn’t believe me anyway and by the time they did, it’d be too late. Don’t you understand?”

“No, I don’t. Why don’t you take a deep breath and explain it to me.”

“Okay. Um… so, about a month ago, my friend, Jill, she called me and asked if something was wrong with me. Said she saw a post I left online, and she was worried and all.”

“What did it say?”

“Something about being depressed. Anyway, I said I didn’t leave that post, but she insisted that it sounded just like me. So, I checked it out myself and she was right. It was me. My story. Sounded like I said it myself.”

“Patrick, I’m going to ask you something, and I don’t want you to hit the table or me or anything else, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Do you have any mental illnesses, like split personalities? Are you bipolar or anything like that?”

“No.”

“You sure? Because, if you had a split personality, you probably wouldn’t know.”

“I don’t have a split personality!”

“Okay. Don’t get angry,” she said.

“The doctor would have told me anyway.”

“So you saw a psychologist?”

“When my dad died, sure. I was depressed. Who wouldn’t be? But I’m not sick.”

“But you kidnap people.”

“No. Well, yes. But I needed your help.”

“You could have called me.”

“I didn’t think you’d believe me.”

She nodded. “You’re probably right. I would have had you arrested. I still may, you know.”

“I know,” he mumbled.

“Okay, so these posts, they’re you, but not you. How can you explain that?”

“I don’t know. I can’t.” He rubbed his temples. “I wish my dad were here. He’d know what to do.”

“I wish a SWAT team were here, but you can’t get everything you want.”

“You would have loved my dad, Gabby. He was so smart. And dedicated. He loved this country. He kept trying to tell me why he fought for it and wanted to instill in me the same love he had… I wish I had listened to him. I was so selfish. All I cared about was myself. I was mad at him for all the time he was gone. And when he came back, he was always a little more different. It was like each mission took a part of him or something. I would ask him what he did over there, but he said it was classified and he couldn’t tell me anything. But what he was doing over there must have been some bad shit because he stopped laughing. He had the greatest laugh, one of those deep laughs that shook the walls.” Patrick smiled for the first time, and his eyes grew soft. “He never laughed like that again. When he’d come home, when he smiled, it was one of those fake smiles, you know? For show.”

“I’m sorry,” Gabby said.

“Before he shipped out for the last time, he woke me up before sunrise and whispered something in my ear. But I was half asleep, I didn’t hear it, and I can’t remember what he said. I wish I could remember. Maybe he told me something important. His last words and I can’t remember anything.”

“It may come back to you. In a dream, maybe. Don’t give up.”

“Nah. It ain’t never coming back. About a month after he shipped out, we got a visit from some officers from MacDill and they said he died in action, defending the country. They wouldn’t say where or when and they wouldn’t let us view the body. They said we wouldn’t recognize much that was left. That gave me nightmares.” He shook his head, as if trying to keep those dreams from invading his reality. “After he was buried, I was screwed up for a while and I did a lot of stupid things. Acted out, I guess. Hurt my mom by the things I’d done. She had already started drinking by then, and I didn’t help the situation none. When I got my head right, I wanted to know what happened. I couldn’t eat or sleep without knowing what happened to my dad when he died. I just had to know.”

“Unanswered questions suck,” she said. “They never leave you alone.”

“I know. So, I was able to track down some of the guys in my dad’s squad over at the V.A., and they weren’t allowed to tell me nothing. They wanted to, but they couldn’t. But I kept trying. Eventually, I found this one guy, a corporal named Willie, and he told me that my dad died a hero. A hero. Can you believe that? He said he saved some of the squad during a mission in Afghanistan. He couldn’t tell me any of the details. Hell, he wasn’t even supposed to tell me that much. He just didn’t think it was right, me not knowing. He didn’t want me to wonder. He wanted me to know my dad died saving his friends.”

“I’m sorry, Patrick. At least he died doing something great.”

“I guess. It helps, but not much. You lost your mom too, right?”

“Yeah,” Gabby said.

She wasn’t willing to tell him anything more. They sat in silence, the air filled with mourning. Gabby had seen his sadness in her own reflection when she was a child.

In a flash, she was back there, catching her image in the mirror at the funeral home, her tears emanating from deep within her soul. She could suddenly smell the candle scent of jasmine and the soft moans of a sad organ. She could feel her small hand in her dad’s, standing in front of a brown casket. She was short and couldn’t see the top of it. It didn’t matter. It was closed, like Patrick’s father’s, except hers was empty. Gabby reached out and caressed the hollow box, the wood grains sliding across her fingertips. A glint of sunshine passed by her face and she followed it to the ground, her father’s tears wetting the carpet at their feet. She felt one glide down her cheek and Gabby found herself back in the empty shop, wiping it from her face.

“I wouldn’t hurt anyone,” Patrick said. “I wouldn’t disgrace my father’s memory like that. I ain’t never hurt nobody, Gabby. And I had never even been to those sites online.”

“Sites? How many did you find?”

“Ten. Maybe more. I started looking around and there were messages from me all over the place. They even used my email as a login. I figured out how to get a new password and logged in myself, you know, to find out who had set it up.”

“So, you logged in from home into these accounts you claim aren’t yours?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Because now your IP address is tied to them. As far as the authorities will know, they’ll think you wrote those posts.”

He stared forward, his tired eyes starting to glisten. “But I was only trying to…”

“Did you find out who set up those accounts?”

“No. It looked like I did it. And the messages, they got worse. It went from me being pissed to me wanting to take it out on people. What’s going on, Gabby? Why would someone do something like that?”

“Well, let’s assume you’re not mentally ill and you don’t plan on killing me or anyone else.”

He stared at her, motionless.

“An affirmative response would be comforting right about now,” she said.

“Oh. Sorry. Right, I’m not going to do that.”

“Good. Then someone is planning to kill people and they want you to take the fall.”

“Why me? I haven’t done anything to anyone. I’ve only lived in Safety Harbor a few years. I don’t know anyone. Just one or two friends.”

“That’s why. You’re a loner. Loners have a long history of killing people. Serial killers. Presidential assassins. Deranged fans. It’s textbook. Plus, with your dad’s recent death, you would be an easy target.”

“So, what you’re saying is something bad is going to happen then?”

“Yes.”

“And the police are looking for me?”

“Yes.”

“And I’m going to get blamed for it?”

“Yes.”

Patrick looked up and shook his head, despair covering his face like a mask. He leaned to the side, pulling Gabby’s cell phone from his pocket, and slid it across the table.

“Then maybe you should call the police,” he said. “I don’t see any other choice.”

Gabby picked up the phone and dialed, all the while looking into his petrified eyes. “Hello, Mr. Durant? This is Gabby. Sorry to bother you.”

Patrick straightened, resigned to his fate.

“Could you tell Emma I won’t be able to spend the night after all? Tell her I’ll call her in the morning. Something came up.”

She hung up the phone and placed it on the table.

“Why… why did you do that?” he asked.

“Because there is one thing we can do to keep you from being called a murderer.”

“What’s that?”

“Find the real killers.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Gabby stood next to Patrick’s car, the passenger door open, tapping the top of the roof. He waited near the front, arms crossed, with an uncertain grimace on his face.

“Are you coming?” she asked.

“I’d like to know how we’re going to find a bunch of killers?” he asked. “What if we run into them?”

“Well, you have a gun. And a big ass knife. And I have my brains. And your muscles. That should about do it.”

“Have you done this sort of thing before?”

“Hunt for killers? No.”

“Then shouldn’t we come up with a plan or something?”

“I have. In my head.”

“Care to share?” he asked.

“It’ll take too long. Now let’s go.”

“Maybe we should go to the police, after all.”

“We will, eventually,” she said. “Right now, they’re looking for you. When we find out who is trying to frame you, they’ll start looking for them. Now, will you trust me?”

“I want to, but…”

“Just get in the car!” she said.

Gabby had no time for second-guessing. She knew Durant as well as she knew her own father. Even though she’d given him less-than-credible information in the past, he was a sworn officer of the law. He’d run down any potential threat with unwavering ferocity. The sheriff was not only bolstering the security at the marina for the Fourth of July fireworks celebration, but he and his team were on the lookout for Patrick as well. It was only a matter of time before they arrested him.

The car started with the expected rumble, and Gabby looked at the wide array of food wrappers and empty cola cans littering his seat and floor.

“I think I’d rather be blindfolded again,” she said.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“The hardware store on Main.”

“Is it even open?”

“I hope not. It’s the middle of the night. Even my dad has to sleep.”

“What are we going to do there? Do you guys sell guns or something?”

“Nail guns. Paint guns. Chewing gum.”

“Then what’s the point?”

“You’ll see,” she said as the car lunged forward. “Go right down Main Street.”

“Main Street? Won’t the cops be looking for me there?”

“No. They’ll be looking for you in places like this, not out in the open. Hurry.”

The car lumbered back onto the brick road, and Patrick made a direct path to Main. Gabby pulled up her favorites on her cell and dialed.

“Hello?” a groggy voice greeted her on the phone.

“Ham. It’s Gabby. What are you doing?”

“Sleeping. You should try it.”

“Can you sneak out and meet me at the hardware store?”

“No,” he said.

“C’mon! You have tomorrow off. Correction, today off. It’s a national holiday. You can sleep in later.”

“Gabs, I’m the middle of seven kids. Once we get up in the morning, it’s impossible to get back to sleep. I have to take advantage of it while I can.”

“I need you, Ham.”

The phone remained quiet, and Gabby could hear snoring from Leo, Hamilton’s younger brother with whom he shared a room.

“Why do I help you?” he asked

“Because you’re curious. And you’re a great friend.”

He sighed. “Stop knowing me so well.”

“So, you’ll come?”

“You know I will.”

She smiled. “I know. See you soon.”

“Why do we need him?” Patrick asked.

“Because he’s awesome. Hurry, but don’t go over the speed limit.”

“How do I do that?”

“You’ll figure it out,” she said.

Gabby could appear full of strength and certainty, but it was intuition that guided her, nothing more. Fortunately for her, it was rarely wrong. When it was, though, the consequences were horrendous; i.e., the aforementioned Mr. Hanson. It probably didn’t help that she had just finished a binge of Hitchcock flicks when she spotted him moving things around in the garbage cans behind the convenience store. Perception was a powerful weapon and, though she was no Jimmy Stewart or Grace Kelly, she would have bet her life he had dismembered poor Mrs. Hanson. Stuck with her sawed segments, he took to scattering her remains throughout the trash receptacles in the city. Turned out she wasn’t hurt at all. She was hanging out at the beach with her sister getting a tan, all of her limbs intact.

“Why are you helping me?” Patrick asked.

“That’s a good question.”

“I’m serious.”

“It’s not that complicated. I believe you. That’s why.”

“A lot of people could believe me. I don’t think none of them would do what you’re doing.”

“First, that’s probably true. Second, I doubt anyone else would think you’re telling the truth.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

“It’s what I do,” she said.

“But why risk it?”

“Because truth matters.”

“Oh. I don’t completely understand, but thanks,” he said.

“Don’t thank me yet. There’s a really good chance you’ll be arrested by lunch.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. But we’ve got a couple of hours, yet.”

“I guess that’s something.”

“You know, I admire your fight, Patrick. You investigated. You’re trying to find out what’s going on and save lives in the process. I think you’re a lot more like your father than you think.”

“I don’t know if that’s true, but thanks, Gabby.”

“My friends call me Gabs,” she said.

“Am I your friend?” he asked.

“Not yet, but you’re getting there.”

He looked over with his expressive blue eyes, and she saw a twinkle of hope for the first time. “I’d rather call you Gabby anyway, if that’s okay,” he said.

Heat rushed to her face as she blushed. “Okay.”

A burst of a police siren shook them from their calm, and panic coursed through their bodies.

“Shit!” Patrick yelled, gripping the pistol. “What do we do?”

Gabby spun around, the red and blue flashing lights strobing the street, the headlights blinding.

“Pull over,” she said. “And hide the gun! Are you trying to get us killed? The knife too!”

“Okay,” he said, shoving them under the seat as he pulled over to the side of the road.

“No one will be looking for you on Main Street,” he said, mimicking her with a whiny voice.

“I do not sound like that!” she said. “Because if I do, I’ll take your gun and shoot myself.”

He wrung the steering wheel like a wet rag. “I’m going to prison! I’m wanted for threatening to kill people, I’m holding you hostage, and I have two weapons in my car. I’m definitely going to prison.”

“Stop sounding like the prosecution and settle down!” she said.

“It’s true!”

“Cut it out! If you look guilty, then you’ll be guilty!”

“Because I’m guilty!”

“Will you just relax?”

“Then stop yelling at me!” he said.

She clenched her teeth and spoke with a nice, calm voice. “Patrick? Stop being a pansy and act normal, okay sweetie pie?”

He looked out of the side rearview mirror and mumbled, “I’d rather you yell at me.”

The door to the police cruiser slammed closed, and an officer approached. He used a heavy flashlight to scan the license plate. As he neared, his distinctive silhouette exuded power and authority. His black shape adorned with a police cap bobbed as he approached, his form segmented in half by a thick belt dangling with the tools of the trade. A pistol, pepper spray, a Taser, cuffs, and his baton bounced against his hip with each step.

“What am I going to say?” Patrick asked.

“Only answer the questions they ask,” she said. “Nothing else.”

“Okay.”

“And look them in the eye. Smile if you can. They’re like a hot girl in high school. They can smell fear.”

“How do you know all this stuff?”

“I’m friends with the sheriff.”

“Of course you are.”

The officer tapped the window with his flashlight and motioned for Patrick to roll it down. His hand shook as he grasped the handle, the window making an ugly scraping sound as it lowered.

The officer bent down, peering inside the car. “License and proof of insurance, please?”

“Officer Johnson?” Gabby asked. “Is that you?”

He moved the light to shine in her eyes. “Gabby?”

“Hey! How are you? Working the late shift again?”

“Yeah. Need the overtime, what with the baby on the way. What are you doing out so late?”

“Well, Emma just got back from the lake cabin and set us up on a double date with twins. Nigel and Nathan.”

“Which one is this?”

“Guess,” she said.

“Nathan?”

“Bingo! He was just taking me home.”

Johnson shined the light in Patrick’s eyes, his face damp with perspiration. “Nathan, huh? Can I see your driver’s license and insurance, Nathan?”

“Officer Johnson,” Gabby smiled, “you’re not going to ticket Nathan on our first date, are you?”

“That was my plan, Gabby. You know the sheriff. I didn’t hit my quota for traffic tickets last month, and he’s been breathing down my neck. Besides, the ticket won’t cost too much. Just for a broken taillight.” He smiled at Patrick. “License and insurance?”

“Right,” Patrick said, pulling the wallet from his pocket, his hand trembling.

“Officer Johnson?” Gabby said. “I hate admitting this to an officer of the law, but Nathan and I are, well, how do I put this delicately? See, my dad doesn’t know I’m out. He thinks I’m spending the night at the Durants. And the Durants think I’m home. And if Nathan gets in trouble, then I get in trouble. And if I get in trouble, Emma gets in trouble. And if she gets in trouble, then the sheriff won’t be too happy. And when he’s not happy, no one is happy.”

Johnson nodded in agreement.

“I tell you what,” she said. “If you can have it in your heart to look past Nathan’s temporary car issue, I promise to bring your wife some cookies from my mom’s secret recipe.”

“The oatmeal chocolate ones?” he asked.

“The one and only. How many would you like?”

“I’d like… I mean, my wife would like, I don’t know, is two dozen too much?” he asked.

“Nope. That sounds just about right,” Gabby said.

“I guess we have a deal. Nathan, make sure you get that taillight fixed in the morning, would ya?”

“Sure, Officer,” Patrick said. “First thing. Thank you.”

“Oh, Gabby, one more thing,” Johnson said. “Sheriff Durant told us there was some teenager threatening a lot of people. You hear about that?”

“Vaguely,” she said.

“Apparently, the kid’s name is Patrick Severson. He’s a bad seed set out to hurt people. You know who he is?”

“I’ve heard of him,” she said. “Handsome guy, I think.”

“Good looking or not,” Johnson said, “he’s dangerous. You see him, you let us know.” Johnson tapped the pistol in his holster. “I’m not afraid to put him down, if necessary.”

The coldness in his eyes made her uneasy. It was only a few hours ago that she thought Patrick was as guilty as Johnson claimed, but she now found herself no longer in a hurry to sentence him to such a harsh punishment. Not until she found out the truth.

“That’s very comforting,” Gabby said. “I’ll keep an eye out for him.”

“Sounds good.” Johnson tapped on the roof as he left. “Be careful, you two! See you at the fireworks tomorrow.”

“See you!” Gabby said and melted into the chair. “Whew. That was interesting.”

“I’m afraid to move,” Patrick said. “My muscles are locked up.”

“Well, unlock them. If you don’t, he’ll think this piece of crap broke down and he’ll come back with a tow truck, so feel free to throw it into gear whenever you’re inspired.”

He stared at her. “You’re not even sweating. Weren’t you freaked out?”

“I sure am! I can’t bake to save my life!”

“You’re… hard to describe.”

“How about you describe me as impatient and put the car in first gear.”

He did as she demanded and smiled, “You think I’m handsome?”

“I think you’re annoying.”

“And handsome.”

She looked down to the fedora in her lap, her stomach fluttering with delight, trying to hide a growing smile. She usually didn’t allow her heart to partake of such flirtatious silliness. That was Emma’s territory. But Patrick’s impending incarceration allowed her to let her emotions play a little, knowing this was, at best, a short-term fling. While other girls chatted about their crushes, Gabby didn’t. Like most other things, she kept that part of her life private. She didn’t trust the world to treat her or her affections with kindness. So, her emotional dalliance with Patrick would remain just between the two of them. And Officer Johnson.

By the time they arrived at the hardware store, Hamilton was already sitting on the loading dock. As the car lights crossed his face, his dour demeanor was evident by his irate stare. Following Gabby’s direction, Patrick backed the car up next to a large dumpster in front of the loading dock, shielding it from sight.

“Who’s the driver?” Hamilton asked as they exited the car.

“Oh, him? That’s Patrick Severson. My kidnapper,” Gabby said.

“Your what?”

Patrick extended his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Hamilton stared at his offer, but he refused to engage.

“He’s got a gun and a knife, so be nice to him,” Gabby said as she unlocked the back door.

“They’re not on me,” Patrick said. “They’re in the car under the front seat, if you want to see for yourself.”

Hamilton rushed to Gabby’s side. “Isn’t this the guy you said was going to kill people? The guy with all the creepy posts?”

“The one and the same,” she said.

“And he kidnapped you?”

“Yes. But we’re past that now.”

“Do you want me to call the police?”

“No. We already talked to them.”

“So he’s no longer a suspect?”

“No, they’re still after him. Some are really anxious to shoot him, too.”

“What? I don’t understand,” Hamilton said.

“It’s a long, sad story about a boy and his dreams dashed by the cruel realities of life.”

“Really?”

“No!” she said, propping the door open. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

Patrick nodded and entered the dark store.

Hamilton refused to budge. “No, Gabby. I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on.”

“What’s going on is you’re going to help stop a murderer.”

“And Patrick’s not it?”

“Probably not.”

“Probably?”

“Yeah, I’m eighty percent sure,” she said. “No, eighty-five.”

“Before we enter a dark room surrounded by a bunch of sharp objects hanging from the walls, shouldn’t we be in the high nineties?”

“Where’s your sense of adventure, Ham?”

“How long have you known me, Gabs? I’ve never been adventurous. Not in real life.”

“Then think of it this way. This story will make a great book one day. A book you could read whenever you wanted. And you? You could be the hero of this grand adventure, coming in to save the day.”

“That would be cool.” He nodded.

“Good. Now get inside. I need your computer skills.”

“What for?”

“To help us find breadcrumbs.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A single emergency light illuminated the dark aisles, reflecting off shiny, metal surfaces from all sorts of dangerous tools such as saws, hammers, axes, and knives. If Gabby was wrong about Patrick, she and Hamilton were in the perfect position to become victims’ number one and two.

The empty store pulsed with incessant beeps, and Gabby entered the code to disable the alarm system. The room grew quiet, and the absence of activity was unnerving for a girl who grew up in its busy aisles. Not only had she grown uncomfortable in the shadowy space, she had also lost sight of Hamilton and Patrick.

“You guys can come out now,” she said. “We’ve got work to do.”

“Where’s the killer guy?” Hamilton asked from the dark. “I’m not coming out until he’s where I can see him.”

“Patrick?” she called out. “Where are you?”

The room remained quiet, just the hum of the emergency light filling the stillness. Gabby’s senses heightened, and she squinted into the darkness.

“Boo!” he said from behind. Startled, she spun around and punched him in the face, dropping his strong body to the ground.

“Ow!” he cried.

Gabby looked down on him, rubbing her knuckles. “Found him,” she said.

Patrick kept tapping his nose, waiting for the blood to flow. “That fricking hurt! Why did you punch me?”

“You scared me,” she said.

“Most girls just squeal.”

“I’m not most girls.”

“I think I got that now,” he said, pained tears forming in his eyes. “Damn!”

“Sorry about that.” She helped him to his feet. “Be happy. You’re not bleeding.”

“You’re right. Why wouldn’t I be happy to be decked by a girl?” He smirked.

“I guess that depends on the girl.”

“I heard a body fall,” Hamilton yelled from the dim aisles. “Is he dead?”

“No,” Gabby said.

“Is that a good thing?” he asked.

“Very. Now come up to the front of the store.”

Hamilton’s lanky shadow peered out from behind the plumbing aisle, holding a short piece of PVC pipe like a bat.

“Are you planning on installing a sink?” she asked.

“I’m defending myself,” Hamilton said.

“You don’t need to worry about that. You have me.”

“You got that right,” Patrick said, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Then what am I doing here?” Hamilton asked, approaching them with the pipe still clenched in his sweaty palm.

Gabby clicked on the store computer next to the cash register, the glow from the screen casting an ice-blue tint across their faces.

“Our store is hooked up to an online portal that all the major home improvement retailers use. You’re a computer whiz. I need you to search for anything purchased in the area that could be used to kill a lot of people.”

“That could be anything,” Hamilton said. “A hardware store is full of items that could be turned into a deadly weapon.”

“Including PVC pipes?” she teased.

“Compressors could propel projectiles or explode if punctured. Electrical equipment could obviously electrocute. Chemicals could blow up or poison. Or plain old axes and saws could do plenty of damage on their own. Or it could be some combination of those. Or something else entirely.”

“That’s why I need you,” Gabby said.

“But why would they go to all that trouble?” Patrick asked.

“Because, if they’re framing you, there’d be a trail of purchases to prove it. If they were to use a gun you don’t own or military-grade explosives you wouldn’t have access to, all their effort to pin it on you would have been a waste. If I were trying to frame you, I’d buy something you could make at home in your garage. And I’d use one of your credit cards I had stolen from you. If I can set you up online, I could probably hack in and get one of your credit card numbers. I’d even get a guy that looks like you to pick it up at the store, if possible. You know, get you on the security cameras. Their pixel counts aren’t great, so you wouldn’t need a clone. Just someone with similar build, hair, and face. Maybe disguised with a pair of sunglasses, or a hat, but not too hidden so that witnesses couldn’t pick you out of a lineup.”

Hamilton and Patrick stared at her with palatable unease.

“What?” she asked.

“You can be really scary sometimes,” Hamilton said.

She agreed with a reluctant shrug. “I know.”

“What about you guys?” Hamilton asked.

“We’re going to do a little data mining of our own.”

“We are?” Patrick asked.

“Yes. We’re going to sit down and figure out who knows you well enough to frame you.”

“You’re not going to punch me again, are you?” Patrick asked.

“No promises.”

Hamilton’s fingers started clacking on the keyboard and Gabby gave Patrick an impromptu tour of the store, pointing as she spoke. “So, Mr. Severson, we have a wide selection of home improvement items. Door handles? We got them. Teflon tape? We’re your store. Axle grease? We have it by the gallon. You name it, we have it.” She led him past the kitchen cabinets and into an aisle, its shelves overloaded with bathroom fixtures and supplies. “What can I interest you in today?”

“Do you guys carry conspiracy spray? Like a repellant? I think I could use some of that.”

“No, but we do have a girl who may be able to help.”

“Is she cheap? I like cheap girls.”

Gabby punched him in the arm.

“I didn’t mean it that way! I meant inexpensive!”

“Then you should have said that.”

“Wow. You hit first and apologize later, don’t you?”

“Sometimes, I apologize. It’s part of my charm,” she said, motioning to the floor. “Perhaps I could interest you in floor tile, Mr. Severson. It’s multi-purpose, used for both walking and sitting. Go ahead, give it a whirl.”

Patrick squatted onto the floor, his brawny legs stretched out in front of him. “I like it. Hard. Cold. Square. Who could ask for more?”

Gabby chuckled and sat down next to him, his powerful body nearly double her size.

“Do you do this sort of thing often?” Patrick asked.

“Save handsome guys from crazed killers? Not as much as you’d think. To be honest, the most exciting thing I’ve done so far was prove a friend of mine didn’t plagiarize.”

“Sounds boring.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Why are you helping me? Seriously.”

She looked into his eyes and smiled. “Because I don’t think someone like you is capable of killing anyone.”

“Do you think we’ll be able to convince everyone else?”

“That’s the idea. So what about you? What’s the most exciting thing you’ve done so far?”

He smiled and slid a tile closer. “Sit near you,” he said.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. I ain’t sure if I should kiss you or prepare to defend myself.”

“I think if you try the first, you’ll have to do the second.”

He laughed and she leaned into him, her head nudging his sculpted arm. He winked and scooped up her fedora, sitting it on his larger head. “What do you think?”

She winced. “I’m not feeling it. It looks like you’re trying to wear a hat from a toy action figure.”

“Too small?”

“Way too small.”

“Does that mean you’re an action figure?” he asked.

“Absolutely. You should see my karate chop.”

“Your punch is good enough,” he said. “So, what kind of hat would look good on me?”

“You’re more of the baseball cap sorta guy,” she said. “Or a cowboy hat. You have that rough-and-tumble thing going for you.”

“I couldn’t be a cowboy. Horses don’t like me.”

“Why not?”

“Long story.”

He removed the hat and ran his hand down the brim. “This hat looks good on you,” he said.

“It’s a fedora.”

“Not a lot of girls wear hats. When’d you start?”

“When I was a kid. My mom had this odd obsession about buying hats for every one of my outfits. Caps, berets, fedoras, straw hats… once, she even bought me a top hat. A top hat! Do you know how impossible it is to blend in on a third grade playground wearing a top hat? Maneuvering through the monkey bars was fraught with peril. It was so embarrassing!”

He placed the fedora back atop her head and tilted it up. “I like it back like this. That way, I can see your eyes.”

“You may like it like that, but it’s not the proper way it should be worn.” She pulled the brim down and angled it across her right eye. “This is how it should look. Very film noir. What do you think?”

“I think you look sexy,” he said.

She burst into laughter. “Then I think you’re nuts. Don’t worry. You’ll change your mind when the sun comes up.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re also an alleged mass murderer, so…”

“Why do you do that? Why do you toss my compliments aside like that?”

“Because, only someone as mentally unstable as you would think I’m sexy.”

“See? There you go again.”

She sighed and stared at the ground, running her hand along the grout line of the tiles, worried about sharing thoughts she’d never voiced.

“That’s okay,” he said. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“Good.”

“But you should.”

“Why?”

“It’ll be good for you.”

“How would you know?” she asked.

“How do you know it won’t?”

“That’s not a convincing argument.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m wrong,” he said.

“Fine. If you must know, when I look in the mirror, I don’t think there’s a lot there to compliment.”

“Then you need a new mirror. I’m sure you must have one in here somewhere.”

“I need an entirely new bedroom set, but I don’t think that will change my reflection.”

“I hope not,” he said, placing his rough hand on her soft skin. She looked up at him, her heart beating through her chest, her eyes focused on his chiseled face. Tempted to move her lips toward his, she retreated and pulled away.

“I’m new to this, um, stuff,” she said. “So, can we maybe work on the things I am used to? Like saving your skin?”

“Sure.” He shifted on the floor and spun himself to face her. “Okay, what do you want to know?”

“What happened after your father died,” she asked. “What did you do?”

His body tightened, and his strong voice softened. “You probably won’t like me after this.”

“Who says I like you now?” she teased.

“Then I guess what I’m about to tell you won’t be so bad. I made bad decisions, Gabby. A lot of them. Slept around. Shoplifted. Got drunk. Got high. It was ugly. The world just didn’t make no sense to me anymore, and I didn’t care what the hell happened. To me or anyone. I was so angry. I got in a couple of fights with some guys. Yelled at my mom. Even hit my sister once. My sister. That’s when I knew I had to change. I couldn’t live like that anymore, the way I’d been. Maureen didn’t do anything wrong. She just happened to be in the wrong place and she said something… what was it? I can’t even remember anymore. Isn’t that awful? I hit my own sister, and I can’t even remember why. That’s when I got help. Brought me back from the edge.”

“I was a lot younger when I lost my mom,” Gabby said, “but I acted out too. I don’t know how my dad and my friends put up with me. If that happened to me today, I’m afraid to think of what I might do. I’d probably be in prison. Or dead. Some days, I worry about the thoughts that cross my mind. The things I think of doing when I get mad aren’t nice. It’s scary.”

“Did you get help?”

“Yes. I see Father Peters at my church.”

“Still?”

“Yeah. And I need it. To quiet those evil voices. That’s the one thing I’ve learned about myself. If I’m not reaching for heaven, I’m destined for hell. God didn’t make me a lukewarm person. Father Peters keeps me focused in the right direction or… or I’d be lost forever. Besides, I’ve been seeing him for so long its part of my life now. It’s one of the few things I know I can count on.”

“I wish I had that feeling. Like, last week, I started a job helping out at the auto shop, you know, the one down by the railroad tracks, and we were working on this food truck. It was so cool. Have you ever been inside of one? It’s a moving kitchen, with stainless steel everywhere, gas burners, refrigerators, the whole works. It’s your own world that you control. You decide what food you’re going to make and where you’re going to sell it. You decide what hours you open and when you go home. You control the business—it doesn’t control you. That’s what I’d like. Control of something. Now there’s some psychopath out there planning something. It’s got my name attached to it, and I can’t stop it. I’m like a piece of driftwood on the water, no control of where I’ll end up, just floating wherever, while someone keeps spilling my secrets.”

Gabby shifted, sitting forward. “That’s right. They do know your secrets. Who would that be? Who could possibly know your secrets?”

“No one,” he said.

“Someone does. Think. Think about all the posts you’ve read. You said they were in your voice, your life. Who knows your life that well?”

Patrick leaned his head back against the septic supplies, his eyes scanning his memories. “Um… The only person I could think of is my therapist, Dr. Rathe.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

They didn’t dare drive to Rathe’s office in Patrick’s car. They had already spun that roulette wheel and were lucky they didn’t go bust or, more accurately, get busted. Happy to see them leave the store, Hamilton escorted them out. He insinuated their awkward flirtations were distracting him from finding the method to the killer’s madness. Like at the library, he preferred the quiet where he could work without interruption. He promised to call as soon as he found anything useful.

Using poorly lit alleys, Gabby and Patrick jogged parallel to Main Street to the ugly eyesore with dated stucco and unfortunate arches. Gabby wondered how a psychologist, especially one who helped victims of tragedy like Patrick, could use his position for something so nefarious. It seemed out of place. Even unlikely.

Then again, she had enough experience with people of less-than-honorable character to know everyone had a secret. Maybe Rathe’s happened to push him to a place where his dark thoughts could rise to the surface.

Patrick hid in the shadow of the arch as Gabby removed her fedora and pulled a pair of bobby pins from the interior rim of her hat. She examined the lock, sliding them into the keyhole, maneuvering them, eyes closed, feeling the tension of the tumblers.

“Do you do this a lot?” Patrick asked.

“I had to do something as a kid when business at the store got slow,” she said. “Comes in handy in the real world every once in a while.”

“Most little girls like my sister would sing into a paintbrush and make believe they were a rock star or something.”

She tossed him an annoyed glare.

“I know,” he said. “You suck at being like most girls.”

“I tried for a long time. Didn’t stick. My friend, Emma, she’s your typical girl. She rocks it. Even my mom was awesome at the whole girl-in-a-dress thing. Just ask my dad. I tried to pull it off, but it didn’t work. One day, I decided I’d just figure out how to be me and let everyone else worry about what that means. I’m still a work in progress.”

The tumblers clicked, and Gabby pushed the door. It didn’t budge. “That doesn’t make any sense,” she said, pushing the door harder. “I’ve done this a hundred times. Tension. Tumblers. Twist. Click. I could do it in my sleep.”

“Gabby?”

“Sssh! Maybe I didn’t get all the tumblers or something.”

“Gabby!”

“What!”

Patrick pointed to a small sign above the doorknob reading Pull to Open. She cringed and pulled, the door moving smoothly toward her.

“Shut up,” she said with a smirk. “We will not speak of this, do you hear me?”

“You may not speak of it, but I’ll be telling everyone.”

“Really? From prison? Because that’s the only place where breaking and entering can be funny.”

“Oh, right. Still, maybe you should leave the doors to me in the future. Just in case,” he said, holding the door open for her.

“Chivalry. I like it.”

Locking the door behind them, they hurried into Rathe’s office, moonlight shining through the large windows and filling the room with its blue-and-white light.

“Where does he keep his files? Do you know?” Gabby asked while searching his desk.

“No,” he said.

Each drawer contained exactly what one would expect. Pencils. Notepads. Post-it notes. Staples. No files. “Maybe they’re all digital.”

“He doesn’t seem like the digital type, does he?” he asked.

“No, he doesn’t.”

Gabby stood and looked around the room once again. Desk. Two chairs. Ottoman. Windows. Door to lobby. Sparsely decorated bookshelf. No file cabinet.

“I’ll check the reception area,” Patrick said.

Gabby moved through the room, imagining herself as Rathe. He was proper. Deliberate. Tidy. He was professional and aloof, skilled and cold. Like the bookshelf, he was straight lines with little decoration. He was solid, like the dark wood, and he kept his patients far from his real self. He only gave them generic glimpses into the man on the other side of the desk, like the few pictures and knickknacks adorning the shelves.

“There’s nothing out there,” Patrick said. “Find anything?”

“Maybe,” she said. “Look at this bookshelf. Big and empty.”

“I’ve never really thought about it before. But it’s not entirely empty. He’s got a couple of pictures up here. Some vases and stuff.”

“And what does that tell you about him?” she asked.

“Not much.” Patrick picked up the picture of Rathe and his wife. “He’s married.”

“No kid pictures, so they haven’t started a family.” Gabby moved back to the chair behind Rathe’s desk, eyeing the fabric. “No animal hairs, so they don’t have any pets. And when I looked at his calendar earlier—”

“You looked at his calendar?”

“When I was trying to find you. Anyway, he had appointments dating back years. Didn’t look like he ever takes any vacations. His work is his life.”

“He’s a workaholic.”

“Seems that way. How does that affect his marriage? They’re not divorced. He still wears a wedding ring. I noticed it the first time I met him. Something doesn’t fit. His life doesn’t fit.”

Patrick stared at the framed picture, transfixed.

“What’s wrong?” Gabby asked.

“I think I’ve seen her before.”

“Rathe’s wife?”

“Yeah…” His eyes lit up, and he tossed her the picture. “Yes!” he said, digging out his wallet.

“Where?”

Patrick pulled a worn picture out of the plastic cover and pointed to it. “Yes! Here! She’s right here!” He held up a snapshot of Patrick’s father in Afghanistan with his squad. Crouched together in the middle of the desert, they were grimy and sweaty. “Look!”

Gabby scanned the heads of the crinkled picture and spotted a shorter soldier standing in the front. Her helmet was off, and she had dirt smudged across her face. Gabby moved the clipping next to the framed picture and compared their faces.

“They look alike.” She squinted. “It’s not the best picture.”

“I know. My dad gave it to me. Cut it out of a military newspaper or something. But that’s her! She was in my Dad’s squad!”

“Do women serve in combat positions?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Then maybe that’s her. She could still be stationed overseas.”

“She could. Or…”

“Or she died with your dad,” Gabby said. “That makes sense somehow. I mean, look at Rathe’s pictures. They’re all from a few years ago. No new ones. Maybe she and your father died in the same attack. But, if that’s the case, what does that have to do with setting you up?”

“I don’t know.”

“He told me he helped a lot of veterans. Maybe during their therapy, he heard what really happened over there? Maybe he blames your dad for his wife’s death?”

“And he’s punishing me?”

“There’s only one way to find out. We have to read his files.”

“That’s great. If we could find them.”

Gabby stepped back and stared at the bookshelves again, smiling. “Pull to open,” she whispered as she grabbed the edges, pulling it toward her. The unit clicked and swung open on hidden, silent hinges, revealing a series of black metal filing cabinets lined one next to the other.

“Cool,” he said.

Her hand skimmed across the lettered drawers. “Do you know the last names of any of the people in your dad’s squad? The ones you saw at the V.A.?”

“Willie… something. Willie Jones maybe?”

“William Jones? Not the most original name. Maybe we should start with your file. See if he noted any connections there.”

She pulled open the drawer labeled S and searched through the folders, past Maureen and Myra to the one labeled Severson, Patrick.

“Here it is. Do you mind if I take a look?”

“Go ahead. I’ll see if I can find Willie’s file.”

Gabby plopped the thick folder on top of Rathe’s desk and dared to turn on a small lamp. She read. “Patrick Severson, age seventeen, oldest sibling of two children. Mother, Myra, suffering from severe depression and has turned to alcohol to curb her pain. More details in her file. Maureen, his sister, has turned inward, showing neither anger or outrage, sadness or grief. She is a blank slate. More details in her file. As for Patrick, the patient idolized his father and wanted to emulate him, even considering enlisting in the military when he turned eighteen.

“Patient took pride in being the man of the house while his father served overseas and shared his father’s interests in weapons and bomb disposal. Patient has signs of delayed emotional maturity: probable indicators of the absence of his father during formative years. The unexpected death of his father caused debilitating emotional and psychological strain on the patient. His subsequent actions include promiscuous behavior, drug and alcohol abuse, and domestic violence. These are all symptoms indicating stunted grief resolution.

“His deteriorated state was one of the primary factors in the decline of the family unit, as his function as father figure was necessary to keep the core members together. Once he indulged in angry outbursts and self-destructive actions, his mother and sister quickly followed suit. Guilt from their actions also weighs on his fragile state of mind, increasing the pressure on his psyche. If Patrick does not move through the grief process in a healthy way, he could be a danger to himself and others. His growing rage and inability to effectively express this anger could lead to a single, explosive outburst that would more than likely involve violence. His anger, though normal, must subside so he can effectively heal from the loss of his father. Otherwise, it will not be a matter of if he acts out, but when, and how large the collateral damage would be. He is a ticking time bomb. I hope, with further therapy, I will be able to diffuse his anger before it is too late.”

She flipped through the thick number of pages that followed. “He has transcripts of every one of your sessions. He could have easily used these to mimic you online.” The room was silent, and she looked up as police sirens approached.

“Patrick!” Gabby yelled to an empty room, rushing into the lobby, the familiar red and blue police lights flashing outside. “Patrick! Where are you?”

The door burst open, Officer Johnson’s gun drawn.

“Hands where I can see them!” he said.

Gabby raised her hands in the air, staring down the barrel of a gun.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Johnson pressed Gabby’s face hard against the hood of the police cruiser, the metal warm from the running engine. He slapped and clicked the cold handcuffs on her hands, which were pulled behind her back. Once secured, he spun her around, pushing her against the car, the quiet night sky pulsing with flashing lights. The intermittent rhythm of blue and red streaked across his face as if it were showing two sides of the same man, Jekyll and Hyde, good and evil. The sharp edges of the cuffs rubbed against her soft skin, and she felt the same battle waging inside of her. The fight between doing right and doing wrong or, in this case, doing wrong for the right reasons.

She didn’t know where Patrick went or when he left and, after reading his file, was no longer certain of his innocence. Doctor Rathe had told her Patrick was a powder keg, his fuse primed. Rathe’s private notes explained why in great detail. Could Patrick be capable of murder? Could he lie to her face? Could he use her to misdirect the investigation away from him? Could his big, expressive eyes and alluring face be the good hiding evil beneath the surface?

She rubbed her fingers across the outer edge of the cuffs on her wrists. None of the telltale scratches were there, like the ones she put on Emma’s handcuffs to identify them. She took them out of Emma’s purse last year, brought them to the hardware store, and disassembled them. With a good bit of effort, she weakened each of the two frame plates and put the cuffs back together. Now, when she applied pressure at a thirty-degree angle in opposite directions, the cuffs unlocked.

Emma got grounded for a week for losing them and, even though Gabby put them back in her purse, she couldn’t own up to the theft. Otherwise, The Gang would uncover the source of her magic trick. No such luck with Johnson’s handcuffs. No quick escape. These were the real deal, and their contact against her wrists felt like a jail cell closing in around her.

“Am I going to prison?” Gabby asked.

“If it were up to me, you’d be there right now,” Johnson said.

“I love your passion for justice, Officer Johnson. It’s an admirable quality.”

“Stop joking around, Gabby.”

“I’m not. I think, if I had a badge, I’d be a lot like you.”

“You don’t have to worry about that now. After tonight, a career in law enforcement will no longer be an option.”

“Probably for the best,” she said. “I’m more of a shoot first, ask questions later kind of gal. Kinda like you. So, what’s the big delay? Calling my dad? Or do you just want to wait a few more hours until the sun comes up and you and I can be part of the Independence Day parade? Wouldn’t that be ironic?”

“I called the sheriff. He’s on his way. He told me to wait for him here.”

“Great. That’s going to be a pleasant conversation. I knew this day would come eventually.” She sighed.

“From what I hear, I don’t think much of the town will be all that surprised. You have quite a reputation,” Johnson said. “I’m guessing most of ‘em were thinking it was just a matter of time.”

“Including me,” she said.

“So what were you doing in there?” he asked.

She looked at the opened office door and all the secrets awaiting discovery inside, deciding to keep her motives one of them. “I plead the fifth.”

“I guess I’d do the same if I were in your shoes.” Johnson leaned against the hood next to Gabby and crossed his arms, looking down toward the gazebo.

“So what do you think your friends will say about all this?” he asked.

“They’ll say you were doing your job. Although, pulling a gun on me may have been a bit excessive.”

“You never know what’s on the other side of the door. Couldn’t take the chance. It’s life or death on the streets.”

Gabby shot him a skeptical stare. “Even in Safety Harbor?”

“You’d be surprised what sort of criminal element I run across on a daily basis.”

“Like perky high school students pulling a prank?”

“If only every crime were that easy.”

“Well, thanks for not shooting me in the head.”

“No problem,” Johnson said. “I’m guessing I should tell the Mrs. the cookies are a no go then?”

“Who knows? If I get house arrest or parole, I’ll have nothing but time to play around in the kitchen.”

Johnson’s spirits lifted. “Well, that’s not so bad, is it?”

A growling Jaguar sped into the parking lot, and a disheveled Rathe hurried up to the cruiser. Even pulled from his sleep and forced out of bed in the middle of the night, Rathe maintained an air of composure and control.

“I got a call from my alarm company,” Rathe said. “Is this the thief?”

“Seems that way,” Johnson said.

“Gabby?” Rathe scowled with confusion. “Is that you?”

“Morning, Doc,” she said.

“What were you doing breaking into my office?”

“It’s not something I can talk about without some sort of representation.”

“She’s taking the fifth, Doctor Rathe,” Johnson said.

Rathe approached her and pulled her aside. He whispered, “If you needed more information, why didn’t you come to me, Gabby, like you did before? Why break into my office?”

“Because what I was looking for wasn’t about Patrick.”

“Another patient?”

“Nope. I was looking for info about you.”

“Me?”

“And your wife.”

Rathe’s eyes widened. For a split second, Gabby could see a crack in his self-control.

“My… my wife?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting…” he mumbled. “Officer Johnson, would you mind removing those handcuffs?”

“Not without the sheriff’s okay,” Johnson said.

“Please,” he said. “I’ll take full responsibility. I’d like to have a conversation with Ms. Wells alone. She can consider it a therapy session, protected by doctor-client privilege.”

“No can do, Doctor Rathe,” Johnson said. “That there is a crime scene.”

“Did you steal anything, Gabby?” Rathe asked.

“No,” she said.

“Good enough for me,” Rathe said. “Officer Johnson, you caught her in the act. My decorations carry no financial value, so there should be nothing more to add to the charges. Please. You can tell the sheriff I insisted upon it.”

“If I get in trouble for this, Doctor Rathe, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“You won’t,” Rathe said.

Gabby turned around, facing her cuffed hands toward Johnson.

“No one leaves the office. Understood?” Johnson said.

“Of course,” Rathe agreed, and Johnson slid the cuffs off Gabby. As she rubbed her wrists, Rathe escorted her back into the office and closed the door behind her.

“So, what do you want to talk about, Doc?” she asked, sitting on the ottoman once again. “My childhood? Loss of my mother? My grieving process?”

Rathe sat at his desk and retrieved a new notebook from its drawers. “That’s a start.”

“Well, let’s see. Childhood sucked. Mom died. Dad did the best he could, which was pretty damn awesome. Father Peters helped me not want to take my anger out on the world. So, I’m good. I’ve moved into the acceptance phase of the grieving process, Doc. I’ve accepted that life sucks most of the time. That I’m broken and will never be fixed. And that God gave me certain talents that I try to use to help people. As you can see by our little meeting tonight, not always with great success.”

“Curious. Why? Why do you feel the need to help people?”

“Because God wouldn’t make me this way and not do something good with it. I don’t want to die and him look at me like you are right now and go, “Really? You were just a selfish ass? That’s what you learned while you were down there?”

“Hmmmm. Interesting…” Rathe said, his pen scrawling in the notebook.

“You know what I think is interesting? I think it’s interesting that your wife served with Patrick’s father.”

Rathe looked up from the notebook.

“Not only that, I think she died with him,” Gabby said. “And I think it pissed you off. I think you haven’t taken a day off since her death, burying yourself in your work. I think you’ve never healed from it, Doc. I think you’re stuck in the angry phase, like Patrick, and I think you’re using your inside knowledge of Patrick to set him up so you could do something horrible.”

Rathe stared at her with cold eyes and used a single finger to flip his notebook closed.

“Not going to document this part of the conversation, Doc?” she asked.

“You have a very active imagination, Gabby. It’s common with children of loss. It’s probably one of the reasons you are so good at what you do. You see connections to things that others don’t. Sometimes, you’re right.”

“What about now?”

“And sometimes, you’re wrong.”

“Are you sure? Sometimes people lie to me, Doc. Right to my face.”

“Like Patrick?” he asked.

“Or you.”

Rathe rose and walked around his desk and leaned back, his hands crossed at the waist. “Yes, Gabby, my wife died that day. Patrick found out the details the same way I did, from surviving veterans. They were on a mission in the mountains of Afghanistan, and my wife was one of the first women to participate in a combat mission on the front lines. She was quite excited about that. She grew up an Army brat. She was always striving for approval from her demanding father. They were textbook emotional drivers, really.

“In any event, her squad was pursuing a group of terrorists that had just massacred a police station full of officers, dressed as one of them. On their way out of town, they destroyed a small school for girls and killed all the teachers and students. These were evil men. Her team was hunting them through the mountains until they reached a narrow pass. Their commander, Colonel Avery Lindscomb, pushed them forward, against the objections of his squad. You see, Patrick’s father had narrowly escaped a similar situation in the past. He was the most vocal in opposition, but Colonel Lindscomb ignored his concerns and marched them directly into an ambush. Surrounded, bullets and RPGs flew around them like blood-hungry mosquitos, as one survivor called it. Lindscomb called for air support as they retreated, but was unable to move out of range. He refused to call it off and American-made missiles rained down on them, enemy and U.S. soldiers alike. The team was able to make it to a large rock formation that shielded them from most of the firepower. But a terrorist in the hills shot a rocket-propelled grenade, and Patrick’s father pushed the colonel out of the way, taking the brunt of the explosion. My wife took the rest. Their bodies were blown into pieces, spraying their comrades with flesh and bone. With their blood and brains. The battle waged on for another two hours while our soldiers remained pinned down behind the rock formation, my wife’s mangled body rotting in front of them and the hounds of hell running rampant, as another soldier put it. It was only at nightfall when the remaining men were able to use their night vision to blaze a path back out of the mountain and to safety.”

“That’s horrible,” Gabby said. “I’m so sorry.”

“To my surprise, Colonel Lindscomb was considered a hero for leading his squad out of the skirmish with… oh, how did the official report read? With minimal and acceptable casualties. That’s it. They were acceptable casualties caused by a commander who put his team in unnecessary danger. And he was given a medal. Politics, you see, had corrupted the war. Their efforts were growing stagnate, and the powers that be needed a war hero to raise the spirits of the troops and calm the growing discontent at home. So, my wife’s death, Patrick’s father’s sacrifice, was an acceptable loss for them. A human life, my loving wife, a woman who simply wanted to make her father proud, became a debit on someone’s spreadsheet. A number that was weighed, counted, and found inconsequential.”

“I can’t imagine how difficult it was to hear that, Doctor Rathe.”

“It was horrible. The story of her death was difficult to uncover. It took a long time, many sessions of pushing and prodding and forcing heroic men to relive one of the worst days of their lives, just so I could find answers.”

“Did it help?” Gabby asked. “Did finding the answers change anything?”

“Not really,” he said. “Not as much as I had hoped. When I went home, the house was still empty.”

“It must have made you mad, though, right? The truth?”

Rathe walked over to the opened bookcase and stared at the rows of filing cabinets. “Every one of those files is someone’s life. Their suffering. Their fears. Their unmet needs. I spend my days listening to damaged lives broken by selfish acts and weak people. For most of them, they are beyond repair. I may be able to mend them to a workable state, but rarely much more. My life’s work is replete with unfinished business, with people unskilled in happiness and fulfillment. They don’t know how to succeed and are incapable of learning, too far astray to find their way back, no matter how clear the path. I come in here every day hoping, just once, I can truly fix one of them, to find closure, to free them from their pain. It’s a fool’s errand. They are unfixable.”

“Unanswered questions. Unfinished work. That’s gotta be frustrating. It’d be nice to bring closure to your life, wouldn’t it, Doc?”

“Yes, Gabby, it would.”

“Justice.”

“Ideally, yes.”

“But you can’t get that here, in this office. You’d have to do something more. Something daring. Bold. Epic. That’s why you started planting seeds online about Patrick, didn’t you? Because you want the world to feel your pain. You want your wife’s number to matter. You want your loss to be theirs.”

Rathe stared at Gabby with emotionless eyes, unmoved, like one of the lives stuffed in his filing cabinets, broken beyond repair.

“You wanted to misdirect the police long enough so you could make your plan come to pass,” she said. “Isn’t that right, Doctor Rathe?”

She watched him, studied him, looking for indications as to whether her guesses were true, for all she had were guesses. She pushed as hard as she could, hoping the pressure would show his weakness, expose a fissure in his psyche, but he remained stone faced.

“You have a great imagination, Gabby,” he said. “It is quite vivid.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Patrick was here, wasn’t he?” he asked.

“Do you see him here?” Gabby said.

“That is not an answer either. Let me ask you this, Gabby. What is more likely? That Patrick is doing what I told you he may do, or that I did it as some grand conspiracy to frame him?”

“Well, Doc, I haven’t been around that long, but I’ve learned that what is likely sometimes doesn’t have much to do with the truth.”

Rathe approached her and leaned down to whisper in her ear. “If I were doing what you say, why on earth would I tell a child like you?” He straightened and smiled at her for the first time, yet his eyes remained neutral, telling her nothing. “Officer Jones, I would like to press charges now!”

Gabby looked at her wrists, streaks of red still visible from Johnson’s handcuffs. “I’m glad we could have this talk, Doc,” she said, oozing with sarcasm.

“It was quite insightful,” he said.

She rose and moved her face near his. “But there is one more thing. If I’m going to get arrested for breaking and entering, shouldn’t it include a little breaking?”

She lifted up a chair and slammed it into the window, shards of glass spinning through the air. By the time the pieces landed at Rathe’s feet, Gabby was gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The flight-or-fright instinct was a powerful force, unexpected in its potency. Gabby was running for her life, sprinting down dark alleys, through yards and behind businesses, as if Satan himself were on her tail. Her mind was reeling from the ripple effect of her escape, having just made her legal troubles substantially worse. She could have waited to talk to Sheriff Durant. She trusted him. He would have done the right thing. But the feeling of those handcuffs on her wrist scared her. It was the impending fulfillment of her worse nightmare, being driven to prison in the back of a police cruiser. It overwhelmed her with panic. She couldn’t take the chance she’d be in a cell at the police station while Rathe or Patrick killed at will. She had full faith in the sheriff’s abilities to do his job, but she couldn’t sit by and hope for the best. She had to do something.

Right about now, the police were probably waking up her dad from a much-needed sleep to hear his problematic daughter was on the lam for committing a felony. He’d be worried. He’d be furious. There was no amount of meals, laundry, or work at the store that could make up for the pain she was causing him. What she was doing was selfish and, in most eyes, inexcusable.

She tried to push those thoughts from her mind to focus on the immediate task at hand, finding a hiding spot. Winded, she stopped and hid behind a large oak tree near the library, trying to catch her breath. The ancient tree dated back almost five hundred years, with expansive, thick branches that reached out like long, muscular arms. As a child, Gabby used to climb it and imagined herself as a lookout on a pirate ship trolling the local waters. From the upper branches, the winds coming off the water would sway the majestic oak back and forth, as if the tree itself were breathing. She would lay her head against its wrinkled bark, wondering how many other children had climbed up its trunk and out onto its wide canopy.

With her lungs heaving and the excitement from her escape beginning to wear off, Gabby needed somewhere to hide, somewhere the police, or her father, would rarely look. As her mind skipped through one option after another, the wind weaved through the leaves above her, the branches waving her to join them.

“Okay, big oak, I’m coming,” she said. “I’m not a little girl anymore, so be nice to me.”

Placing her foot onto a round knot near the base, she pushed herself up the trunk, climbing to where the tree split into a Y and from which all the branches spread out and up. She was a lot bigger since the last time she shimmied her way up the ever-thinning limbs, and they groaned with each foot and hand that brought her to the top. Even though her body was larger than the last time she rested in these branches, she was able to squeeze into a crooked, L-shaped wedge. She removed her hat and let the bay breeze flow through her hair, the cool, humid air a welcomed relief.

With tentative hands, Gabby turned on her phone to find over twenty text messages from friends and a few angry voicemails from her father and Sheriff Durant. She was so screwed. She sent a group text to The Gang and her father with but a few words: I’M SAFE. I’M OKAY. I’LL EXPLAIN LATER. PLEASE TRUST ME. She powered down her phone and removed the battery. That way the police couldn’t track her location. She knew her short message wouldn’t quell the worried grumblings of her father and friends, but it was all she could tell them for now.

Having run on intuition and adrenaline all day long, her tanks had finally reached empty. She couldn’t remember the last time she ate a full meal, and her body was overcome with exhaustion. Nestled into the wooden arms of the big oak, Gabby tilted her fedora over her eyes and laid her head back, contemplating what her next move should be.

Within moments, her mind began to float. She found herself standing at the train tracks, the sky a bright white with an ethereal glow hovering overhead and the music from an ice cream truck playing in the distance. Blood covered the ground and Regina stood in the middle of the tracks, her clothes saturated. She was trying to speak, but her voice remained mute. Only the growing sound of a ticking clock filled the air, each second louder and louder until Gabby’s ears felt as though they were about to burst. Regina, too, covered her ears, which oozed blood down her cheeks, and she looked at Gabby with saddened eyes and screamed. From the clouds above, she could hear Regina’s voice echo, “Save my girl!”

Gabby jolted awake, nearly tumbling to the ground. She grasped onto the nearby branches and rebalanced herself atop the large oak. Her heart’s frantic pounding began to slow as the vivid dream diffused. The clouded vision of Regina’s plea dissolved into a disjointed thought escaping her memory. Unable to recall her dream didn’t alter its affect, an urgency that would not leave her.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed; she just knew it wasn’t long enough. Her muscles ached from her awkward position and she leaned forward to stretch, drawn to a commotion a few blocks away. The sun would be rising over the marina soon, and Gabby spotted city workers already setting up for the day’s events. Floats started to line up off Main Street, and workers began assembling canopies for local businesses to sell their wares. Burly men constructed stages for entertainment, while attendees waited for the sun to peek over the horizon so flags could be raised.

The Fourth of July celebration was one of the biggest events in this small town. Festivities started at sunrise and ended after sunset with an impressive fireworks display shot over the bay. Most every resident of Safety Harbor would be in attendance as well as hundreds of others from neighboring cities.

It was the perfect place to do something terrifying.

As she watched the people scurry about below her, she wondered how God could look down on the events that were about to occur and remain so passive. Nice people were in danger from someone who didn’t love them as God did. Their murder would simply be an expression of their sick rage. Like with Regina’s death a month earlier and her mother’s death years before that, surely God could step in and do something. He could swoop down with a legion of angels and shield those victims from harm, flex a few of those divine muscles.

The tree bowed forward by a strong gust, nearly knocking Gabby from her perch, and she could sense something, an answer that made no sense.

“No…” Gabby said. “That can’t be right, God.”

Another gust shuffled her forward, her hands gripping onto the sharp bark.

“You’ve got the wrong girl.”

A wind encircled the large oak. It spun up from the bottom, bending branches like creaking elderly bones. Leaves fluttered in her face and her hat tossed from her head, bouncing limb from limb down to the ground.

“You knocked off my hat, Jesus. That’s not fair. You know how I feel about my hat. Of course, you do. You’re God.”

She stared through the interweaving tree limbs to her hat sitting perfectly on the ground, upside down, keeping the brim from warping.

“They’ll find me up here if I don’t get my fedora. But you knew that, didn’t you?”

Gabby maneuvered from the thin, swaying branches to the thicker, solid ones. On her way down the tree, she remained tentative, having forgotten how much easier it was to climb up than descend. Midway down, the sound of slamming car doors stopped her in her tracks. She pushed aside finger branches sprouting dark green leaves and saw Melanie and her family through the foliage.

Even at sunrise, Melanie looked perfect. It was astounding and completely unfair. The golden morning sun danced off her shiny, straight hair, giving her an angelic glow, and her face, with little-to-no makeup, still bordered on stunning. Her older brother, Jonny Collins, exited the Mercedes wearing a suit with a University of Oregon lapel pin. Cute, but not handsome, Jonny was a troublemaker before he went away to college. The only thing she remembered hearing about Jonny were the warnings from her father to stay away from him. Ed Jr. was the spitting image of his namesake, the mayor, and was equally sharp and smooth, brandishing a mischievous smile whenever he flirted. Like his brother Jonny, anxious to wipe the town’s dust from his feet, Ed Jr. went to the farthest school that would accept him, San Diego University. He offered his hand to his mother as she exited the car wearing a stylish, hunter-green dress. Fashion was never at the top of Gabby’s list, but she marveled at how Jean presented herself. The last, and loudest, to exit the car was the mayor himself. Gabby could vaguely remember his cheesy commercials on television. He’d sport a smarmy smile, slicked-back hair, and pitched his lawyer services for those unfortunate car accident victims looking for a quick and easy payout. Amazing what a few years and some big courtroom wins had done for him and his family. Now, he was the king in Gabby’s small kingdom, living a life of which most people could only dream.

Standing in front of their elite auto, dressed to the nines, they looked like Safety Harbor royalty. Power, money, looks, and ambition. They were the top of the town food chain and, having it all, looking down on the rest of the townsfolk, Gabby couldn’t help but wonder why Melanie was suddenly interested in Scott. When he and Gabby first met in middle school, no one gave him a second look. His face was oily and dotted with pimples, his nose was too big, and his sneakers smelled like rotting flesh. He was seven inches shorter and a little pudgy with dirty blonde hair that refused to be brushed.

If Melanie were someone of substance, she would have asked about Scott back then. Sure, it was easy to find him attractive now. Everyone did. It was a no-brainer. It made Gabby suspicious. Was Melanie’s interest a hormonal play for the school’s up-and-coming superstar or was it something real and sincere? Gabby couldn’t let her guard down. Melanie was the type of vixen that could corrupt an honest boy like Scott. Gabby wasn’t going to let a thin waist, alluring eyes, or full lips pull one of her best friends into a fiery pit. If Melanie really wanted to go out with Scott, she’d have to go through Gabby first.

The mayor grumbled about the early hour as he led the family down Main Street. They headed toward the center of the blocked-off parade route, and Gabby waited a few silent moments to continue her descent.

As she watched them walk away, Gabby realized she could never dress like Melanie. None of her shoes were good for climbing trees or running from the police.

The leaves flurried with another breeze and they shimmered red and blue. Police lights approached the massive oak, and Officer Johnson parked his car under its morning shade. Gabby eyed him as his front tire grazed her fedora as it came to a stop.

God had a funny sense of humor. Gabby struggled to muster a laugh.

Johnson exited his car to engage in a long and intense stretch, his face contorted with a yawn that made him look as if gravity were pulling it in opposite directions. Gabby watched him step forward, his polished shoes butting up against her hat. She would have been nabbed if not for his eyes cast elsewhere. She followed his gaze across the street where she spotted Melanie running back to the Mercedes.

Enthralled by her natural beauty, Johnson stepped forward, over Gabby’s hat, and crossed the street.

“Typical,” Gabby muttered to herself.

Then she fell out of the tree.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Gabby landed next to the tree with a loud thump, her ribs punched by protruding roots, the air wrenched from her body. She lay there, unable to breathe, her lungs on fire.

“What was that?” Johnson said, turning around.

Gabby wanted to scream in agony, but she couldn’t. She rolled onto her side and gasped until air reentered her lungs like a vacuum. Fighting the urge to run, she pressed her hands against the crispy, dead leaves surrounding the trunk and pushed herself to her feet, hiding behind the tree’s round base. She peered around the edge, through leaves sprouting from a lower branch, and saw Johnson looking back toward his cruiser as Melanie trotted up next to him. Johnson glanced at Melanie, and his look lingered long enough for Gabby to hide in the only place she knew he’d never look.

“Did you hear that?” he asked.

“Yes. I think it came from over by that big tree,” Melanie said.

“It was loud.”

“You think it was an animal?”

“Maybe. Or it could be Gabby,” he said.

“Gabby Wells?”

“Yeah. She’s on the run. Escaped from a B and E.”

“A what?” Melanie asked.

“Breaking and entering. Some psychologist’s office on Main. Trashed a window and ran away.”

“And you think she hid in a tree?”

“With her, you never know,” he said.

“That doesn’t sound like Gabby.”

“Then you don’t know her too well.”

“I don’t, but I’ve heard she’s done some nice things for people.”

“Nice? Maybe. Illegal? Probably. The entire department is looking for her, but, with the Fourth of July events today, and reports of some potential threats, we’ll be spread pretty thin.” Johnson unholstered his gun and gripped it with both hands. “You’d better get behind me.”

Melanie did as he instructed, and they crept toward the tree. “Is the gun necessary?”

“Don’t know. Better safe than sorry.”

Gabby looked on, irritated by Johnson’s obvious show of force for Melanie’s benefit. The man was married with a baby on the way. Impressing a high school freshman, albeit a beautiful one, was kind of creepy. Gabby had already stared down his gun once today; she didn’t want to do it again. She shifted to hide from view and raised her hand to her head, reaching for her hat. Her hat! It was still outside by the front tire. She shot up. Her eyes met Melanie’s.

They both froze.

Revealing her hiding spot, she cowered in the backseat of Johnson’s police cruiser. With every ounce of body language she could muster, Gabby pleaded with Melanie to remain quiet, her eyes expressing a fear few had ever seen before. Melanie stared, standing like a conflicted statue, her eyes darting between Johnson and Gabby.

“Is everything all right?” Johnson asked.

“What? Yes,” Melanie said. “Um, so, um, what does B and E stand for again?”

“Breaking and entering. In other words, entering a property illegally. It can be either a misdemeanor or a felony, depending on the severity. In Gabby’s case…”

As Johnson expounded on his full knowledge of criminal law, Gabby motioned to Melanie, pointing to her hat on the ground.

Melanie tilted her head and sighed in exasperation. “Are you serious?” she asked out loud, immediately covering her mouth with her hand.

“Yes, very,” Johnson said, unaware. “So you can see why we have to take these things so seriously. Officers are trained to be aware at all times, prepared to take action at a moment’s notice. One mistake and we’re dead. Our lives are on the line every day.”

Johnson yammered on for so long that Gabby could have been in another state by now.

Melanie grabbed his arm and directed him toward the other side of the tree. “We are so lucky to have you on the force, Officer. I’m sure my father, the mayor, is happy to know we have people of your quality protecting us.”

“It’s a pleasure to serve.”

Gabby wanted to vomit from Johnson’s self-aggrandizing. And from what Sheriff Durant had told her earlier, it wouldn’t be the first time the plastic seats had suffered the indignity of being puked on. Gabby never had a conversation with Melanie, except the one by the pool where she threatened her to her face, so she wasn’t sure why she was being so helpful. Considering the circumstances, she didn’t have time to care. Gabby strained her neck to peek out of the window, spotting Melanie leading Johnson toward the library until the tree blocked their view of the cruiser. With the coast clear, Gabby reached for the door handle just as the radio in the car squawked. “Johnson, what’s your ten-thirteen?”

Gabby gasped and squirmed down onto the floor of the backseat, the carpet damp with unknown moisture. She tried to contain her involuntary gag reflex, fighting back the pungent odor soaked into the fabric.

Johnson poked his head around the tree and hurried up to his car, Melanie rushing up behind him. He opened up the door and plopped into his seat, bouncing the car.

“This is Johnson.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m near the library.”

“The guest of honor is in play,” the voice on the radio said. “Have you secured the parade route?”

He looked up into the tree branches. “Yeah. It’s clear.”

“The sheriff wants you stationed at the marina. By the docks.”

“Understood. I’ll be there in ten.”

Melanie leaned against the opened door, kicking the hat under the car. “The guest of honor is here already?” she asked.

“It looks like it.”

“That’s so exciting! My dad is presenting Colonel Lindscomb with a key to the city for his bravery in Afghanistan,” she said. “After the fireworks, he and his wife, I think her name is Deborah, are coming over to our house for dinner. I can’t wait. I’ve never met a real war hero before.”

“I wanted to serve overseas, but I felt my duty was to the people of Safety Harbor.”

“That’s very honorable, Officer Johnson.”

“It’s a calling. Like the priesthood.”

Gabby rolled her eyes, struggling to contain her urge to punch Johnson in the mouth to keep him from spewing any more bull.

“It must be so cool to have a police car as your office.”

Melanie opened up the back door, pressing her body against the window, blocking Johnson’s view as Gabby squeezed by her leg and out onto the ground.

“This is where the bad guys go?” she asked. “On these strange-looking seats?”

“Yes, ma’am. Dangerous men. And even some women.”

“Wow. That’s so perilous. Exciting,” Melanie said. Gabby scooted on the ground and behind the cruiser before Melanie closed the car door. “I guess I’m getting to meet two heroes today.”

“I’m no hero, Ms. Collins,” Johnson said. “Just doing my job.”

“Thank you for your service.”

“My pleasure,” he said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to secure the marina.”

“Good luck,” Melanie said.

With a nod, Johnson put the car in gear and sped off, its tires spraying dirt and leaves onto Gabby as he left. The front wheel spun and crushed her fedora, leaving its misshapen form damaged in the exhaust smoke. Gabby stood and wiped off the grime from her face as Melanie tossed her the crumpled hat.

“He ran over my hat!” Gabby said, smoothing out the bent edges and popping the center back into shape.

“Sorry,” Melanie said.

“That’s okay. Thanks for helping me.”

“What’s going on, Gabby?” Melanie asked. “Are the police really after you?”

“I can explain that later. Did you say Colonel Lindscomb is going to be here?”

“Yes.”

“Avery Lindscomb?”

“Yes. He’s our guest of honor. He’ll be on the Freedom Float with the master of ceremonies.”

“In front of everybody?” Gabby asked.

“It’s a parade. Of course, it will be in front of everybody.”

“Do you know where the sheriff is?”

“No.”

“Which one is the Freedom Float?”

“The one with the miniature version of Mount Rushmore. Gabby, what’s going on?”

“I’ll explain later. Look, I know you’ve already done too much for me, aiding and abetting a felon—”

“What? You’re really a felon?” Melanie asked.

“Maybe. But, I need you to do me one more favor. Do you know Hamilton Rogers?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“I left him at my dad’s hardware store. Can you find him and let him know where I’ll be?”

“Where’s that?”

“Hiding with the presidents.”

Gabby rushed off before Melanie could ask any more questions. She didn’t want to get her into trouble. Gabby had to inform the sheriff about Lindscomb, but not directly. She couldn’t risk him being a cop more than a friend. She knew her arrest was imminent, but she wasn’t going to give up until the colonel was safe.

City workers were finishing putting up roadblocks down either side of Main Street and parade goers were already vying for the best seats. Gabby sprinted across the road. She could see a large set of stands set up in front of City Hall where Mayor Collins and other local dignitaries would preside over the festivities. A few officers were chatting with the Collins family, and Gabby was able to move to the beginning of the parade route unnoticed. She ducked behind a flock of strings tethered to a collection of red, white, and blue balloons attached to a rolling pretzel cart.

The floats were lined up in a row down a side street, waiting for the start of the parade. The middle of the twenty floats showcased a three-foot high papier-mâché recreation of Mount Rushmore, in front of which sat three chairs surrounded by a small railing. Gabby stared at the modest moldings of the former presidents and, for the first time today, was completely unsure of what to do.

On one of those seats was going to be Colonel Lindscomb, more than likely the key target of someone’s thirst for revenge, and she wasn’t sure how to stop it. The police could dismiss her, ignore her, or, if she were lucky, even believe her. The odds were two out of three against her. She couldn’t risk it. She knew Durant was on the lookout for Patrick, who may very well be the killer, but the scope and focus had changed since she talked to him this morning. If she could get word to him without doing it face-to-face, maybe he could get Lindscomb to safety. She risked reinserting her battery into her phone and quickly texted Durant. PROTECT LINDSCOMB. With equal speed, she removed her battery and slid the phone back into her pocket, compelled to remain close to the colonel, to stay near the action. That was the only way she could make sure things didn’t go haywire without her. And, for a reason she had yet to decipher, it seemed as if God wanted her involved.

She slalomed through the floats, avoiding residents and float riders, and crouched down behind the mini monument on wheels. Spying a crack in the back of the papier-mâché, she gently pulled it open, creating just enough room to crawl inside, and then pressed the opening closed. Underneath the hollow sculpture, the air was filled with fumes from glue and rubber cement. Within moments, Gabby’s mind started to get loopy. She wouldn’t be effective if she were unconscious or high. She maneuvered in the cramped quarters and lay down on the plywood floor, resting her mouth near the crack and breathing in the morning air.

She peered out the small split in the papier-mâché and looked for Durant. Being on the run from the police left her few options, and he was the only person on the force she trusted. Hopefully, he had received her text and didn’t doubt its authenticity. Lindscomb’s life may very well depend on it.

With every inch the sun rose in the eastern sky, the heat inside the float increased exponentially. Gabby removed her hat and lay against the plywood floor, waving her fedora in front of her, but it did little to allay the oppressive heat. Instead, it merely pushed the fumes around, swirling the toxic concoction across her face.

A few sweltering minutes later, the trailer creaked and Gabby’s head shot up, the plywood under her saturated with a wet outline. The marching band in front of the float started to play and the anxious holiday crowd was in full swing. She could hear vendors starting to sell their wares and patriotic music started to play over loud speakers. Down by the marina and pier, a local rock band was warming up and, from the screams of excited children, she knew the parade had officially begun. Motors whirred, and the floats at the beginning of the line headed out onto Main Street.

There was no turning back.

Moments later, the trailer shocks squeaked with the weight of riders climbing onto the front.

“Right up here, Colonel,” Melanie’s voice said.

Gabby spun around and put her ear against the front molding, looking for holes or cracks through which she could see. A wooden thud accompanied each of Lindscomb’s steps. Was he wounded in action? Was he using a cane?

As another person joined Lindscomb, the trailer shifted

“Mrs. Lindscomb…”

“You can call me Deborah,” she said.

“Sorry. Deborah, you sit next to your husband,” Melanie said.

They settled into their chairs and, over the marching band, Gabby could hear the mumblings of a conversation between Lindscomb and his wife. This was her chance. This was the opportunity Gabby had been waiting for.

“Colonel! Colonel Lindscomb! Your life is in danger!” She pressed her ear against the papier-mâché and listened. No response. “Colonel Lindscomb!” Gabby yelled.

The music swelled outside, horns and drums rumbling over her screams. The trailer bent again with the weight of another person climbing aboard. Gabby pressed her ear against the interior wall and heard a voice that sent shivers down her spine.

“Colonel and Mrs. Lindscomb. I’m Doctor Simon Rathe, master of ceremonies…”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The float rocked forward onto the parade route as the marching band played a boisterous patriotic tune. Gabby tumbled against the back of the faux stone wall, nearly falling out. The noise and excitement from the crowd had drowned out all of her attempts to warn Lindscomb and his wife. She had to see what was going on. She steadied herself and crawled up to the front, pulling out the bobby pins from under her hat, and scooted to the far left, feeling for the imprint of Lincoln’s face. Her fingers traveled across the thick paper and glue reinforced with fiberglass until she located what appeared to be Lincoln’s left eye. She began to dig through the plastic and paper, carving out a small hole, pulling away particles of adhesive.

Sweat dripped across her eyebrows and into her eyes. The salty water burned her vision as she dug out a small portion of the wall at a time. With the float in motion, the situation was literally fluid and she was blind to whatever was going on out there. She used her sleeve to dry her forehead, dirt and sweat streaked across her shirt, and continued to dig until a small shaft of sunlight pierced the dark. She wedged the bobby pins into the hole and chipped away at the edges, making the opening widen centimeter by centimeter.

Hey God, you know what’d come in handy right about now? she prayed. Car keys. Or a knife. Or a saw blade. Or a bullhorn. Or telepathy. But she was left with only two small, bent bobby pins to push and pry through inches of adhesive. Feeling the material surrounding the hole was about to give way, Gabby pressed both pins against the edge. Clutching them with raw fingers, she leaned her body against her hand, until the small section gave way, allowing the pins to fly through the hole and land next to Lindscomb’s cane.

Gabby leaned forward and placed her eye at the hole. Rathe was closest to her, immediately to her left. She couldn’t risk shouting now. Next to him, in the middle seat, was a fully dressed Colonel Lindscomb waving to the residents, his chest displaying his ribbons and medals. To his right was Lindscomb’s wife, Deborah, offering an uncomfortable wave to the passing crowds. Gabby couldn’t make out her features, other than she had short, black hair. Lindscomb was thicker than Gabby expected, his uniform tight against his wide, strong back, his head donning his spotless hat. He sat upright, with no slouching. His right hand rested on his cane and he used his left hand to wave, sporting his gold wedding band.

Rathe waved and occasionally spoke into Lindscomb’s ear, but Gabby couldn’t hear what they were saying above the marching band. Between songs, she could catch bits and pieces, Rathe mentioning something about bravery, sacrifice, and duty. But nothing more, nothing indicating if he was seeking revenge against Rathe or if Patrick was truly the sole assassin looking for his opportunity to strike.

Lindscomb used his cane to steady his weakened leg and pushed against the handrail to stand, his polished shoes facing the crowd. Gabby could only see him whip his right hand to his face, most likely in a salute. Past him, she saw the parade watchers waving and a line of active military, as well as veterans, lined up, all at attention. In unison, they saluted the colonel. Gabby placed her hands on either side of the hole and pressed her face closer, trying to get a better view. Her eyes widened upon spotting Patrick standing at the end of the line, in the second row. He was dressed in his father’s uniform, standing at attention, saluting. She spotted his Beretta in a holster on his belt.

It was Patrick after all!

Her heart sank, and her stomach turned. He lied to her face, and she believed him. She opened up to him. She even started liking him. She committed a felony for him. And now that liar was going to kill. He’d get close to Lindscomb and take out his revenge for the death of this father. He’d put his Beretta against the colonel’s temple, pull the trigger, and then unleash his remaining revenge on anyone else around him. But why not kill Lindscomb now? He could shoot him and disappear into the crowd with the rest of the soldiers to hide his escape. It wouldn’t be that hard.

Unless he had something else in mind. Something more devastating.

Lindscomb returned to his seat. He continued to wave as the float passed Mayor Collins and his family, other city officials, as well as Sheriff Durant, who kept his keen eye on the colonel.

The float continued down the remainder of the parade route where Gabby could see a police officer or a local off-duty cop stationed every two blocks, providing protection. It looked like Durant had taken Gabby’s warning seriously and brought in extra help. The float came to a sudden stop and Gabby landed hard against the wall, then fell back, striking her head on the plywood. Rathe escorted Lindscomb and Deborah off the float, the trailer shifting side to side. Gabby slid up to the crack in the rear of the monument and pressed it aside, watching as parade organizers directed the remaining floats to their final destination.

She couldn’t tell if the coast was clear or not, but she was afraid to wait any longer. She needed to keep Lindscomb in her sight, if possible. As she began to extricate herself from the back of the Mount Rushmore float, she saw Hamilton bobbing and weaving through the people lining the street.

“Hamilton!” Gabby said, waving him over.

“Gabby!” Hamilton said. “Melanie told me I’d find you here. I didn’t believe her at the time. I mean, who would believe you were hiding in a monument?”

“It’s a long story,” she said.

“What’s going on? The cops came by the hardware store. They questioned me for hours, asking me why I was there.”

“What did you tell them?” she asked.

“I told them you wanted me to help with computer problems you were having.”

“Did they buy that?”

“I guess so. They eventually let me go, and your dad kicked me out. He is not happy with you, by the way.”

“I know.”

“He told me to tell you to come to the store right away. He’ll be waiting for you.”

“He’s staying at the store? Good. Hopefully, he’ll be safe there. What did you find out?”

“You were right. Someone did buy material from a number of different stores in the area.”

“To make what?” she asked.

“A homemade bomb.”

“Were you able to find out who?”

“Yes. Patrick Severson.”

Gabby looked to the ground, wrapping her hands over her head. Her worst fears were validated.

“So what do we do?” he asked.

Without saying a word, Gabby ran into the crowd. Hamilton rushed behind her, struggling to keep up as she pushed passed the remnants of the parade watchers and to the crowds moving down toward the marina. She stopped at the top of an embankment looking down over the festivities and Hamilton ran up next to her, out of breath.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Do you see Sheriff Durant?”

“No…”

“What about Colonel Lindscomb? Do you see him?”

“Who is he?”

“The target.” Gabby scanned the area, looking at the large gathering. People packed the marina and pier. Where would he plant a bomb? He could have planted it in any number of locations to achieve maximum effect. A trash can. A sailboat tied up at the dock. The music stage.

“There!” Hamilton said. “There’s the sheriff! With the mayor!” He pointed to Durant walking next to Lindscomb and Deborah. Melanie and the Collins family directed them toward a makeshift stage. Red, white, and blue striped bunting covered the front of the large structure, and the top held a few chairs and a podium with a microphone.

“That’s where the mayor is going to give him the key to the city,” she said.

“Then we have to warn them, right?”

Gabby pulled out her phone, slapped in the battery, and began to dial, but stopped, her face frozen in fear.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Stacy! In the red shirt!”

She pointed to Stacy and Rhonda moving through the crowd past the stage and toward the water’s edge. They smiled and hugged a number of people near the food truck.

“Oh God, no!” Gabby said. “The food truck! The bomb is in the food truck!”

She dialed as she started running down the hill, waving her hands, yelling. “Rhonda! Rhonda! There’s a bomb!”

Gabby placed the phone to her ear as it rolled to voicemail. “No!”

A smiling Stacy looked up to the embankment and waved to Gabby.

Gabby stopped and tried to sign, her frantic hands trying to make sense.

Stacy signed, “I don’t understand,” mirroring the panic on Gabby’s face.

Gabby tried again. “Run! Run! Run! Now!”

Stacy turned and tried to pull Rhonda away from the truck as Gabby continued down the hill, but Officer Johnson stepped in front of her, gun drawn.

“Hold it right there, Wells!” he said.

“Officer Johnson! Thank God! There’s a bomb! In the food truck, there’s a bomb! You have to get everyone out of there!”

“Enough of your crap, Wells. You’re not going to get away from me again,” he said.

She looked past Johnson to Stacy trying to pull away a reluctant Rhonda. Gabby kept signing, “Run! Run now!”

“Stop moving and get on the ground!” Johnson said.

“Please!” Gabby yelled. “Get everyone out of there! A bomb is about to go off! Please! Before it’s too—”

A flash of light. A ball of fire. The sound of an explosion shuddered the ground.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Gabby opened her eyes to see white, puffy clouds coasting carelessly overhead. A butterfly fluttered into view and hovered above her, unaffected by the tragedy unfolding below. Nature had cast an apathetic gaze on Patrick’s handiwork.

A continuous high-pitched ring filled Gabby’s ears with such intensity it felt like an ice pick had been thrust into her skull. She rolled on the ground, the pain throbbing like a jackhammer, and she clutched her ears until it began to subside. Within seconds, the sounds of shouting and crying replaced the pounding.

Gabby bolted up from the ground, her eyes struggling to focus on a screaming horde of victims running away from the blast. They were bloody and burnt. A sickening smell of propane and singed hair, of blood and scorched skin, filled the air.

The moment of the blast, the truck flashed into a sphere of fire and the propane tank pushed its rear high into the air. Flames incinerated bodies and limbs blew apart. In that moment, Gabby could see Stacy, in her red shirt, lift away with the thrust of the blast and fly toward the water.

Gabby looked over to Hamilton, who was stirring awake, and Johnson, whose eyes were fluttering open, relieved they were both alive. Undaunted by the concussive effects of the explosion, Gabby raced down the embankment. Dazed and with unstable legs, she ran, Regina’s dream plea to save her child echoing in her damaged ears. If Stacy had somehow survived the blast, she would not survive the water. She couldn’t swim.

Most people were running away from the burning truck, but Gabby was racing toward it. She fought the onslaught of frightened residents like a salmon swimming upstream. Walls of terrified people slammed against her, tossing and knocking her. She steadied herself just in time for a three-hundred-pound weeping man to knock her to the ground. Sprinting feet trampled her, kicking her head and rib cage. She balled up into a fetal position and covered her head. No matter how many shots they inflicted on her body, she focused on one thing. Stacy. She had to save Stacy.

She heard a teen boy yell as he tripped and landed next to her, the flow of fearful people toppling over him. The mass of victims pressed down on her, squeezing her lungs. Her hands stretched out, clutching the grass and dirt, and she pulled herself from the pile. Staggering to her feet, she took a deep breath, trying to steady herself against the barrage of panicked people racing by. Undeterred by the ferocious waves of terror rushing at her, Gabby continued down the hill, the pain from her ribs piercing her with each breath.

When she reached the marina, blistering flames still flowed from the food truck. She maneuvered around the blaze, the hair on her arms starting to crinkle and melt. She stumbled through a column of smoke, the wailing cries of the victims emanating around her. Stepping passed the dead and injured, over the maimed and unconscious, she reached the entrance to the pier, now engulfed in flames.

“Stacy!” Gabby yelled, forgetting she could not hear. Oh God, please, help me!

A hundred feet from the shore, sticking out from below the edge of the pier, she spotted Stacy flailing and sinking in the water.

“NO!” she yelled. Without a second thought, Gabby jumped over the three-foot flames and onto the creaking pier. She raced down the weakened wooden slats, peering over the edge as she ran, until waves of Stacy’s hair appeared in the water below. Gabby grabbed onto the rickety wood railing and jumped into the water, the cool liquid engulfing her, relieving her from the heat above. Her arms splashed through the water, and she snagged Stacy by the collar as her head sunk below the surface.

“Stacy!” Gabby yelled as she turned her onto her back and lifted her mouth above the water.

Stacy gasped in a panic, thrashing about as if she were still running from the explosion.

“I’ve got you!” Gabby said, trying to soothe her. “I’ve got you!”

Stacy kept pushing and punching, screaming at the top of her lungs, her voice filled with terror.

“Stacy…” Gabby gurgled, fighting to stay above water as the little girl’s thrashing pulled her under. Gabby’s legs kicked and her free hand whirled through the water, pushing them to the top.

“I can’t swim if you…” Gabby went under again, the water pushing into her lungs. She tried once again to swim to the surface, but the weight of them both sent them toward the bottom of the bay.

The orange from the flames tinted the water above them, the hue growing darker as they dropped deeper. The water pressure started to compress against them, and Gabby could hear Stacy’s screams muffled by the salty liquid encompassing them in blackness.

Gabby looked at the fading light, having already faced what she felt was certain death once before. As the darkness surrounded them like a starless sky, Gabby found she had nothing more to say to God. No more regrets. No last words. No life flashed before her eyes. She was near-deathed out. If this was her last bubble, so be it. Maybe, if she were lucky, she’d see her mom soon.

She waited for her lungs to loosen their grip on life and allow death to pour in, closing her eyes and waiting for the last breath she would ever take. Floating near the bottom, her feet slipping into the silt and sand, Gabby enjoyed the peaceful stillness that enveloped her. It was one last moment of quiet before her body would convulse, gasp, and succumb to its inevitable death.

The trembling of the water above her shattered the haunting peace. She looked up as two strong hands grabbed her and Stacy’s collars, tugging them to the surface. She welcomed the warm, soot-filled air into her lungs with a desperate gasp.

“I’ve got you, Gabby,” Scott said, gently swimming them toward the shore. “I’ve got you.”

Gabby felt his arm hold her as if an embrace, comforting her with his strength. She glanced over to Stacy, who hugged Scott’s waist like a life preserver, confusion affixed on her face. Knowing the vulnerable child was now saved, Gabby started to cry deep and resonating tears, her helplessness raised to the surface with her. Overwhelmed by the surge of unfiltered emotions, she grew limp in Scott’s steady arms and let her emotions stream down into the water.

As they reached the sandy shore, the nearby moans and cries grew louder. Spent, Scott huffed as he rolled over and tried to catch his breath.

“Are you okay?” he panted.

“Yes…” Gabby said.

“What about her? How is she?”

She looked over to Stacy, whose blank eyes stared into the sky, and noticed the extent of her burns for the first time. Blisters covered her peeling face, her hair seared near to her neck, and her tattered, red shirt had melted onto her arms and back.

Gabby shuffled next to Stacy, looking into her distant eyes and signing as she spoke. “How are you?” she asked.

Stacy’s gaze slowly returned, the pain from the salt water against her burns visible in her eyes. “I hurt,” Stacy signed back with shaking, burnt hands.

“I know. Be strong,” she said as she turned to Scott. “Can you get her to the first aid station?”

“Yeah,” Scott said. “How about you?”

“No, I’m fine,” Gabby said. “I have to go.” She leaned over and blew Stacy a kiss, signing, “Scott will take care of you. I’ll be back soon, okay?”

“Don’t go,” Stacy said.

“I have to. Scott is one of my best friends. You can trust him.” Gabby stood and retrieved her hat, which was floating in the water. “Scott, look after her.”

“Okay.”

“Oh, one more thing.” She bent down and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks for saving my life.”

He smiled and squeezed her hand. “You’d do the same for me. Where are you going?”

“To get some help and find the bastard that did this.”

Gabby stepped into the mayhem and saw the scope of the devastation. It was something out of a war movie. Bodies strewn about the ground, and families sobbing in the streets. She personally knew all of these people.

She faced the carnage with a single question. Why, God, do you let these things happen?

She ran down the seawall, balancing on its edge, and climbed over a chain-link fence onto the property near the main stage. Away from the immediate intensity of the blast, there were more injured than dead. She saw Jasper and a few off-duty paramedics had set up a temporary triage on the grass near the main stage, attempting to help all those they could.

“Jasper!” Gabby said.

“Gabby? Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes, but the girl you helped at the train tracks. Stacy? She’s got burns. She’s down by the pier with a lifeguard named Scott.”

“I’ll see to her,” he said.

“You promise?”

“It’s my job, Gabby. It’s what I do. I’ll take care of her.”

Jasper ran toward the beach and Gabby’s legs started to crumble, fighting an emotional collapse. The sounds and smells of suffering inundated her senses, and the weight of the collective pain overwhelmed her. She closed her eyes and fell on her knees. The soft grass welcomed her weary soul.

The immediacy of her sadness and the intensity of guilt surprised her. Would she ever forgive herself for not having stopped Patrick in time? There were a thousand things she could have done differently. Any one of them may have changed the outcome. And every single one was sure to burden her for the rest of her life, filling her quiet moments with remorseful what ifs.

As thankful as she was for being spared, she felt an equal amount of shame for her gratitude. All of this could have been avoided if she had just put the pieces together sooner or communicated to Sheriff Durant more clearly. While on her knees, she looked up to heaven. The smoke billowed from the flames like incense rising to God and Gabby prayed, wishing all the suffering were hers alone.

As much as she wanted to remain on her knees and indulge in an unhealthy dose of self-loathing, the loving face of her father invaded her thoughts, alleviating her agony.

Rising to her feet, she pulled her phone out, surprised it powered on, and dialed.

“Dad?”

“Gabby, is that you?” he asked. “Are you safe?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God you’re okay!” he cried. “You are in so much trouble!”

“I know, Dad.”

“I thought you were running from the police or dead in a ditch somewhere.” His voice cracked. “I thought I lost you.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I heard the blast, Gabby. It shook the store. I heard the screams and…”

“It’s okay. I’m not hurt. Well, not a lot. It’s terrible here, Dad. There are bodies everywhere.”

“I prayed, hoping God kept you safe. Thank God, his answer was yes. Where’s Sheriff Durant?”

“I’m looking for him now.”

“You find him and you stay with him, you hear me? I don’t care if he throws you into prison. You stay with him where it’s safe.”

“I will,” she said.

“I love you, Gabrielle.”

His words filled her with calm and joy. “I love you too, Dad. I’ll see you soon.”

She hung up and stared at her phone. In a world where madness could take a life at any moment, she promised herself never to take him for granted again.

Stepping through the bloodstained grass, she moved toward the mayor’s stage. She ran past wounded friends, families from church, kids from school, and Father Peters standing over a burnt little boy, giving him last rites. It was almost too much to take in and her legs felt weak once again.

God, give me strength.

She pushed forward to the main stage where she found Sheriff Durant helping the Collins family to their feet, blood dripping from his head.

“Sheriff!” Gabby said. “You’re alive!”

“Barely,” he said. “Did you know about this, Gabby?”

“No! I didn’t figure out what was going to happen until a few seconds before the explosion.” She lifted an upended chair onto the stage and guided him to sit down. “You’re bleeding, Sheriff!”

“You’re a fugitive.”

“And I will be after you’re patched up. A few more minutes on the run won’t hurt anyone. Where’s Emma?”

“Last I saw her, she was over by the spa.”

“You’re bleeding something awful. You need to get looked after,” Gabby said

“I’ve got to catch that son of a bitch, Patrick.”

“Just sit for a minute, okay?”

Gabby hurried over to Melanie, who was tending to her family. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” she asked.

“A little,” Melanie said. “But I’ll be okay. Good God, Gabby! What’s happening?”

“Evil. Nothing but evil.” She looked around the stage, spinning in a circle, “Wait a minute. Where are the Lindscombs?”

The Collins and Durant stopped and looked.

“Where’s the colonel?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Lindscomb and Deborah were both gone, his wooden cane left on the ground near his chair. Were they injured? Did they take cover inside of a nearby building? Or did something far worse just happen? Gabby jumped down from the stage and hurried toward the spa. She approached the pool to find victims, unable to get immediate medical attention, dipping their burned and peeling skin into the water, trying to diminish the searing pain.

“Colonel Lindscomb!” Gabby yelled. “Has anyone seen Colonel Lindscomb?”

No one answered. Each of them was in their own world of torment and suffering. Gabby climbed up onto the lifeguard station and scanned the area, past the wounded. Across the large, outdoor patio, standing in a doorway, staring directly at her, was Patrick, smiling.

“Patrick!” she yelled and jumped to the ground, sprinting after him into the building. The halls, normally filled with vacationers, were now populated by spa staff trying to assist the injured. Patrick rushed through the crowded halls, tossing them aside without a second thought.

“Stop him!” she yelled.

She could hear him laugh, like a child playing tag, and his muscular legs outpaced her own. Within seconds, he had disappeared into the confused crowd, Gabby’s weary body straining to keep up. She reached the front lobby, packed wall to wall with the injured and scared, and looked for any hint as to his direction.

“Did any of you see a young guy dressed as a soldier run through here?” she asked.

A few people looked up in recognition and pointed in opposite directions. It was only then that she noticed other veterans similarly dressed scattered about the lobby.

“What about Colonel Lindscomb? Or his wife? Anyone see them?”

They all shook their heads no.

Gabby’s phone rang. A picture of Emma lit up the screen.

“Em, are you okay?”

Patrick’s voice replied. “I doubt it.”

Gabby nearly dropped the phone. “Leave her alone,” she said.

“This wasn’t my plan, Gabby. Then again, I should have realized how persistent you were after what happened at the doc’s office. Now, you’ve kinda forced my hand. You keep trying to stop me.”

“Yeah, well, I failed. People are dead. Congratulations.”

“I’d say thanks if that were the end of my plan.”

“There’s more?” Gabby asked. “It’s something to do with Colonel Lindscomb and his wife, isn’t it?”

“Don’t worry about them. They’re in a safe place. For now. Unlike your best friend here. She’s shaking like a leaf. You know, I used to watch you two at school, chumming around every day. Not caring about anyone else. You two are close, ain’t ya? Must be nice to stay in a place long enough to make a friend like her.”

“Yes, we’re close,” Gabby said. “She’s my best friend. And if you hurt her, I’m going to personally hunt you down and rip your scrotum off with a pair of rusty pliers.”

He chuckled. “See, that’s what I’m talking about. You’re unrelentful.”

“It’s relentless.”

“The point is, you’re the problem, not me. You’re like one of those gnats that swarm around your head. Small. Insignificant. And you never go away.”

“That’s right. I’ll never go away. That’s why you called me. Take me. I’ll be your hostage. Leave Emma alone.”

The phone was silent. “I’ll think about it.”

“It’s not an essay question, Patrick. Just say yes and tell me where you are.”

“Ah, that annoying confidence. You want me to tell you so you can let the police know? I don’t think so.”

“Well, I’m not psychic, so you’ll have to point me in the right direction.”

“You screw with me and she dies,” he said.

“I won’t.”

Patrick gave short, precise directions. His once-smooth voice was now an ominous GPS, guiding her deeper through the older sections of the spa and into an area closed off for renovations. The cracked and chipped plaster walls led to a doorway with handcrafted stone columns holding up a crossbeam above heavy, wooden doors. From what Gabby could tell, it looked like the same type of architecture from buildings nearby built in the nineteen twenties. She wondered if this was the location of the original Espiritu Santo Springs. Considering where she was headed, she could sure use a little help from the Holy Spirit right about now.

As she continued forward through a long hall, she spotted broken spiderwebs dangling from the walls. She knew she was on the right track. At the end, in the shadows, were two doors, one slightly ajar, light from inside cutting the darkness. The path was dusty and void of anything that could be used as a weapon. She was ill prepared for whatever awaited her.

The doors creaked open. Dust tumbled from above, and the air was stale and musty. She walked in and found Patrick and Emma standing at the front of an old, dusty chapel, his gun pointed at her side. Scaffolding and drop cloths surrounded the walls, the renovations incomplete. Scrapes and soot covered Emma’s arms and legs, the spilled contents of her purse strewn across the floor in front of them.

“Are you okay, Em?” Gabby asked.

Emma forced a frightened smile. “Could be better.”

Emma was more than capable of defending herself. The benefits of receiving personal instruction from her father. But Patrick’s gun was out of striking range, and both she and Gabby knew bullets travel faster than a fist.

Gabby looked past them to a large crucifix hanging from the wall, work lights directly overhead casting long shadows from Jesus’ crown of thorns. The chapel’s Catholic influence, visible in the ornate stonework and stained glassed windows, calmed her. Even the doorframes had small fonts, now dusty and dry, where people would dip their fingers into holy water before making the sign of the cross. Surrounded by images of Christ’s suffering, Gabby wondered if God expected her to face a similar anguish.

“Okay, I’m here,” Gabby said. “You can let her go.”

“You want me to let the sheriff’s daughter go?” he asked. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

“I think you’re a lot of things, Patrick. Stupid isn’t one of them. Psychotic. A murderer. Evil incarnate. Those come to mind.”

“You’re such a smart-ass.”

“If you didn’t want me, you wouldn’t have led me here. So cut the crap and let her go. I’m here now.”

Patrick glanced at an old watch on his wrist. “Yeah, I’ve been here long enough already. We have to hurry this along.”

“Why?” Gabby asked.

“And ruin the surprise? No. You’ll see soon enough.” He held up Emma’s pair of handcuffs. “Look what I found in your best friend’s purse. Naughty girl. I’m sure Daddy wouldn’t like it much.”

“What are you up to, Patrick?” Gabby asked.

He smiled and shoved Emma toward scaffolding stored in the corner, waving the gun at the Stations of the Cross surrounding them. “You like all this religious stuff, don’t you, Gabby? That there’s your weakness. You believe in all that bullshit about living after we’re gone, don’t ya? It’s a crock. We die, that’s it. And since what I do won’t matter after I’m dead, I’m free to do whatever I want. And what I want is to inflict pain on those people responsible for my father’s death.”

“That’s not going to change anything,” she said.

“Sure it will. It will make me feel better.”

Patrick guided Emma’s hands around the metal bars, cuffing her to the heavy platform.

“You’re not the first person to lose someone, Patrick,” Gabby said. “And yes, I do believe in a life after this one. I believe what happens in rooms like this is important. This is a holy place. God’s been here. He’s probably watching all this right now.”

“And doing what? Got a bowl of popcorn, feet up on the ottoman, like we’re some damn movie? If that’s your God, you can keep ‘em.”

“He’s not gonna stick his hand through the ceiling and squish you like a bug, if that’s what you’re thinking. He doesn’t work that way.”

“Yeah? What way does he work?”

“I guess he asks people to do stuff for him. Some of them say yes.”

“Sounds like your God is a damn lazy fool.”

“He’s not the fool,” she said.

He clicked the cuffs tight on Emma’s wrists, and Gabby spotted the distinctive scratches around their outer edge. She met Emma’s desperate eyes and mouthed, “Beat my time.”

He rattled the cuffs to make sure they were secure. “You think she’ll escape?” he asked.

“I’m sure she’ll try, but police handcuffs are virtually inescapable,” Gabby said. “You could time her while she tried, if you wanted to.”

Emma’s eyes lit up in recognition.

“Nah. We’ve wasted enough time,” he said.

“I guess we are taking that crappy old car of yours again?” she asked.

“Not exactly.”

Patrick stepped behind her, and a blur flashed in front of her eyes. Gabby could feel his bulky forearm pressed against her throat, choking her. Emma screamed and Gabby clawed against his arm, trying to dig her nails through his shirtsleeve. If she were going to die, she was going to take some of his DNA with her. Her brain was starving for oxygen and the room started to sway, her life slowly draining from her.

Her heartbeat slowed until she couldn’t feel it anymore.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Gabby awoke in darkness.

Her throat was dry and sore and the muscles around her neck were tender to the touch. She coughed, half expecting dust to escape her parched mouth. Her phone was gone. Her hat was gone. She was balled up in a dark space. It was larger than Patrick’s car, but there was no sense of movement this time, no sound of tires against the road, no creaks from bouncy shocks. She had no idea where she was or how she got there.

As before, she extended her limbs to try and determine the size of her dark confines. Her head was touching a wall behind her, and her legs could only extend three quarters outstretched. The space wasn’t much larger than Gabby.

Her hands explored her surroundings. She was lying on matted, sticky carpet that butted up against hard, plastic walls. She reached up and, within inches of her face, hit the top of whatever was covering her. Gabby’s fingers moved across its surface, discovering it was covered with a layer of fuzz, as if someone sprayed it with dog fur.

She rapped her knuckles against the surface. It wasn’t wood. It wasn’t metal. It wasn’t heavy, but nor was it brittle either. It was strong. Weird.

She wasn’t a fan of tight spaces, and her nerves were starting to frazzle. What had she gotten herself into? Was she deep in the ground? Was she underwater? Had she been stuffed into a box and stored in Patrick’s closet? Was it soundproof? Was it airtight? Was she going to suffocate?

She realized she could either spend her last few moments of oxygen pontificating on her final moments on earth or try to get the hell out of there. She chose the latter.

As her hands felt around the rest of the interior, looking for an opening, her lips started to silently move in prayer. Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name… She figured God knew she wanted to be free. No sense in asking for that over and over again. So she fell back on the prayers of the rosary. Her mom helped her memorize them before her first communion. It was one of the last clear memories she had of her.

Gabby walked into the living room donned in a white dress with long, white gloves.

“You look so beautiful!” her mother said. “Come closer. Let me take a look at you!”

She spun her around like a top, causing Gabby to giggle and fall into her arms. Her mom propped her back up and, as she straightened the back of Gabby’s dress, leaned forward and whispered into her ear.

“First communion is a great honor, Gabrielle. It’s the center of our faith, the Lord himself.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Gabby replied.

“So what are you going to do for him?”

“Do?”

“Yes. You are receiving the greatest gift you will ever receive. Surely, we can think of something we can give him, to thank him.”

“Um… my allowance?” Gabby said.

“God doesn’t need money.”

“My bike?”

“He doesn’t need that either.”

“My chores?”

“Very funny.”

“Then I don’t know what to give him, Mommy,” Gabby said.

“How about your thoughts? Your hopes? Your dreams?”

“How do I do that?”

“You pray. You talk to him.”

“I don’t really know what to talk about,” Gabby said. “I don’t really do much that means a lot. I’m just a kid.”

Her mom laughed. “Then how about we start by learning a prayer you are familiar with?”

“Okay. Which one?”

“How about the rosary? We ask Mary to pray for us and contemplate how she lived her life.”

“What does contemplate mean?”

“We think about it. We wonder if what she did can help us too.”

“That’s sounds cool,” Gabby said. “Let’s do that. Can you teach me? I kinda know it, but not all of it.”

“Sure.”

Her mom gave Gabby her rosary beads and they sat together, Gabby in her lap, and learned the prayers. Gabby had heard her parents pray it before and even joined in from time to time, but could never recite all the words before that day.

As her mom went along, she explained how Gabby could use the Virgin Mary as an example of someone who relied on her faith during her most difficult times. She explained how Mary was just a teen when God graced her and she became pregnant. At the time, being pregnant out of wedlock was a social scandal. She told her how, after she married Joseph, they had to run away to Egypt to stay alive. She reminded her about how Mary gave birth to Jesus in a place like a barn. She told her about the time when Jesus was a teenager and they thought they had lost him after Passover, searching all over the place until they found him in the temple. She explained how Mary had to encourage Jesus in Cana to start his ministry and later, watched him die one of the most excruciating deaths man had ever devised.

Her mother helped young Gabby understand that Mary’s struggles were some of the greatest a mother could experience. Teen pregnancy, a missing child, the murder of her son. When times got tough, Mary always turned to God, even if that meant suffering.

Gabby hoped, somehow, that what she was doing meant something. Even just a little. She was no Mary. She wasn’t even a good follower of Jesus. She was lazy, selfish, and barely listened to Father Peters’ homilies. She never read the Bible. She rarely prayed for things that didn’t benefit her. And, as Gabby lay in a claustrophobic hell, she knew, if she survived, that had to change.

When God urged her out of that tree, he didn’t seem very subtle. No, God didn’t speak to her. She didn’t hear a voice or sense a hand escort her down the branches. But, she did feel something. A request. A purpose. A suggestion that she stopped being a spectator and got involved with what he wanted her to do. Maybe that was why God made her so different from all her friends, so she could change the outcome of things. Things more important than the problems of her classmates at school. When she started down the old oak, she thought doing what God asked meant it would be easy, but being packed away like a piece of forgotten luggage made her realize she was wrong.

As she silently started the third decade of the rosary, she noticed the scent of rubber. It was beneath her. Under the carpet. She fumbled across the floor, finding a seam running through the middle. Sliding to one side, she pushed her fingernails into the crack, wresting the floor panel away. She carefully slid her hand into the hole and found a half circle of thick rubber next to a rounded, L-shaped bar, one end thicker than the other. She pulled the bar out of the hole and ran her fingers across it, finding one end had an octagon depression.

It was a lug wrench for a car jack.

She was in another car, but not one with a trunk, because the top above her wasn’t metal. It must have been a vehicle with a hatchback, like a small SUV. Or maybe in a container in the back of a truck. The plastic top covering the storage area appeared to be the weakest part of her cage. She began slugging it with the lug wrench, each strike lifting it. Glimpses of light pierced through the edge.

She pounded and pounded until one of the corners cracked. Lying on her back, she brought her knees to her chest, pushing her feet against the plastic above her, forcing it with all her strength. The top bowed in the center, and three of the four corners strained to remain locked. She shoved the wrench into the small opening, forcing it through, and separating the lid from the side. She could hear the sound of the plastic weakening, cracking under the pressure, so she pounded it until it finally broke free.

She kicked the remaining pieces of the cover away and popped up, looking through the back window of a Saturn Vue SUV. The surroundings looked familiar. She’d been here before.

She reared back with the lug wrench and struck the glass of the back window, shattering it to pieces. Dragging the metal wrench around the edges of the window gasket, she knocked all the small remaining shards free. She lifted her leg out onto the bumper and crawled out of the car, her sneakers cracking the glass on the cement floor.

“Where’s my hat?” she asked.

She was inside of the old metal shop in the industrial park once again. Patrick stood across the room from her, staring at his wristwatch.

“Eighteen minutes, forty three seconds,” Patrick said. “I thought you’d get out of there in under ten. After all, you’re the legendary Gabby Wells.” He motioned over to a pair of metal chairs where Colonel Lindscomb and Deborah were tightly bound and gagged. “The colonel there mumbled something to me. I think he had you making it out in under twenty. I guess he wins.”

“Where’s my hat?” she asked again.

“It’s around here somewhere.”

The room wasn’t much different from before, except it looked like Patrick was preparing for something disturbing. The SUV that held Gabby was an older model from a defunct car company, well used. Probably stolen. It was faded blue with rust near the mud flaps and had a Choose Life license plate on the back. How ironic.

In front of the bound colonel and his wife was a long, folding table. Laid out on its wooden top was a variety of items she would normally find in the hardware store. A large knife. A hacksaw. A blowtorch. Pliers. A screwdriver. An ice pick. A car battery attached to jumper cables. A hammer. An axe. Bleach. Corrosive cleaning supplies. A nail gun.

All used. All dirty. Some rusty. Under normal circumstances, they were all harmless. But things were far from normal, and Gabby had the sinking suspicion Patrick intended to use those tools for something gruesome.

“Gabby, have you met Colonel Avery Lindscomb?” Patrick asked as he circled them like a vulture. “And his lovely wife? The colonel was the one who killed my dad.”

“Patrick, he did not kill your father.”

“Not directly, but he’s the one responsible, walked right into an ambush even though my dad warned him.”

“Please, don’t do this. Haven’t you killed enough people?” she asked.

“Just about. Got two more to go. Wait…” He pulled his Beretta from his holster and pointed his pistol at Gabby. “I mean three.”

She stumbled backwards, her hands in front of her face, and fell onto the broken glass spilled across the floor.

“Please don’t shoot me,” she said. “Please, Patrick. I tried to help you.”

“I feel bad about that. I just did all that to keep you close, make sure you weren’t going to stop everything from happening. I was just filling minutes until it was too late to stop it. You sure tried real hard. No wonder people keep coming to you. You’ll help just about anyone.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“No, it won’t,” he said, placing the gun back into the holster. “But don’t worry, Gabby. I’ll kill you last. I want you to see how much you failed.”

She used the car bumper to help pull herself up and noticed blood dripping onto the floor. Examining her hands, she found small shards of glass stuck into her skin. Using the bottom of her shirt, she carefully pulled each one out, her wounds dotting her blouse with blood. The situation was far worse than she ever imagined. She was trapped with an armed psycho with a deadly grudge. She’d be lucky if that were the only blood she spilled today.

“Now, let’s get this party started,” Patrick said as he sauntered behind the Lindscombs. “The explosion. That was my idea,” he said. “I needed a distraction so I could get the colonel and his wife without no one knowing. Well, no one but you, I guess. But, it wasn’t my idea to put it in the food truck.”

“Then whose was it?” Gabby asked.

Rathe walked out from the shop manager’s office and tossed Gabby her fedora. He smiled with pride. “That was mine.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Gabby walked toward Rathe as if she were seeing a ghost, expecting him to dematerialize at any moment.

“Dr. Rathe?” Gabby asked. “You? You are a part of this?”

“It would be odd for me to be here if I wasn’t,” he said.

“But your patients… near the food truck.”

“Brilliant, wasn’t it? I finally knew how to end their grieving. They were all so lost, succumbing to a damaged life replete with devastation. Many of them would never recover, no matter how skilled their psychiatrist. Then it occurred to me while making an omelet one Saturday morning, one with onions, green peppers, and a smattering of mushrooms. Quite tasty. As I sat at my dining room table, partaking of my delicious breakfast, across the room from me stared a picture of my beautiful wife. It was from the day I proposed to her. She was standing on the beach, the sun setting in the background. It was romantic. It was beautiful.

When I looked at her that morning, my heart dropped, as it always does when I think of her. I had reached my limit. I was sick of the ache her memory caused me. That’s when it hit me. When the light went off. It was then that I realized I could finally do something. I could free my patients from the pain that infected their lives, as it does mine. The cost of their freedom? A momentary sensation of heat, then all their grieving would end. That’s why I sent them the coupons for free food. That’s why I invited them to meet me at the truck at the top of the hour. Their collection of sorrowful souls would be released from their misery.”

“You… you invited Stacy and Rhonda?” Gabby’s hands balled up into a fist. “You lured her there to kill her? After she lost her mother the way she did?”

“Yes, exactly because she lost her mother the way she did.”

“You sick bastard!”

Gabby raced across the room and punched at Rathe, her swings landing on his neck and face. Rathe fended her off, blocking more blows than not, until Patrick grabbed her and shoved her away.

“You’re going to rot in hell, Doctor Rathe!” she said as she charged him again. Patrick stepped in her path and pushed her back toward the SUV.

“Don’t make me pull my gun on you again, you hear me?” Patrick said to her. “The next time, I’ll pull the trigger.”

Gabby leaned back against the car, her breath suddenly escaping her. “What happened to you, Patrick? When did murder become your best option? Your only option?” she asked.

“In one of Patrick’s therapy sessions, if you must know,” Rathe said, tapping his bruised lip.

“Me and the doc had a meeting of the minds,” Patrick said. “Nothing really came of it until Doc found out the mayor was giving the colonel an award for bravery, for saving his own skin and killing my dad and the doc’s wife. That’s when we knew we had to do something. It became clear. After that, it was just one big to-do list, putting it all into play.”

“But, what about the others?” Gabby asked. “The others that died? The others that lost loved ones? The people you’ve damaged today, like the ones you claimed to save? You’ve created more grief than this town has ever known. Is that what you wanted? Is that how you help people heal?”

“It is unfortunate,” Rathe said. “Yet, the explosion was necessary for the capture of these war criminals in front of you. With limited local law enforcement resources, we needed something big to overwhelm them. The food truck seemed to fit the bill. I simply used an inevitable event to do some good for those I care about.”

“You’re insane. Both of you,” she said.

“From a clinical sense, I can assure you that we are not.”

In the presence of twisted evil, Gabby’s interest in the criminal mind quickly lost its allure. They were heading down a hateful path. She could no more change their minds than she could convince the devil.

She rifled through her options. How would she get out of here alive? How could she save the colonel and his wife in the process? She was just a teenager. Not even a sophomore yet. She didn’t have any weapons. She didn’t even have her bobby pins in her hat. Why would God bring her to this place with these people? What could he possibly expect of her?

“Enough of the show and tell,” Patrick said. “The cops are looking for us. We need to get moving.” He took the large bowie knife from his belt and approached the colonel’s wife. “There’s a term they use in war, Mrs. Lindscomb. I’m sure your husband has told you all about it. It’s called collateral damage. Have you heard of it?”

Deborah nodded, tears and saliva dampening the gag in her mouth.

“I thought so. My dad was collateral damage. So was the doc’s wife. Leaves a hole in ya when someone you love dies like that. Right?”

Her eyes shimmered with terror, tremors of fear rippling through her muscles like micro earthquakes convulsing with each heartbeat.

“Here, I want to hear what you have to say,” Patrick said, sliding his bowie knife across the soft skin of her cheek and under the gag. He turned the sharp edge of the blade toward the cloth and pulled with a violent thrust, slicing the gag away from her face. Gabby was certain Deborah’s skin would offer far less resistance against its razored edge.

“No yelling, now,” he said. “Where we are, no one will hear you anyway. You got me?”

“Yes.” Her voice quivered.

He knelt down next to her, tapping the knife against her leg as he spoke before sliding it under her dress.

“Losing someone close would leave a hole, right?” he asked.

“Yes… I’m sorry for your loss.”

Patrick shot up and struck her across the face. “I don’t want your pity! I want you to look me in the eye and understand what I’m saying to you!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I understand. I promise I do!” she said.

“Good! Because that’s why you’re here, Mrs. Lindscomb. To be that hole for the colonel.”

She pushed her head back against the chair, pleading. “No! No! Please! I have three children. A son and two daughters! And… and three grandchildren. W-w-with another on the way!”

“I know. I studied you two like one of your husband’s missions. You always have to know your enemy’s strengths and weaknesses before you engage with them, ain’t that right, Colonel?”

Lindscomb grunted with rage, his arms and legs fighting against the binding.

“Patrick,” Gabby said. “Don’t be so cruel. You’re a better man than this. I saw the pictures on your wall at home, near your room. The one with you and your dad with your sister and your mom. You guys were happy in that picture. Your dad… you look so much like him in that uniform… Do you think he’d be happy with you doing this?”

“I hit my sister, Gabby,” he said. “All my anger was pent up inside of me, and she said something. I knocked her to the ground with one swing. And when she looked at me, I saw something in her eyes I ain’t never seen before. She was afraid of me. Petrified of what I had done. I had crossed a line. A brother doesn’t hit a sister. Not for nothing. It wasn’t her fault. She’d done nothing wrong. That’s when I realized I was directing my anger in the wrong place. At the wrong people. I had to change that. With the doc’s help, I am. It doesn’t really matter much what my dad would or wouldn’t do. He’s dead. My mom ain’t the mom I used to have, and my sister ain’t the same either. So, what I do here don’t matter much, except it’ll make things right. And that’s all I care about.”

Patrick removed the pistol from his holster and pulled it back, clicking a bullet into the chamber.

“Mrs. Lindscomb,” he said, “I got a whole workbench full of tools over there that I could use on you, but, Gabby’s got me thinking. It’s not your fault you’re here. It’s not important if you suffer much or not. That’s not the point. The guys in my dad’s squad said my dad didn’t suffer much. It was quick and painless. So, here’s what I’m going to do. I’m not gonna cut you or rape you or nothing so bad as all that. We’re just gonna shoot you. Quick and easy. One second, you’ll be crying here and the next, you’ll be up in the clouds with God, if you believe in crap like that. Those tools over there, those are for your husband. After you’re gone.”

“No! No! No! No!” Deborah pleaded. “Please! I’ll do anything! Please! Oh God, please help! Please help me!”

Patrick offered the gun to Rathe.

“What?” Rathe asked.

“You should do this,” he said. “You’re the one who lost his wife. Seems only fair you return the favor.”

Rathe swallowed hard and looked down, brushing off his sleeves. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Well, I do. It’s part of the healing process, like you told me in our sessions. Now, come over here and get your healing on.”

Rathe’s approach was tentative, and Gabby could sense reluctance growing with each step. Anticipating her next move, Patrick pointed the knife at Gabby’s neck. “This is between me and the doc, Gabby,” he said. “You’ll get our full attention soon enough.”

Gabby felt as though she was about to burst at the seams. Like a lion poised to attack. She had to do something. She couldn’t sit by and watch them kill again. Gabby’s muscles tensed, ready to pounce, but she had to be careful. The rage in the room was palatable, looking for a direction in which to unleash its fury. She wouldn’t be able to help if that anger was directed at her.

Her eyes darted across the room. There were too many fingers on too many weapons. The table of lethal hardware supplies was ten feet to her right. She may be able to get there and grab one of the tools, but none of them was capable of stopping a bullet. If she was going to make a move, it would have to be quick and directly at her target. She’d need more than two fists to get the job done.

Gabby looked down, trying to devise some way to stop them, when she noticed pieces of glass scattered around her feet. That was it. The lug wrench. It was in the back of the SUV. It was close, heavy, and easy to conceal. It would have to do. She stepped back, the glass cracking under her shoe.

Patrick’s impatient hand shook the gun in Rathe’s face. “Take it!” he said.

Rathe’s long fingers wrapped around the pistol grip.

“There you go,” Patrick said. “Just grab hold, but don’t put your finger on the trigger. Not yet.”

Rathe looked at the gun in his hand, his head tilting to the side like a curious puppy.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Patrick asked.

“It does give one a sense of power,” Rathe said.

“I know. It’s awesome. So walk over there and do the honors. Show the colonel what it’s like to lose a wife.” He put his hands on Rathe’s shoulders and directed him in front of Deborah, all the while whispering in his ear like a tempting demon. “Go ahead, Doc. You can do it. He was there when your wife died. Remember? He watched her body blow up into a million pieces. He’s responsible. Show him what it feels like.”

Gabby stepped back, her feet crunching the broken shards on the floor, and she eased her hand into the back of the SUV.

“C’mon, Doc. Put your finger on the trigger and pull,” Patrick said.

“Okay. Just give me one moment.”

“We ain’t got one moment. We got a lot of other things on the agenda. Let’s go.”

The gun shook in Rathe’s quivering hand as he raised it to Deborah’s head.

“Please, don’t,” Deborah whispered, spent of emotion.

“You can do it, Doc,” Patrick said.

Gabby’s arm felt its way across the matted carpet like a blind man looking for his cane.

“Just pull the trigger,” Patrick said.

Sweat was beading on Rathe’s forehead, and Gabby could see his finger slide onto the trigger.

“Shoot the damn gun!” Patrick yelled.

Deborah turned and stared into her husband’s imploring eyes. “I love you,” she whispered.

Gabby’s fingers clutched the cold, metal wrench and pulled it from the trunk.

“Aw hell!” Patrick said, yanking the gun from Rathe’s hand.

Gabby raised the wrench and took a step forward when, in one quick motion, Patrick raised the gun to Deborah’s face and fired.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The sound of the gunshot reverberated through the room and smoke rose from the barrel. Everyone remained motionless as Deborah’s body slumped in her seat, her blood, flesh, and hair sprayed across the foreman’s office wall behind her. Lindscomb’s eyes, tearing and angered, looked upon his dead wife and her blood dripping onto her lap. Shaking with rage, he lifted his head and screamed through his gag.

Patrick holstered the pistol with little emotion

Rathe stepped back, shuddering, shielding his eyes from her dead body.

“Hurt, don’t it, Colonel?” Patrick said.

Gabby could feel her chest rising and falling with lightning speed. Splashes of light flickered in her eyes as she grew lightheaded. The back of Deborah’s head exploding in a bloody shower repeated in her mind, and the smell of gunpowder made her want to vomit. She grew furious, enraged to have witnessed such vicious evil. Patrick had to die. Period.

Gabby realized she still gripped the heavy wrench in her hand and lunged at Patrick, grazing his head and smashing onto his shoulder. The blow knocked him forward and he spun around, striking her jaw with his large fist, knocking her to the ground.

The punch thrust the color from the room, and everything flashed white before her eyes could refocus on the pitted ceiling above. “You murderer!” she cried. “You killed her for no reason!”

Patrick stomped on her right arm and kicked the wrench across the floor.

“No reason?” he yelled. He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her to her feet, shoving her head toward Deborah’s white and bloody face. “Look at her! You think that’s horrible?”

He tossed her back onto the floor.

“She’s got one hole! What was left of my dad could fit into a grocery bag!” He pointed the gun at Lindscomb. “Because of him!”

“That doesn’t give you the right!” she said.

“It gives me every right!” Patrick pulled down Lindscomb’s gag and bent down next to him, whispering in his ear. “Tell us how mad it gets you, sir. How your life just got turned upside down by something you can’t control. Tell us! How’s that working for ya, Colonel?”

Lindscomb gritted his teeth and spoke through a clenched jaw, tears welling up in his eyes. “You ignorant son of a bitch! You killed my wife!”

“Sucks, don’t it?”

“You worthless piece of shit! You have no idea! You’re ignorant and stupid! Your father died a hero. He died so the rest of us could live. He died with honor. But you, you’re a disgrace. Your dad’s looking down on you with disgust. Repulsed. That woman you just killed had more character in her pinky than you’ll ever have in your short life. When I get out of here, I will rip your heart out of your chest with my bare hands.”

“What do you think, Doc?” Patrick asked.

“An appropriate reaction, considering the immediacy of the event,” Rathe said. He circled and stopped in front of Lindscomb, his hands clasped in front of him. “That anger you feel, Colonel? Try feeling that for days. Months. Without ceasing. It will force you to do things. It will demand it. And you will happily fulfill its request.”

Lindscomb shook his head in anguish. “You don’t know anything. Your father, Patrick. Your wife, Doctor Rathe. The day they died, they were nervous heading into the canyon. We all were. But what you simpletons don’t understand is we didn’t have a choice. We were under orders to follow and kill the terrorists. We don’t challenge orders—we execute them. Even if it requires our life. It’s why vapid morons like you have freedom in the first place. That evening, we came under heavy fire and took cover, waiting for air support to help clear the way. They were ten minutes out. Tops. That’s when an RPG was fired ten clicks to the northwest. Your father—”

“It doesn’t matter!” Patrick said. “My father told you not to go up there, and you did anyway. He had been in the Kandahar district before. Near Arghandab. He showed me on a map. Other members in his squad said he warned you and you went anyway. You killed him. You! And now the city wants to give you an award?”

“Your father said nothing of the sort. Not to me.”

“Liar! You’re the one responsible. And now, you know what it’s like.”

“Son, I’ve felt more loss than you’ll ever know. Every one of my squad who has died under my command haunt me every night. But what you’ve done here today, killing my wife, my beautiful wife, is not recompense. It is revenge. It’s the act of a scared little boy and a sad, pathetic doctor. It’s the act of cowards.”

“Shut up!” Patrick yelled, punching Lindscomb in the face with such force it knocked him over onto the cement floor, his head smacking against the ground, his hands bound behind him taking the brunt of the impact.

Things were spiraling out of control, and Gabby feared what was to come next. With the atrocities she had witnessed, there was no way she was making it out of this abandoned building alive. Her forearm still had an imprint of Patrick’s stomping sole, and she feared it might be broken. She had trouble closing her fingers and two of them were numb. If she were going to try another attack on Patrick, it would have to be with her much weaker left arm.

As Patrick’s vocal rampage continued, she used the table to steady herself as she stood. Her finger scraped against the end of a small, rusty knife sitting among the other tools prepped for torture. She extended her fingers and swiped it unnoticed, hiding it under her hat.

Gabby reconsidered her options, but little had changed with the addition of the knife. Lindscomb was tough, but hampered by his war injuries. Patrick was stronger, faster, and armed. Rathe, though not as formidable, was still an obstacle she couldn’t dismiss. The table from which she stole the knife was covered with items the doctor could use in ways no manufacturer ever intended. As much as she cherished her independence and occasional ass-kicking abilities, she was still vastly overmatched. She’d have to try to even the odds. She’d have to free Lindscomb.

“Patrick. What about those posts?” she asked. “We never found out about those messages online. Who posted them? It was you all along, wasn’t it?”

“No,” he said, kicking Lindscomb in the ribs one more time. “It wasn’t me. But I know who did it.”

“Who?”

“I’ll show you.”

Patrick pushed past Rathe and disappeared into the office. Gabby quietly shuffled over to Lindscomb.

“I have a knife,” she whispered. “I can cut you loose.”

“No,” Lindscomb whispered. “There’s not enough time—”

As she was about to lift him up, Patrick returned carrying his backpack.

“Leave him be, Gabby,” Patrick said.

She moved back as Rathe stepped forward.

“What is that?” Rathe asked.

“A present. For you.” He placed it on the table in front of them and smiled to Rathe. “Come over and open it.”

Rathe’s lips formed a smile as he approached, but his blank eyes refused to show any sign of emotion.

“You know, Doc,” Patrick said, “Gabby had this real strange idea about those posts.”

“What posts are you two talking about?” Rathe asked.

“Someone was posing as me. Insinuating I was going to do something bad.”

“Good Lord!” Rathe said. “You didn’t talk to someone, did you? Did you tell anyone what you were planning to do?”

“Just you,” Patrick said, pointing the pistol at Rathe’s head.

“Me?” Rathe said. “I didn’t post anything. I’m not any good with computers. You’ve seen my office. I don’t use one. I keep my notes in handwritten notebooks, organized and cataloged in each of my patient’s files. I wouldn’t know where to start to do what you are suggesting.”

“But, it had to be you, Doc. Things were said on those posts I only told you about. Not just what I thought about, but the way I thought about them. No one could just guess that, Doc. Had to be the only other person who knew what I was thinking. You.”

“Early on, during our therapy, after your father died, you were very upset. You took your aggressions out on everyone. You were drinking a lot. You must have told someone without realizing it. You were not in a healthy place.”

“No, I wasn’t. The problem with your theory is that most of what I found online came out after I stopped drinking. Now, I don’t know how you did what you did, but you were going to betray me. It’s plain and simple. After all we’ve been through. All of our planning. You think I’m gonna let you point all the fingers in my direction without a fight?”

“I don’t want to fight with you, Patrick. We are on the same side. We are in this together. Please, put that gun away. We’re not finished here. We still have business with the colonel.”

“Tell you what, Doc. I’ll put the gun down if you open up the present I made for you.”

Rathe’s eyes spied the backpack and Gabby could see feelings seeping through for the first time. Fear.

“Go on, Doc,” Patrick said. “It ain’t gonna bite.”

Gabby backed up toward the SUV, angling toward Lindscomb. With Patrick’s anger focused solely on Rathe, she knew this might be her only chance to free the colonel.

She watched as Rathe’s trembling hands reached out for the backpack, his fingers grasping the zipper. He pulled it in one long, slow movement, sounding like the buzzing of an angry wasp.

The front of the bag flapped open, revealing another large, homemade bomb.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Rathe and Gabby jumped away from the table, stumbling backward in opposite directions.

“It’s an exact duplicate of the one I hid in the food truck,” Patrick said.

Her eyes scoured the backpack, finding wires, tubes, and what looked like some sort of detonator attached to a large box. If this was as powerful as the bomb that sent a heavy truck into the air, then death for the four of them in the small metal shop was inevitable. No wonder Patrick hadn’t bothered to kill Gabby before now. She was going to die anyway. There was no way to outrun an explosion. She’d never escape the blast radius.

There was no digital timer counting down like she’d seen in the movies or complex mechanisms to make the bomb work. It looked simple. Like an elementary school science project. It had the same level of sophistication as Ginny Tooms’ third grade homemade battery concoction she created from kitchen supplies.

Patrick held up a converted garage door opener. “One push of the button and boom. Game over. Cool, huh?”

Rathe pointed his trembling hand. “Why… why did you build that?” he asked.

“That’s for you, Doc, for all your work trying to set me up.”

“I didn’t set you up!”

“Stop lying, Doc. It ain’t your style.”

“Okay! Okay!” Rathe said. “I may have posted some things online to look like it was you. But that was only to distract the police, to afford us enough time to complete our goals. Nothing more.”

“You could have done that in a million different ways than making sure all the cops were looking at me. So, what were you going to do? Kill me and tell them I held you hostage? Is that why you put all that stuff in your files about me, that stuff that wasn’t true? Was that to back up your plan? To show you had concerns about poor little Patrick before he went all crazy?”

“Patrick, one of your escape mechanisms is your imagination. Do you remember us talking about that? This, this conspiracy you’ve created about me is another one of your imaginary creations, that’s all. You and I are on the same side. We are here to exact justice. Remember?”

“And that’s just what I’m gonna do,” he said. “Exact justice.”

His tone gave no one in the room comfort.

Gabby’s world just got a whole lot smaller. About the size of the abandoned building. Her eyes gave the space another look. There had to be a way out of here. A thick chain and padlock secured the garage door, locking the SUV inside. Discarded and broken cement blocks, metal scraps, and corrugated siding barricaded a side door next to the office. There was no way she could dig through there in a hurry.

In front of her, to the left of the table of horrors, was what used to be the front entrance to the metal shop. Its door was thick, its paint scraped across its surface. She’d seen enough of those in the hardware store to know it was a sturdy, metal door. She’d never be able to run through that one. Above the handle, she spotted a deadbolt securing the door with a sheared-off key remaining in the lock. Even if she had her bobby pins, she couldn’t pick it open.

The harsh reality was she wasn’t escaping unless Patrick and Rathe let her out, and there wasn’t a chance in hell that was going to happen. She gave the bomb in the backpack one more look.

I’m guessing you didn’t bring me here to sit back and watch my world end. Let me know what you want my last act to be so I can get it right. I’d hate to think I came all this way just to blow it.

Gabby grinned at the thought. Wouldn’t that be funny? Screwing up the one thing you had left to do?

As she chuckled to herself, a ray of sunlight twinkled from the other side of the room through one of the many pinholes scattered across the wall. It looked pretty, shafts of light streaming onto the floor in a delicate array of illumination, as if each were made of fragile glass. It gave her the impression heaven was just on the other side of those thin walls. In a few minutes, that might very well be true.

Thanks, God. That looks pretty cool.

As she was about to make one last desperate attempt to free Lindscomb and escape, her eyes were drawn back to the shafts of light.

Thin walls.

Constructed of aluminum and corrugated steel, the building had rusted over time, weakened by the oppressive Florida heat and daily rain showers. The weakest links in their captivity were the walls themselves. If she could locate a vulnerable spot where, with a little force, she could breach them, she just might be able to add more sand to her emptying hourglass.

It would take more than one thwack to dislodge the wall far enough to crawl out. Gabby would need a distraction. And help.

While Patrick circled a cowering Rathe, yelling in his face about the depth of his betrayal, Gabby maneuvered around Deborah’s lifeless body and bent down to lift Lindscomb back up.

“What are you doing?” Patrick asked.

“I’m helping the colonel up.”

“Leave him where he is.”

“Patrick,” Rathe’s voice quivered. “Perhaps it would be better for the colonel to see his death coming. To see what your father’s death has cost him.”

Patrick’s eyes pierced Rathe’s fragile psyche.

“If you think it’s a good idea,” Rathe added.

Patrick nodded. “I guess that’s better than it being a surprise.”

Gabby bent down and grabbed the top of the chair, hoisting Lindscomb forward until all four legs were once again on the cement floor.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I’m sorry you had to get involved in this,” Lindscomb said.

“None of us deserve to be here, Colonel.” Gabby slid her hat off and wiped her forehead, sneaking the knife out with it. With her hat in her hand, she hid it behind the brim.

“You landed pretty hard,” she said. “Let me check your hands.”

She turned her body to shield the back of the chair and sliced through the bindings holding him.

“Are they hurt?” she asked.

Feeling the ropes loosen with each cut, Lindscomb replied, “They’re getting better by the minute.”

“Good.” Like sliding notes to Emma in history class, Gabby deftly placed the knife into Lindscomb’s hand and put the fedora back on her head. Even with his obvious ailments, years of military training in hand-to-hand combat was certainly more effective than the untrained rampage from a feisty high school student. He was trained to kill. Gabby could barely cut vegetables.

She bent down, her back to Patrick, and checked on Lindscomb’s wounds. “Colonel, the walls are rusted,” she whispered. “Maybe we could break through and make a run for it.”

His eyes peered across the room, evaluating the situation. “Yes. By the front entrance. Do you see the rust next to the doorframe? Near the floor? If we run and hit the bottom with our shoulders, we may be able to break it free.”

Gabby felt the metal barrel of the pistol pressed against her neck at the bottom of her skull.

“What are you guys talking about?” Patrick asked.

“I was asking if he was okay? You kicked him pretty hard.”

“What difference does it make?”

“Unlike you, I still feel compassion,” she said.

“He doesn’t deserve compassion.”

“Everybody does, even you.”

Rathe paced behind them. “Patrick, I’m not done speaking with you.”

“Well, I’m done listening, Doc,” Patrick said.

Lindscomb’s arms flew up, light reflecting off the knife blade as it cut through the air, slicing Patrick’s wrist.

“Run!” Lindscomb yelled, and Gabby raced across the room and threw her shoulder into the bottom of the wall, breaking the panel away from the base.

Patrick reeled back, the garage door detonator dropping from his sliced hand.

Lindscomb lunged up, stabbing Patrick in the abdomen.

Patrick stumbled forward, his foot kicking the detonator across the room.

Gabby was afraid to look back. She didn’t want to know if she was closer to living or closer to dying. She stared forward and kept thrusting her shoulder, bending the wall outward, red light from the setting sun breaking through the growing crack. She charged the wall like a battering ram. Bang. Bang. Bang.

A shot rang out.

She spun around to find blood gushing out of Lindscomb’s shoulder.

Rathe stood like a shaking leaf, overcome with panic.

Lindscomb, no longer holding the knife, screamed in anger and tackled Patrick to the ground, pinning him, his knees pressing down on his chest. He raised his sweaty and bloody hands, unleashing a fury of punches onto Patrick’s face.

Patrick raised the gun.

Lindscomb knocked away his arm as it fired, the bullet piercing the gas tank on the SUV, fuel pouring onto the ground. Gabby half-expected the car to explode, but the bullet was more chisel than lighter, shearing off a chunk from the draining tank. Lindscomb repeatedly slammed Patrick’s gun hand against the cement floor, trying to break his grip.

“Rathe!” Patrick cried. “Do something!”

As if jolted from a dream, Rathe stepped to the table and picked up a hammer. He grabbed the handle with both hands and raised it above Lindscomb’s head.

Even though Lindscomb was winning the battle, but even a hardened career-military man couldn’t compete with a hammer to the head. Gabby rushed over and dove at Rathe as he swung, the hammer striking her on the spine. They crashed through the wall of the manager’s office, glass and splinters raining down around them.

Gabby rolled off Rathe and reached for her back, writhing in pain. She tried to kick him away, but her feet and legs wouldn’t respond. They felt weak, her muscles tingling.

“If you paralyzed me, Rathe, I’m going to kill you!” she yelled, pounding on her quadriceps, trying to beat them back to life. Her toes started to respond to her mind’s request, and the numbness began to subside as Lindscomb screamed. She looked behind her to find Patrick shoving his finger inside Lindscomb’s bullet wound, the sound of wet muscles and crushing bones sickening her.

Movement out of the corner of her eye caught Gabby’s attention, and she pulled back as Rathe’s hammer swung by her face. She used her revived leg to kick him in the groin. He stooped forward, his arms flinching and the hammer flying out of reach.

Lindscomb beat against Patrick’s probing hand, arching back, giving Patrick enough leverage to push him over. He kicked Lindscomb in the head and crawled toward the car.

Gabby looked over Patrick’s head to spy the detonator under the SUV. She urged her legs to a standing position and hobbled to the car, falling to the ground near the back, the broken window glass cutting into her forearms and legs. She stretched her arm under the car, the gas fumes burning her lungs with each breath. Her hand fumbled across the ground, the gas spraying against her open cuts, searing pain traveling up her arms.

Gabby laid her head against the floor and spotted the detonator inches away, right in front of the barrel of Patrick’s gun.

“Back off,” he said.

Lindscomb elbowed him in the kidneys and Patrick’s hands twitched in pain as he fired. A bullet whizzed by Gabby’s head, piercing the wall behind her. She slapped the detonator away, the remote sliding to a stop below the gas tank, the fuel pouring on top of it.

She rolled out from under the car and gasped for air while Lindscomb and Patrick traded blows. Both bleeding, both tiring, both fighting for their lives. She had to get out of there. Gabby stumbled to the rusty wall again, charging it with her shoulder, each hit pushing the opening wider and wider.

“Hurry, Gabby!” Lindscomb said. “Hurry!”

“Not without you!” she said as she pushed the metal with her body, trying to widen the gap, the rusting edges scraping her shoulders and cutting into her side.

“Stop!” Rathe yelled, his hand holding the detonator, his arms and shirt dripping with gasoline.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Patrick and Lindscomb rose from the ground, weak and battered, their blood splattered across their clothes and dripping from their wounds. They stood, sweaty and hunched, their breathing labored, while Gabby moved away from the wall. Her saturated socks could not absorb any more blood from the cuts across her legs and the scratches running the length of her forearms bled onto the floor.

Rathe stood in front of them, holding the detonator above his head, as if to claim victory, while nervous sweat beaded across his face. He was the least wounded, the least bloodied, and the most afraid.

“What are you going to do with that, Doc? “ Patrick asked. “Blow us all up? Is that supposed to be a threat? I plan on dying today anyway.”

“Well, I don’t!” Rathe said. “This was about revenge. This was about closure. Not suicide! Not martyrdom!”

“Trust me, neither one of you guys is a martyr,” Gabby said.

Patrick shot her a look. “You really can’t keep your trap shut, can ya?”

“Sorry. I get sarcastic when I’m trying not to die. Take it up with God.”

Rathe held out the detonator, pointing it like a gun. “Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen. Everyone is going to move over by the colonel’s dead wife and Patrick, you’re going to give me the key to that lock on the garage door. Then I’m going to leave. You can stay here and do whatever it is you have conjured up in your head. Go out with a bang, for all I care.”

Patrick raised his pistol and pointed it at Rathe. “I have a better idea, Doc. How about you put the remote down on the table next to the tools, step back, and let me finish this. Cuz, I got some bad news for you. You ain’t leaving this place.  No one is getting out of here alive.”

Rathe’s body began to tremble. “But I don’t want to die!”

Gabby took a run at Rathe’s fragile allegiance. “None of us want to, Doctor Rathe,” she said, “Except Patrick. So why don’t you help the colonel and me, and maybe we could all live through this?”

“No… if you live, then I’ll go to prison. I can’t… that can’t happen. There has to be another way.”

“There is,” Patrick said, firing the Beretta, the bullet piercing Rathe’s chest. He looked at the wound with surprise, dropping the detonator onto the floor.

“I thought we were partners…?” he said.

His face turned white, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. He stood upright and swayed for a moment, trying to speak, but then collapsed. Crashing into the table, he knocked the backpack and the tools into a pile on the ground. The crescendo of destruction ended as Rathe’s body hit the cement with a loud thud.

None of the survivors saw Rathe hit the floor. They were all focused on the detonator, like starving animals salivating over the last morsel of food.

Patrick limped forward, gun at the ready, shifting its target between Lindscomb to Gabby. “Now that Doc’s dead, I guess all that time and effort making him a present has gone to waste. That’s just like him. Ungrateful.” He stopped, looking down at the detonator next to Rathe’s body. “Hate to let my present go to waste.”

As he started to bend, Lindscomb attacked, jumping on his back. Gabby crawled across the floor toward the detonator while they struggled above her. Lindscomb wrapped his forearm under Patrick’s chin and pulled, spinning him around. The gun fired with each tug, sparking off the ground and igniting the fuel under the SUV, which immediately burst into flames.

Gabby covered her head as bullets ricocheted around her, her fear and the fumes from the hot flames an all-too-familiar sensation. Patrick grunted as Lindscomb tightened his grip. He smashed the pistol into the side of Lindscomb’s head and pulled at the colonel’s strong arm, trying to pry it from his neck. Gabby reached out, their feet dancing around the detonator, their legs kicking the backpack.

“Hurry up!” Lindscomb yelled to Gabby.

Patrick lurched down, tossing Lindscomb over his back and hard onto the pile of tools, his weight crushing into their jagged edges. Lindscomb screamed in agony as his muscles spasmed and tightened.

Patrick placed his foot between Gabby and the detonator. She looked up and met his eyes. They were once flirtatious and offered comfort, but now only reflected the hate boiling within him. He aimed the pistol and pulled the trigger.

Click. The gun was empty.

Gabby spotted the battery and cables laying next to Lindscomb. She snatched the red and black cords, thrusting the metal contacts against Patrick’s leg. Sparks flew, and Patrick twitched uncontrollably until he crumpled to the ground. She kept pressing the cables into the skin without remorse, hoping the currents would travel directly into his black heart.

“Gabby…” Lindscomb moaned.

Gabby tossed the cables aside and snagged the detonator, shoving it through the small opening in the wall and onto the ground outside.

“I’m coming,” she said, crawling over to Lindscomb, who struggled to breathe. “We have to get out of here.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yes, you are. I can save you!”

“No… Something pierced my lung and…” he wheezed. “I can’t breathe.”

Gabby scrambled to her feet and grabbed his hand, their bloody palms slipping apart as she pulled.

“No,” he said. “I can’t leave my wife.”

“But, I can save you! I’ll carry you!” She tried to tug him forward.

“No… no, young lady. Go… Go…” He looked over to his wife’s dead body. “I belong here. With my girl.”

“No! No! I can get you out! I can!”

“It’s okay. Now, go.”

“No! Please!”

He patted her hand. “Go…”

Gabby found her eyes wet with tears. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Tell my children their parents died instantly. Tell them we died together. Spare them the truth.”

Tears dripped from her cheeks. “I will.”

Rushing over to the wall, she rammed it with her shoulder, bending the siding away from the frame. She looked back to see Lindscomb one more time as he crawled on the floor toward his wife. Every inch was a struggle, but he continued with focused determination, coughing up blood as he gasped.  As his life began to drain from his body, he reached up and took Deborah’s hand in his.

“I love you…” he said. “I’ll see you soon, my love. Just a little bit more…”

Gabby looked at their lifeless bodies, their clasped hands illuminated by the light shining in through the opening in the wall.

“Mom, Regina, welcome them home,” she said.

Patrick burst up, dazed, his eyes blazing with rage.

“No!” Gabby yelled.

He stumbled to his feet, his gaze settling on her. “You… are a bitch.”

She frantically kicked at the base of the wall, knocking away chunks of rust and loose siding. Twirling around, she squeezed through, the metal creaking as it bent, the rusted edges cutting into her back. Her head pushed into the evening light and fresh air.

Her eyes stared at the detonator in the dirt next to her. She could push the button and it would all be over. She could end it all right here. The pain. The fear. The suffering.

Wait.

Those were Rathe’s words. That was how he justified his cowardice. No. Someone had to live to tell Lindscomb and his wife’s story. Someone had to let everyone know what really happened. She grabbed knots of grass on the ground and tried to pull herself forward, her shoulders starting to break free. Inches from freedom, two hands grabbed her ankles and yanked her back inside, the jagged metal cutting into her back.

“No!” she yelled, kicking, striking Patrick in his chest and face.

“I should have killed you first,” he said.

She scrambled up, leaning back against the wall, staring at the dirty and bloody eighteen-year-old standing in front of a furious fire. He looked like a fallen angel stepping out from hell.

“You’ve seen the real me,” he said. “The one I hide from everyone. No one can know the real me.”

“After spending some quality time with you, I’ll have to agree.”

“Sarcastic, even now.” He looked over at the backpack, engulfed in flames. “Almost out of time.”

He was right. The heat was overwhelming, the fumes, noxious, and she could feel herself starting to lose consciousness. She glanced at the backpack one last time just as it exploded. The ball of flame started to engulf the room, approaching her in slow motion. She closed her eyes and awaited her death.

She felt a pull emanating from the inside of her chest as the air around her grew still, and the world became instantly silent.

Suddenly, the ground shook and the shockwave of a massive blast thrust her awake. She was lying on the sidewalk. She shot up, finding herself far from the metal shop as it disintegrated into a raging inferno, molten pieces of metal splashing down in front of her like brimstone.

Her head was pounding, and it felt like every cell in her body was screaming for help.

What happened? How did she get here?

She leaned back on the ground and stared at the clouds lit by the dimming orange of dusk. As sirens approached from every direction, she tried to remember how she got out of the building. If Rathe were alive, she’d ask him about delusions or selective amnesia. If Father Peters were here, she’d ask about miracles.

Alone, she considered none of those things. She was just happy to be alive. And grateful for whoever or whatever turned her hourglass over, giving her a little more time to do whatever she’d been asked to do.

She hoped it wasn’t nearly as lethal next time. If there was a next time.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The room was white and glowing. Her eyes were sore and her face was hot, still feeling the heat from the flames. Her weighted lids fought to shut once again, but the blurry images standing in front of Gabby were too alluring to fall back asleep.

The brightness of the room overtook their forms, their shapes hidden and their voices muffled. It was a man and a woman. Neither her eyes, nor her ears could identify them, yet she felt they were familiar. She didn’t feel threatened. Their voices were loud enough for her to hear, but their words were difficult to understand. The two forms were talking about her, and one of the voices sounded both alien and intimate at the same time. She felt drawn to them, as if she were magnetized, but unable to move.

If only she could see. Or speak. Or hear them clearly.

Gabby blinked, and the room was clear. The haze was gone, both in her mind and in the world. Father Peters stood next to her, looking down with a bemused smile on his face.

“How long have I been out?” Gabby asked.

“About a day,” Father Peters said.

“Where’d everyone go?”

“Who?”

“I saw… or I thought I saw… two… were you here with someone?”

“Do I look like I have company?” he said with a smile.

“No. But…”

“What?”

“Why are you smiling at me? Did I say something funny while I was unconscious?” Gabby asked.

“No. You just lead an interesting life,” Father Peters said.

“Yeah, it’s a hoot.” She winced. “Where am I?”

“The hospital. You’ll be leaving soon. Your father is down the hall filling out all the paperwork.”

“How mad is he?”

“Somewhere between God’s anger with the flood and the plagues he showered down on the pharaoh.”

“So, between wrath and cataclysmic?”

“Yeah. But, he loves you, Gabby. Remember that, even when he expresses it through a raised voice.”

“I’ll try.”

Father Peters squeezed her hand. “I’m glad you’re okay. I’ll let your dad know you’re awake.”

“Father. Before you go. Something happened. I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Considering what you have been through, that’s not surprising.”

“No. It’s not like that. I… I should be dead.”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“You were trapped with a psychopath who killed and injured over a hundred people. It’s amazing you were able to escape in time.”

“That’s just it, Father. I didn’t.”

He tilted his head. “What?”

“I saw the bomb go off with my own eyes. I saw it explode. I saw and felt the wave of fire come at me. And then…”

“And then?”

“And then, I was outside and my body felt like it was about to burst into a million pieces.”

“Gabby, you’ve been through a lot. Are you sure you are remembering things correctly?”

“It just happened. I’m remembering it correctly. Assuming science has yet to invent a teleportation device, what else could have done that?”

“God’s creation is full of many things we cannot understand. Angels, dominions, and principalities. All too difficult to comprehend.”

“Are you saying an angel saved me? My guardian angel?”

“I don’t know what saved you, Gabby. Or perhaps your mind is saving you from dealing with what happened. I can’t give you an answer that will satisfy you. All I know is that you are alive. However you escaped that building, just be thankful that God spared you from an early death.”

“God or a rogue teleporter.”

Father Peters chuckled. “Sure.”

Gabby knew she was asking unanswerable questions. She hoped, if her survival was somehow connected to the divine, that God would have given Father Peters some insight into his master plan. Like everything else that had to do with her faith, the answers were lacking.

“But, it doesn’t make any sense, Father. Why me?” she asked.

“Why did God spare you?”

“If he did, yes. Why me? The Colonel was a hero. For years, he put his life on the line for the country. He was a great man. Even mortally wounded, he tried to save me. He should be alive, not me.”

“Gabby—”

“And what about his poor wife? She didn’t deserve to die like that. She didn’t do anything! She was a mom who loved her husband and kids. A wife who wanted to share in her husband’s recognition. She was innocent, had nothing to do with anything, and yet she’s dead. Murdered for fun. Why didn’t God save her?”

“The ripple effect of free will rarely makes sense to us, Gabby.”

“Please, Father, no sermons.”

“I’m trying to answer your questions the only way I know how,” he said.

“Look, I chose to be there. I sought Patrick out. I tried to stop him. I put myself in his crosshairs. I should have died, Father. Of all the victims in that room, I’m the one who should have been removed in a body bag. It doesn’t make any sense. What makes me so special that I’m here and they’re not?”

“How did you put it? Maybe there was still time on your clock.”

“I’d give it up for them, if God would let me.”

“I know. You have to trust, Gabby. It will make sense to you one day, the same way failing at baseball made sense to me. You have to have faith.”

She looked at him with a furrowed brow. “Is that your answer to everything?”

“It is the answer to everything.”

What Gabby wanted to ask him most, she dared not speak aloud. She had stared into the face of evil and its dark eyes. She saw cruelty and wrath. Envy and hatred. She saw pleasure borne of pain. She saw Satan’s work firsthand and didn’t know how to process it. After listening to a lifetime of Father Peters’ homilies, she was still unprepared to witness demonic depravity in the form of a handsome teenager. It was as if her eyes were opened to a battle waging in the shadows for their souls—a fight vast and eternal where darkness and light had equal access to her will, each tugging her in opposite directions. It illuminated her own struggle between doubts and faith, and she wondered which force would eventually wear her down.

The door creaked open and Gabby looked forward to her father’s arrival, angry or not. Who stood in the door was someone else entirely.

“Officer Johnson,” Gabby said.

“Where’s Gabby’s father?” Father Peters asked.

“He’s on his way to the police station,” Johnson said.

“Why?”

Johnson held up his handcuffs. “Because that’s where Gabby’s going.”

***

Gabby sat in the city jail cell, her back, side, knees, and hands bandaged, holding her singed and crispy fedora.

“Excuse me? Officer Johnson?” she yelled, alone, her voice echoing off of the hard walls. “I don’t mean to tell the sheriff how to do his business, but I shouldn’t be here. I should be in juvenile detention with the other underage thieves and felons.”

The hall remained empty.

“There’s a process to things. I should be in juvie in a jumpsuit that clashes with my skin tone and eating food slightly better than they served me at the hospital. Trust me, I’ve looked it up.”

She wasn’t lying. She had looked it up. She knew she’d end up there, eventually. She just didn’t think it would have been this soon.

The interior of the holding cell was simple enough. The walls were exposed cinderblock painted beige and no doubt reinforced with an overabundance of metal rebar beneath the surface. The cot attached to the wall was not unlike the ones she used while accompanying the Durants to their lake cabin. The mattress was no thicker than an inch and only hinted at comfort, barely softening the hard springs it was tasked to protect. The triangular corner metal sink had one faucet with one temperature, cold, and the stainless steel toilet sat next to it, in the open, with a roll of toilet paper sitting on the floor.

The cell was functional and intended for short-term stays. A way station for the morally challenged. The next stop for Gabby would be the juvenile ward, full of people with a history of bad decisions.

Maybe that was where she really belonged. Doing bad in the name of good was still doing bad and, for all of her justifications, Gabby knew she was comfortable doing bad things. Too comfortable. The justice system didn’t care about what led people to cross the line into illegality and, for the most part, they shouldn’t. People were faced with choices every day. Too often Gabby chose the path of least resistance, the direct route toward the end goal, and rarely considered anything else.

Wasn’t prison full of people just like that?

The metal bars separating the free world from Gabby were there to keep people like her away from society, saving them from the damage she might cause. Gabby couldn’t bear the idea of sacrificing her freedom just to spare others the consequences of her actions or the harm she may inflict. It was selfish. It was cowardice. But, it was true. And she hated herself for it.

She leaned her head back against the hard wall and tried to clear her mind of such disturbing thoughts.

Her father once told her to be careful what you put into your brain, because you could never get it out. He was right. The images of devastation and suffering that enveloped the past few days were relentless in their need for attention. She tried to ignore them. She tried to hide them where she locked away her other painful memories. Yet, like the death of her mother, those thoughts kept bubbling to the surface like molten lava.

Isolated in her cell, without access to television or the internet, Gabby overheard from the nearby rooms the full cost of Patrick and Rathe’s quest for revenge. There was enough dead and injured to make an annual Fourth of July memorial a crowded event for years to come. She didn’t want to know any more details. She had lived through enough carnage already.

Her dad was the first to visit. He arrived carrying a box and placed it on the floor, sitting in a folding chair in front of the bars.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Hi.”

“So, on a scale of one to ten, just how mad at me are you?” she asked.

He looked down and shook his head, speaking in a somber tone. “Don’t ask.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“The sheriff tells me you’re a felon and a vandal.”

“Yeah. I had a busy couple of days.”

“I try to be understanding, Gabby. I don’t ask a lot of you, do I?”

“No.”

“Maybe I’m too easy. Perhaps I need to be stricter.”

“That’s probably a good idea, Dad. I don’t think I can be trusted with my own decision making.”

“I thought you were dead, you know.” He looked up, his eyes glistening. “I cannot express to you the pain you caused me, Gabby. I’ve buried enough people I love for one life. I don’t want to have to bury you, too.”

“If it helps any, I don’t want to be buried either.”

“It doesn’t,” he said.

“I wish I could explain how my brain works, Dad. Not just to you, to me too. I wish I could see a situation and know what everyone thinks I should do, but I don’t. I see something and I run at it and maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll think about what I’m doing before it’s too late.”

“It was almost too late this time.”

“I know. I wish saying I’m sorry would make you trust me again.”

“It won’t.”

“I know.”

“But it’s a start,” he said.

She stood up and tried to hug him through the bars. “I’m so sorry.”

He returned her embrace. “We’ll get there, Gabby.”

She motioned to the box on the floor. “What is it? A file hidden in a cake?”

“No. I’m not breaking you out of here,” he said.

He sat on the chair and placed the box on his knees, pulling the lid open, revealing a brand-new fedora.

Her eyes brightened, and she smiled for the first time in days.

He flattened the hat and stuffed it through the bars.

“It’s illegal to hand me stuff, you know,” Gabby said. “One criminal in the family is enough.”

“Sheriff said it was okay,” he said.

She tossed her burnt hat on the cot and snatched the new one from his hands, popping the hat back into shape. Pushing it on her head, she pulled the brim back and forth until it fit snug. “Why did you get me a new hat?” she asked. “I think you need to revisit the whole concept of disciplining misbehaving daughters.”

“Well, the sheriff also said you were a hero.”

“He did?”

“Yes. The least I could do is get you a new hat.”

“Thanks, Dad! It’s so cool! It’ll take about a month to break it in.”

“Perfect, because that’s how long you’re grounded, once your sentence is over.”

“Of course,” she said, still smiling.

“You know what that means? Unlimited hours helping me at the store, no matter when I request it. No complaints.”

“I love being at the store with you, Dad.”

“Then maybe I need to think of a harsher punishment.”

“I love being with you, not working there.”

“Good,” he said, glancing at his watch. “My time is up.”

“Any idea of when I’m getting out of here?” she asked.

“That’s up to the sheriff and the district attorney.”

“So, never.”

“Actions have consequences, Gabby. Even the right ones.”

Her dad gently squeezed her hand. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Dad.”

With a nod, he disappeared around the corner, leaving Gabby alone again. She’d always hated being alone, but after what had happened, with nothing to distract her, her mind fell back to the images that would undoubtedly haunt her for the rest of her life.

Okay, God. Quell the nastiness, would you? My brain’s had enough. I’m not built to do what you asked me to do today. I’m doing my best to keep from turning into a heap of sobbing flesh cowering under the cot. Please, give me strength. Give me something!

“Wells,” Officer Johnson said.

Gabby looked to heaven, “Got anything else?”

“What?”

“Nothing, Officer Johnson. You’re not going to threaten to blow my head off again, are you? Because, I hate to admit it, but it loses its effect the third time around.”

“Cut the crap, Wells. You have another visitor.”

Melanie appeared behind him. She was the last person Gabby expected to stroll down to the police station in the middle of the night.

“What are you doing here, Melanie?”

“When your dad’s the mayor, you get to go to a lot of places. He’s like a skeleton key to the city.”

“Must be nice. Thank you for your help earlier. I, um, I didn’t expect it. Why did you do it?”

“I had heard a lot about you, Gabby. Never once was it bad. I just couldn’t believe you were as dangerous as Officer Johnson said you were.”

“And yet, here I am. Arrested and sitting in a jail cell. Maybe Johnson was right.”

“No,” Melanie said, leaning against the cell bars. “I’ve always admired you. You live this extraordinary life and do things that are so amazing.”

“And illegal.”

“I envy you, Gabby. You mean something to people. When they look at you, they see more than a cute girl in a hat. They see solutions. They see hope.”

“But, you, you have everything,” Gabby said.

Melanie offered a sad smile. “Appearances can be deceiving.”

“Well, thank you, Melanie. If you ever need anything, let me know. But you should probably wait until I’m out of prison.”

Melanie laughed. “You don’t owe me anything. Thank you for letting me be a part of your life, if only for a little bit.” She forced one last smile and left, passing Emma on her way to the cell.

“Well, look at this!” Gabby said. “I’m just getting a non-stop stream of visitors. I guess being on the most-wanted list has some perks after all.”

Emma sat in the chair and smiled. “I always knew you’d end up in here,” she said.

“Me too,” Gabby said.

“My dad told me you knew about what was going on.”

“Not soon enough.”

“Why didn’t you come to me, Gabs? I’m your best friend. I could have helped. I wouldn’t have told my dad.”

“It’s not your thing, Em.”

“It could be.”

“No, you’re fun and crazy. You’re the optimist. I’d like to keep you that way.”

“How can I repay you if you won’t let me?”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Gabby said.

“You saved my life. You sacrificed yourself for me.”

“You didn’t ask to be there.”

“And you did?”

Gabby smirked as she glanced up to heaven. “I didn’t say no.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Seriously? Pray to get me out of here.”

“No need,” Durant said, his deep voice booming as he approached. His large set of keys clanged against the cell as he unlocked the door. He pulled it open and waited. “You’re free to go, Gabby,” he said.

“I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job, Mr. Durant, but there’s this whole concept of due process in law enforcement. You may have heard of it.”

“You’re right. Yet, I am left with a legal conundrum. You see, I have no accomplice to arrest. I have no one pressing charges for breaking and entering or vandalism. And I have no evidence you were directly involved in any wrongdoing.”

“What about the window?”

“Officer Johnson said Doctor Rathe asked you into his office. There are no witnesses to state who broke the window.”

“What about resisting arrest? Breaking into a parade float? Climbing a historic tree without a permit? There’s got to be something you can hold me on.”

Durant entered the small cell and sat next to Gabby on the cot.

“Emma, give us a minute,” he said.

Emma nodded and left.

“What’s going on, Gabby?” he asked.

She stared at the ground and sighed. “I failed, Mr. Durant. Completely. Patrick accomplished everything he wanted to accomplish. The food truck. Colonel Lindscomb and his wife. Killing Rathe. I didn’t stop anything. I didn’t do anything.”

“You saved Stacy. You saved Emma, my little girl. You survived.”

“But why? Everyone they killed was more worthy than me.”

“How can you say that? Yes, you are a challenge at times and do tend to drive me nuts more often than not, but your life is just as valuable as everyone who lost theirs. You can’t sit around wondering about what could have happened or didn’t happen. You just have to focus on what’s left for you to do.”

“And what’s that?” she asked.

“That’s not up to me to say. Just try and not make me have to lock you up again, okay?” he asked.

“I’ll do my best.”

She walked out of the sheriff’s office a free woman, whether she deserved it or not. She spent the next few weeks doing her time at the hardware store, working every day to rebuild what she had lost with her dad.

After two weeks, he commuted her sentence and let her enjoy the remaining month of the summer. She visited Stacy in the hospital, and they compared burns and bandages. Rhonda survived the blast with a few wounds, but was relatively unscathed, except for permanent hearing damage from the explosion. Now she and Stacy shared the same struggles and seemed to be closer for it.

Gabby didn’t sleep much and avoided any attention that deemed her a role model. She was more broken today than she ever was. Father Peters helped her as much as he could. Just as he always had. He once again listened to her raw accounts of near-death moments and her miraculous escape. In Gabby’s bubble wrap of life, she prayed the next one God asked her to pop wouldn’t be such a doozy.

The Gang inevitably ended up at the gazebo, sitting on the wood floor, leaning back against the railing. Gabby didn’t care what they talked about. She just relished every second with them.

“I hear there’s a hurricane forming out in the Gulf of Mexico,” Hamilton said.

“Well, it is hurricane season,” Scott said.

“Did you know the English word for hurricane actually came from Spanish explorers? The word is derived from the Taino language of the Caribbean, spoken by the indigenous Arawak people. Their word “huracan” means storm. How cool is that?”

“It’s as cool as Gabby’s new hat,” Emma said.

Gabby smiled. “Damn straight.”

Emma hopped to her feet with a large grin across her face.

“What?” Hamilton asked.

“Dare me!” she said.

“To do what?”

Emma held up her handcuffs and winked at Gabby. “Dare me to get out of them.”

Both Scott and Hamilton sighed.

“Not again,” Scott said.

“Yes, again! Now, time me.”

“Seriously, Em?” Hamilton asked.

“Yes. I bet I can get out of these handcuffs in less than five minutes.”

“Really? You’ll bet on that?” Scott asked.

“Absolutely!” Emma said.

“What’s the bet?” Hamilton asked.

“If I get out in under five minutes, you guys have to carry my books all of sophomore year.”

“And if you don’t?”

“You name it,” she said.

Scott and Hamilton laughed.

“You’re on,” Hamilton said.

“Gabby, would you do the honors?” Emma asked.

Gabby stood up and ran her fingers across the outer edge, finding the identifying marks she had made in the metal. With a smile, she clicked them on Emma’s wrists.

“You’re good to go,” Gabby said.

“Go!” Hamilton said, looking at his vintage watch.

As Emma finagled the cuffs behind her back, Gabby noticed the Collins’ Mercedes passing by on Main Street. From the backseat, Melanie looked out and waved. Gabby tipped her hat and watched them drive away.

The draft of a coming storm pushed a gust through the gazebo, sending a chill into Gabby’s bones. As she watched the lightning strike in the distance, she had a sneaking suspicion God wasn’t quite done with her yet.

It's Not Over Yet!

The Gabby Wells Thriller Series Continues…

For the latest updates about new releases and access to exclusive fan content, visit petebauerbooks.com and sign-up for my VIP mailing list.

Acknowledgements

It took seven years and the help of many to bring the world of Gabby Wells from the depths of my mind to the pages before you. To God, thank you starting me down this path all those years ago.  It hasn’t been easy, but, hopefully, like with Gabby, it will all make sense one day.  To my wife, Dea, thank you for your incomprehensibly passionate support of my dreams. To my family, thank you all of your loving and occasionally sarcastic advice and assistance. I’d especially like to thank Abby Barko, Dorothea Bauer, Paul Bauer, Erin Boyd, Kari Burke, Neikar Danny, Jasmine Pujol, Lynne Hansen, Bob Johnston, Loretta Johnston, Ares Jun and Cynthia Shepp.

I also want to take a moment to thank my wonderful beta readers and the guidance provided to me by the online independent publishing community.

About the Author

Pete Bauer is an award-winning screenwriter and filmmaker-turned novelist who took his love of cinematic suspense and shifted it to the page. Kneel & Prey is the first book in his Gabby Wells Thriller series. He currently hosts My Name is Not Steve, a podcast by storytellers about storytelling. Born in Massachusetts, he now lives in Florida with his wife and two children. When he's not writing, he enjoys spending time with his family and exploring his faith, watching football and annoying his lovely wife. If he's lucky, he does all those things at once. Follow Pete on Twitter (@PeteBauerAuthor) or visit petebauerbooks.com.