

#

# Set You Free

# Love, Lies, and the Secrets that Bind

## Elmer Seward

Bay Rivers Publishing
Copyright © 2015 by Elmer Seward

All rights reserved under Pan-American and International Copyright Conventions. No part of this work may be reproduced, uploaded, or transmitted electronically without the permission of the author. Without such permission, these activities are illegal and represent theft of the author's intellectual property. Except for purposes of literary reviews, the author's prior written permission is necessary for use of any portion of this novel.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, places, and events are either constructs of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real individuals—living or dead—events, or places is completely coincidental.

#

## FOR RAY

## "A love so fierce..."

"...and the truth will set you free."

John 8:32

# Contents

Chapter 1 An Unnatural Storm

Chapter 2 Wrong Place, Wrong Time

Chapter 3 Milk and Cookies

Chapter 4 Questions

Chapter 5 The Bus

Chapter 6 The Snake

Chapter 7 A Safe Place

Chapter 8 Falling Apart

Chapter 9 Supper and a Show

Chapter 10 Spiders

Chapter 11 The Night Shift

Chapter 12 The Date

Chapter 13 Ice Cream Served Cold

Chapter 14 Shadows

Chapter 15 The Spider and the Crab

Chapter 16 In the Dark of Night

Chapter 17 Fresh Paint

Chapter 18 More than One Way to Skin a Cat

Chapter 19 The Watcher

Chapter 20 Fish to Fry

Chapter 21 Red Bull

Chapter 22 The Dress

Chapter 23 The Answer

Chapter 24 The Dance

Chapter 25 Questions

Chapter 26 Too Close for Comfort

Chapter 27 So Close, Yet So Far

Chapter 28 The Doll

Chapter 29 Choices

Chapter 30 Hell Hath No Fury

Chapter 31 Baking up a Mess

Chapter 32 Turning Point

Chapter 33 Lightning, Spiders, and Snakes...Oh, My

Chapter 34 A Little Cleanup

Chapter 35 Mistakes

Chapter 36 The Truth

Chapter 37 Things That Are Broken

Chapter 38 The Smart One

Afterword

Connect with Elmer

Other Novels by Elmer Seward

Excerpt from Hearts in the Storm

Chapter 1

Excerpt from Dreams of the Sleepless

Now

About the Author

#  Chapter 1  
An Unnatural Storm

It was an unnatural storm—a beast of blustery gusts and slashing rain that caused the car to shudder. The devil wailing in the wind sent the hair on the driver's neck into a cold crawl. Gripping the wheel, he muttered, "Something bad's in this storm." It was the wrong place and the wrong time. A cold-weather storm in June on the Eastern Shore was rare. Rare or not, the lashing wind and pummeling rain punished this narrow strip of land lost between the Chesapeake Bay and the Atlantic Ocean.

The frantic wipers slapped against the unforgiving rain, more sound than sight. He pushed on through the storm as if sensing the twisting road through his fingertips on the wheel. More ingrained repetition than miracle. Movements as deft as a well-practiced religious ritual. As familiar as the rosary's worn beads in a sinner's caress while uttering, "Hail Mary, full of grace..."

A dark object emerged from the downpour. He slammed the brakes, jerked the wheel, no amen. The car slid, stopping just feet from a vehicle that appeared to be stranded on the highway. Its dark shape flickered through the streaks of rain in the headlights. The blood throbbed in his fingers from his grip on the wheel. He laid his trembling hands in his lap, beads of perspiration streaming down his brow. He closed his eyes only for an instant, fearing what might wait within their darkness. He exhaled audibly. "It's OK. Come on. It's OK." Taking a deep breath, he set the car in motion once again.

As he eased past the stranded car, he peered through the pouring darkness. Empty, no one inside. He exhaled again. Lifting one hand, he watched his fingers twitch, then placed his hand back on the wheel and focused on the barely visible asphalt.

Soon he was moving along as if he were one with the highway, feeling the road without seeing it clearly. Then, a flash of red in the silvery blackness of the headlights. Braking and swerving, he slipped sideways in the pooling water. He swung the wheel back as the car slid to a stop at an awkward angle. There, close enough to touch the hood, stood two figures, fear reflected in their wide eyes. Panicking, he jumped out of the car and called above the clattering rain, "Are you OK?"

The taller figure, her red windbreaker saturated and clinging to her body, yelled back, "I...I think so." She turned to what appeared to be a girl in a black windbreaker, also soaked. "You OK?"

The girl nodded.

His relief twisted into angry fear. "You scared the hell out of me. What're you doing out here? People can't see you."

"Scared _you_?" The woman's voice rose. "You weren't almost roadkill." She jabbed her forefinger at him. "Maybe you should slow down."

"Me? You're blaming _me_?" The heat of his anger cooled in the rain that soaked his shirt. He glanced at his umbrella, which lay useless on the front floorboard, and shivered as the cold rain streamed down his neck. Waving dismissively, he shouted, "Forget it" before sliding into the driver's seat and slamming the door. Throwing the car into reverse, he jammed his foot on the accelerator. The tires spun on the wet asphalt, producing a high-pitched sizzling sound.

He swung the car around and sped on through the storm. As he glanced in the rearview, the darkness swallowed the two figures. "What the hell are they doing out in this storm anyway?" he complained to the mirror. Looking back again, he caught his reflection, then brought the car to a stop and let his gaze drift to the empty seat next to him. He spoke to the unseen passenger. "I know. I'm being a jerk. I left them out in this miserable weather." Sighing, he turned the car around. He tried but couldn't make out the two figures through the downpour as he passed on the other side of the divided highway. After pulling back around, this time he approached at a crawl. As he pulled up next to them, the woman jumped, grabbing the girl and pulling her close to her. He lowered the passenger-side window.

The woman peered into the car. He couldn't see her clearly, but she appeared to be young, maybe early twenties. Her shoulders slumped. "You again? Wanted another shot at hitting us?"

His fingers dug into the steering wheel, but he took a deep breath. "Look, I'm sorry about earlier. Can I give you two a ride somewhere?"

"Ride with you? No, thanks." She placed her hand on the young girl's back, guiding her along as she resumed walking the shoulder of the highway.

As they moved away, he let his frustration out in one long breath. Rolling the window up, he spoke to the glass, "Your choice. Get washed away if you like." As he put the car in gear, he glanced again at the empty passenger seat. His lips pursed, he ran the fingers of one hand through his wet hair. _All right, all righ_ t.

The car inched up beside the woman and girl. They glanced over but continued walking. He lowered the window and shouted through the rain, "Hey, I was a jerk. I'm sorry. Let me help you."

The woman kept walking. The girl glanced at the car, which matched their slow pace.

"Come on. You're soaked and cold. I can take you where you're headed, and you can get warmed up." He noticed the girl eyeing the car. "If not for you, then do it for the girl."

The child glanced up at the woman who pushed her along. "Keep walking," the woman told her.

"No sense walking in the rain while there's a dry car right beside you," he called out again. The rain beat down, clattering against the vehicle and pelting the two figures.

The girl looked up at the woman again but got no response. Wrapping her arms tightly around her small body against the gusting wind, she said, "Please?"

# Chapter 2  
Wrong Place, Wrong Time

The woman wrapped one arm around the shivering girl and drew her close. _How did this night go so wrong?_ she wondered. It was supposed to be a simple trip to the Quick Mart. But tonight, it was the wrong place, the wrong time. After all these years, there he was, talking up a ragged-looking teenage girl. There he was, the source of years of fear and nightmares. He had turned and spotted them, and they had run. Now, here they were, stranded on this deserted road. Stranded between the storm and the stranger in the car next to them. Peering down the highway, she strained to search for headlights through the heavy rain. _Could he be following? Could he be minutes away?_ A chill seized her.

The girl begged, "Please? I'm cold." The woman glanced from the shivering girl to the partially open window. She studied the driver in the dim blue dashboard light. He wore a white dress shirt, dark tie, and dark dress slacks—soaked but neat. His short hair, though wet and windblown, seemed trimmed. He didn't look like a serial killer, but then none of them came with a label stamped on their forehead. She caught sight of a wedding band. That meant nothing. How many married men had she seen, well dressed and outwardly refined, who in the dark and secret corners of their lives did sickening things? No, they couldn't be trusted. This man was no different.

"Come on," the man yelled above the rain's staccato riff. "I'll turn on the heat. You'll be safe. I promise."

She took another fearful glance down the highway. Trust this man or not, he couldn't be as bad as the monster she was running from. She slipped a hand inside the pocket of her windbreaker and immediately found it. The pocketknife was cold, hard, and comforting. She would use it if she had to. She called through the window, "OK," then opened the back door and ushered the girl inside before following her in with a single backpack. The scent of rain, roses, and alcohol hung heavy in the air as she slid in. _He's been drinking_ , she thought. _This is a bad idea_. Next to her, the young girl's breathing rattled in fitful spasms. She decided to stay.

"Let me turn up the heat, and I can get you where you're headed." The man twisted the control, adjusted the vents, and looked back at the two in the mirror. "This is crazy weather. I can't remember a nor'easter here this late in June."

He pushed the car forward and glanced again in the rearview. "I'm Blake."

There was an awkward silence.

"And you are?"

She glared back at his reflection, her arms wrapped around the shivering girl.

"Sorry, just trying to make conversation."

She detected an edge in his voice. As the car moved forward, she said, "Deena. I'm Deena."

Blake glanced in the mirror again as Deena pulled back the hood of her windbreaker. Her wet, dark hair ran in streams down her cheeks and cascaded over her shoulders. The girl next to her was breathing more easily now. "How's the little girl doing back there?" he asked.

Deena turned to the girl. "Kat, are you OK?"

Kat nodded.

"She's better." Deena caught Blake studying her in the mirror. "Shouldn't you be watching the road?"

Blake's eyes darted back to the barely visible highway. For a few moments, only the sound of the rain could be heard. Finally, Blake broke the pounding silence. "Hey, is that your car broken down about a mile back? I know someone who can—"

"No, that's not our car," Deena quickly said, then glanced back through the rear windshield. The three drove on in silence.

Blake's voice cut through the sounds of the storm. "Well, I guess I need to know where you're headed so I can get you there. Where to?"

"Baltimore."

"Baltimore?" His initial silence was followed by a low chuckle. "That's an eight-hour round trip." He continued to chuckle.

"So, it's four hours from here?"

He nodded. "You didn't know?"

Deena sank into the seat with a groan. The silence that followed drowned out the pounding of the rain on the car. She exhaled. "Is there a place up ahead where you can drop us off?"

"This time of night? Not much open along this stretch of road except an occasional gas station." He paused. "There's a fleabag motel near Machipongo, but I wouldn't recommend it."

Deena massaged her temples as she tried to work out a solution. _Gas station or a motel? Once he sees the abandoned car, he'll check every place along this stretch of road._ She glanced nervously through the rear window again. "What do we do now?" The words trembled from her lips.

"Mommy?"

Deena forced a smile. "It's OK, baby. It's going to be OK."

Blake studied her in the rearview. After a sideways glance at the empty passenger seat, he spoke. "Well...I didn't say I wouldn't take you to Baltimore. Just not tonight. Tomorrow I can move a few things around and take you in the afternoon."

"And what do we do tonight?"

He fell silent for a moment. "I know a place where you can stay tonight, get warm and dry, and—"

"Your place?" Deena's tone was blade sharp.

"No, no...I didn't mean...not with me. You can stay with Mama Jo. She's always willing to help someone out."

"Mama Jo?" Deena couldn't blunt the edge in her voice. "Is she your mother?"

Blake laughed. "She's everyone's mother. Well, at least everyone in Opechancano."

"Opecha...what?"

He grinned into the mirror. "Opechancano—the town where I live. It's an Indian name. Mama Jo's an elderly widow in town. She may be a 'come here,' but everyone loves her."

"She's a what?"

"A 'come here.' You know...her family's not from around here. She and her husband moved in a few years back."

"A 'come here,' huh? Sounds like a real welcoming little town."

"Oh, it is. Some of us kinda adopted Mama Jo after her husband passed. We watch over her...see that she has what she needs."

"And what makes you think she wants two strangers showing up on her doorstep unannounced?"

Blake smiled in the rearview. "Trust me. I know Mama Jo. She'll be all over this like crabs on a chicken neck."

"Doesn't sound pleasant. I don't know."

Hail-laced rain cracked against the windows like millions of marbles spilling onto a glass countertop. Kat's voice struggled to be heard above the roar. "Please, Mommy?" The thundering clatter continued for several seconds.

Deena closed her eyes. _Gas station along this deserted highway or Mama Jo's?_ She opened her eyes. "OK, Mama Jo's tonight, then Baltimore tomorrow." Kat smiled, and Deena pulled her close as she studied Blake in the mirror.

"Sounds good." Blake pushed on the accelerator, once again on autopilot. Moments later, he turned onto a narrow side road. They were twisting their way down a dark, claustrophobic stretch. Thick woods closed in on both sides, arching over the road like the claws of a giant cat.

"Where are we going?" Deena demanded from the darkness.

"Opechancano. It's a few miles down this road."

Nervously she slipped the knife from its hiding place. She held it behind the seat back, out of Blake's sight, as she slid the blade open. She glanced over at Kat's wide eyes. Just then, a small green road sign flashed into view. It read, opechancano 2. Deena released her fear in one long breath and closed the blade but kept the knife in her hand. In moments, the clutching trees opened up to a lull in the rain. Around them were fields and occasional houses. A mile farther, they rounded a large wooded area, and the little town came into view. They were now driving along a street dotted with postwar cracker-box houses that quickly gave way to older, statelier Victorian-style homes.

Blake announced, "This is Opechancano. Mama Jo's is just a little farther." As the car crept to a stop, he said, "Here it is."

Deena looked out the window and caught her breath. Through the rain, she made out a two-story home with a porch that ran the entire length of the front of the house and wrapped around one side. It was nestled in the center of white picket fence-enclosed flower beds. The front gate stood beneath a white arched trellis. For a moment, Deena was a little girl running past beds of roses and azaleas. She could almost hear her grandmother's voice calling, "Deedee, come inside. I've got fresh baked cookies."

Blake's voice broke the spell. "Come on. Let's get the two of you inside." He jumped out and wrestled with the umbrella, trying to open it. The three huddled beneath the dancing cover as they hurried through the pouring rain to the porch. Once there, Blake knocked on the door. The street-side windows were dark. No answer. He knocked harder. A few seconds later, light flickered through the heavy drapes. The door opened just a crack then swung wide. A small, bent woman with wild white hair stood in the splash of light from the open door. She was wrapped in a faded floral-print housecoat and wore fuzzy pink slippers. Her eyes followed the streams of water that ran down Blake's cheeks and dripped from his chin onto the tie and shirt plastered to his chest. Her eyes darted to Deena and Kat.

"Land sakes, child, you and your friends are drenched." A gust of wind ripped across the porch, casting a sideways spray onto the group. Mama Jo gathered the housecoat around her. "This is no place to be in this nasty weather. Come on inside." She retreated through the open door, followed by Blake, Deena, and Kat.

Blake closed the door against the wind-driven rain. In the wash of the entrance light, Deena saw him more clearly. His six-foot frame stood in stark contrast to Mama Jo. He was solid, with broad shoulders and muscular arms, judging from the wet shirt that clung to him. Mama Jo, on the other hand, was a willow of a woman.

Blake motioned toward the drenched strangers. "This is Deena and her daughter, Kat. I'm driving them to Baltimore tomorrow, but they need a place to stay and dry out tonight. Would you—"

"Oh, child, of course they can stay here. Any friends of yours are welcome at my house."

"Thanks, Mama Jo. Sorry to ask so late. Hope I didn't wake you."

The old woman chuckled and motioned toward the back of the house. "No, I was just baking—"

"Snickerdoodles," Deena interjected. A wistful smile crept across her face. She let the aroma carry her back to a happier time in her life.

Smiling, Mama Jo watched as Deena became lost in the moment. "Yes, snickerdoodles, for the church's booth at the Blue Crab Fest. You two can taste test them for me."

Kat grinned, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet.

"But first we need to get you into some dry clothes. Where's your suitcase?" Mama Jo scanned the entranceway for luggage.

Scowling, Deena held up her backpack. "Everything in here's probably soaked."

One brow arched, Mama Jo cut her eyes toward Blake, who shrugged. Turning back to Deena, who was fishing through the wet clothes in her bag, she grinned. "That's OK. I'm sure I can find a few things around here. I think I've got clean pajamas upstairs. We'll hang your clothes up to dry overnight. Now, why don't we get you both a warm shower?" She pointed to the staircase down the hall. "At the top of the stairs, turn left. You'll see a bathroom. Body wash, shampoo, towels. It's all there."

Deena and Kat exchanged uncertain glances.

"Well, don't just stand there dripping on my freshly waxed floor. Get on upstairs." Mama Jo smiled, winked, and nodded toward the stairs. "I'll be up in a sec to get you settled into your rooms."

The two hesitated.

"Go on now," the old woman urged.

Reluctantly, Deena and Kat headed upstairs.

* * *

Mama Jo and Blake watched as the two disappeared down the second-floor hallway.

Blake leaned in and whispered, "They seem a bit lost."

Mama Jo nodded.

"I found them on the side of the road. Couldn't leave them there."

"You're a good man, Blake."

He frowned.

"Now, don't start that. I know it, and everyone else knows it. Someday you'll know it too."

Blake studied the floor.

Mama Jo glanced back up the stairs. "It's kinda strange...out in this mess, but they seem nice enough."

Grinning, Blake whispered, "Yeah." He let the word linger, hanging in the silence. "The mom's a bit intense." He glanced up toward the top of the stairs. "But she seems to love her daughter."

"Well, I'd better get them somethin' dry to put on."

Blake nodded. "I've gotta go. Got an early morning. Can you tell them I'll be here between eleven and noon to pick them up?"

Mama Jo smiled and placed a feathery hand on his arm. "Leave it to me. I'll take care of everything." When she smiled, the furrows at the corners of her mouth deepened.

"You always do." Blake smiled once more. "Well, I'd better go." He reached for the door. "'Night."

"Good night." The old woman waved a frail hand as Blake was swallowed up by the storm.

She pushed the door against the wind and latched it securely. Then she moved in slow motion down the hallway and up the stairs. As she made her way, she couldn't be sure whether the quiet creaking sound with each step was the worn, wooden stairway or the grating of bone on bone as she moved. _Never mind_ , she thought. _It's old age all the same._

At the top of the stairs, she found Deena standing outside the closed bathroom door. The sounds of running water and the young girl's lilting voice swirled in harmony. "She's got a beautiful voice," Mama Jo said.

"Didn't get it from me." Deena stood there dripping.

"Take a seat while I get you some dry clothes. No need to waste a perfectly good chair." Mama Jo motioned to a chair upholstered in a bright floral pattern.

Deena shook her head. "I'm too wet. I don't want to ruin it."

"Nonsense. That old thing? Won't happen."

Deena hesitated.

Mama Jo patted the chair. "Come on now. Sit while I get you some dry things."

Deena sighed and settled into the chair.

Mama Jo smiled and disappeared into a room down the hall. Light replaced the darkness framed by the doorway. Moments later, Mama Jo returned with a stack of folded pajamas. "They're old and probably not the right sizes, but they're clean and dry." She handed them to Deena. "See what works best. When the two of you are showered and dressed, come on downstairs and bring your wet things. I don't have a dryer. My husband was a frugal man." Mama Jo turned her head to gaze at a framed portrait hanging in the hallway. "Whenever I asked Buster to buy a dryer, he'd say, 'God gave us sunlight for drying clothes. We don't need no dryer.' After a while, I quit asking." Her voice sounded tired. She turned back to Deena as her face brightened. "But I've got a wooden rack downstairs that we can hang your clothes on. They should be dry by morning." Mama Jo started off down the hallway, stopped, and turned. "Oh, I forgot." She motioned toward the lit doorway. "One of you can stay in this bedroom. There's another—"

"One bedroom will be fine."

"But—"

"I want to keep my little girl with me."

Mama Jo nodded. "Of course, but it's only a double bed—"

"That's plenty of room for us. Thanks."

Mama Jo blinked. "Well, then..." She motioned to the open doorway. "Here's your room. Make yourself comfortable and come on down when you're ready." The faint metallic sound of a buzzer rose from the open stairway. "Oh my, the cookies!" She hobbled downstairs to the faint creaking sounds of old age.

* * *

Deena sat alone in the hallway. In the silence, she studied the framed photo on the wall. It was a studio portrait. A younger couple sat in a tight pose, the woman's head tilted toward the man. Despite her younger age, there was no mistaking that the woman was Mama Jo back when she was just Jo or Joanna or maybe Josephine. She had a bright smile on her face. Sitting next to her was a large man, with broad shoulders, a round face, and short-cropped hair. His countenance was stern, his mouth straight as a razor. His eyes were dark and penetrating. Deena guessed the portrait hadn't been his idea. Maybe he was too frugal for professional photos.

The faint scent of cinnamon and vanilla drifted up the stairwell and danced in the air. Deena could almost taste the cookies. She smelled another scent, very light. What was it? Lavender? Yes, lavender. Her grandmother loved lavender. Like a member of the family, the aroma greeted her every time she entered her grandmother's house. Deena closed her eyes, drawing in deep memories of her past. It was like finding an old friend she thought she'd lost forever. Perhaps one who had moved away when there was still so much promise in life. Moved away, leaving an empty space that couldn't be made whole and leaving that promise unfulfilled. Years later, that void as unremarkable as the threadbare places in a favorite pair of jeans, always there but never noticed. And then, on an unremarkable day, on an ordinary street, she might turn a corner, and there would be that lost friend, found. Deena's heart raced. She couldn't explain it, but right now it was as if she had found that old friend.

# Chapter 3  
Milk and Cookies

As Mama Jo shuffled through the kitchen door, the oven buzzer was joined in off-key harmony by a whistling gust of wind that pelted the windows with rhythm-less rain. The screen door danced in the frenzy, banging against the house. Mama Jo jumped at the sound. "That door." She grabbed a frayed hot pad, swung open the oven door, pulled out the tray of cookies, and laid them to rest. Next, she rushed in old age's slow motion toward the kitchen door. As she opened the wooden inner door, the wind sprayed her and the linoleum floor. Her feet slid as she fought to close the screen door against the rain. If the glass panels had been in it, she probably would have lost the battle and perhaps the glass itself. With the advent of warmer weather, she had removed the glass. The screen mesh offered only minor resistance against the gusting wind. She managed to latch it and close the wooden door behind it. She wasn't sure how long it would hold. The catch had needed to be replaced for a while, and she scowled at the thought that she had let it go.

Crossing the kitchen, Mama Jo grabbed the towel that hung by the sink and dabbed at her face and arms. As she glanced up, she caught sight of Deena and Kat. They could have been circus clowns. Deena's pajamas were snug, and the top came just short of covering her navel. The pants were tight through the hips, and the legs fell three inches short of her ankles. _High waters. How appropriate._ Mama Jo smiled at her silent quip, then shifted her gaze to Kat, who was being swallowed whole by two monsters. Her body and arms were lost in the baggy top, and the pants legs puddled on the floor, her feet lost in the waterfall of cloth. That's when Mama Jo noticed the bag of wet clothes in Deena's hand.

"Land sakes. I forgot about your wet things." She shuffled over to the washer and pulled out a folded wooden frame that rested next to it. She unfolded it like an accordion to reveal a rack with long, horizontal wooden dowels. "You can bring your things over here and hang them. They should be dry by morning." She smiled at Deena, who stood motionless. "Come on now. They're not going to dry themselves."

The kitchen was a large room. An old washer stood along the wall nearest the back door. Next to the washer was a long counter with a sink. Cabinets ran below and above. At the other end of the counter stood the refrigerator. Rather than the square, angular design of modern refrigerators, the edges of the door were rounded. The once-gleaming white finish now looked chalky. At the end of the room stood a large oak buffet. The glass panes rippled in the green imperfection of long forgotten years. A heavy, circular claw-foot table perched in the center of the room, surrounded by tall wooden chairs with carved spindle backs and headrests, the details smooth from wear. The seats were a woven, frayed wicker.

Deena moved past the table, withdrew the few items of clothing from the bag, and draped them over the wooden rack. Mama Jo opened the oven door and pulled back as a blast of heat rushed past her. She lifted a tray of unbaked cookies from the stovetop and slid it into the open oven. The old woman looked up to find Kat still standing in a puddle of pajamas in the doorway. "Don't just stand there, sugar." She motioned to the table. "Have a seat and I'll get you some cookies."

Kat smiled.

"Milk?"

Kat nodded as she sloshed toward the table. Finished hanging the wet clothes, Deena turned. Mama Jo motioned her to the table as well. "You want milk or coffee? I got soda...or maybe tea? I always have a cup of chamomile tea before bedtime. Otherwise I just toss and turn."

Deena closed her eyes. _Milk and cookies._ Her voice caught. "Milk would be great."

Mama Jo set plates before them and placed a platter of cookies in the center of the table, followed by two large glasses of cold milk. Mama Jo noticed Deena gazing into the etched crystal of the glass as if it held the secrets of her past and her future. "They're real crystal," she said.

Deena blinked and looked up. "I know. My grandmother had some just like this." She lifted the glass to her lips.

Mama Jo turned to the stove and removed the whistling kettle, poured the steaming water into a cup, and dropped in a tea bag. "So how are the cookies?" she said, shuffling to the table.

Kat, her cheeks bulging with cookie number four, grinned and nodded. Deena studied the cookie, turning it in her hand. She brought it short of her lips and drew in the fresh-baked fragrance. She closed her eyes as she savored her first bite.

"I loved snickerdoodles when I was a little girl." Deena said.

"Well, judging from the look on your face, they must be OK." Mama Jo picked up a cookie and took a bite. "Yep, good enough for the Fest." She lifted her cup of tea. Outside, a gust of wind whistled in the eaves of the old house. "Nasty weather out there. What brought y'all out in this mess?" Mama Jo peered over the lip of the cup, studying Deena as she sipped.

Deena paused, eyeing the woman. "What beautiful china."

Mama Jo grinned broadly as she lowered the cup and turned it for Deena to see. "You think so?"

"Absolutely."

"That's what I thought when I saw it at a flea market up at Chincoteague. Got the whole set."

"Really? I can't believe anyone would want to part with china that beautiful."

Mama Jo beamed. "Their loss is my gain. I guess some people don't appreciate antiques." Her smile vanished. "Just 'cause you're old doesn't mean you're not worth somethin'." She nodded. Looking at Kat whose mouth was full, she asked, "How old are you?"

Before Kat could swallow to answer, Deena interjected. "She's eight. Turns nine in October."

Mama Jo's mouth hung open for a moment as she glanced from Kat to Deena and back to Kat. Finally, she settled on Deena. "Land sakes, child, you don't look old enough to have an eight-year-old. You couldn't be a day past twenty-five." She glanced at Kat again. "How old were you when you had this little one?"

Deena hesitated then gasped. "Oh! I almost forgot. The man who brought us here, what's his name again?"

"Blake."

"That's right, Blake. Did Blake say when he'd be picking us up tomorrow?"

"Oh, sorry. I was supposed to tell you. He'll be here between eleven and—"

The gusting wind rushed stronger, and the song in the eaves rose an octave, followed by a loud bang. Deena jumped, sending her glass spinning across the table in a wash of milk. Her face went as white as the liquid that ran in rapid streams across the table. She was on her feet, her legs trembling as she steadied herself with both hands on the table. Mama Jo grabbed a towel but stood still as the milk cascaded onto the floor. Instead, she fixed her gaze on Deena. "Are you OK? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Deena focused intently on the door. Her breathing came in gasps. "What...was...that?"

"Screen door. Should've had that latch fixed long ago. Might even have to replace the door now." Mama Jo was mopping up the milk from the table.

Deena's breathing came in steadier but still audible waves.

"Sit down. I'll get you a fresh glass of milk."

Deena shook her head. "Thanks, but I think I'm done for the night. Come on, Kat. Let's get you to bed." She looked up at Mama Jo. Deena's breathing was now even, but her face was ashen and her eyes still wide.

"Are you sure? Because—"

"No. That's all right. I think Kat's eaten plenty."

With swollen chipmunk cheeks, Kat chewed, swallowed, and tipped up her glass to drain the last drops of milk. She smiled—her white teeth speckled with crumbs, encircled by a white smudge of milk on her lips. Kat spoke. "Thanks. Those were the best cookies."

"Yes, thanks. They were." Deena placed her hand on Kat's shoulder. "Come on, Kat. Let's get to bed."

"You're welcome." Mama Jo stood, milk dripping from the towel in her hand. She watched the two leave the room. Kat might sleep, but Mama Jo saw something all too familiar in Deena's eyes. The old woman frowned. Like oil and vinegar, fear and sleep never mix well, she thought.

* * *

Deena scanned the bedroom from the doorway. A small, canopied, four-poster bed jutted from the opposing wall. A nightstand with a floral table lamp stood on each side. Running parallel to the bed was the exterior wall, with two heavily draped windows facing the street. Between them, a large oak chest of drawers stood sentinel, while a sturdy dresser ran along the wall to her right. Kat ran and flopped, bouncing, on the edge of the bed. "This is the softest bed in the world."

Deena closed the door behind her. "Kat, come give me a hand." She moved to the other end of the dresser. On it stood several framed photos of Jo and Buster. They showed the couple at different stages of their lives, but there was one constant. In each photo, Jo beamed and her husband glared. Deena picked each one up, examined it, then placed it facedown on the dresser.

"What are you doing, Mommy?"

"We're going to push this dresser in front of the door. I don't want to break the glass in the picture frames."

"In front of the door? Why?"

"So no one can open it."

Kat's lower lip quivered. "Mommy, you're scaring me." Tears trickled down her cheeks.

Deena cupped Kat's face and wiped her tears with her thumbs. "Just being safe."

"And that car. Why did we take it?"

"Look, baby, we just borrowed it. I told you I'll explain it all when you're older. Just trust me, OK?"

Kat nodded, but the tears continued.

Deena smiled. "We've got this nice room and a soft bed to sleep in tonight. Let's enjoy it."

Kat managed a smile.

"Just help me be double sure we're safe, OK?"

"Safe from what?"

"Just safe." Deena looked into the little girl's moist eyes. "Can you do that for me?"

Kat nodded.

"That's my girl." Deena grabbed one end of the dresser. "Now, you pull that end and I'll push." With some effort, they slid the heavy piece of furniture far enough to block the door.

Deena turned off all the lights except one lamp on a nightstand, and the two settled into bed.

"Mommy?"

"Yes, baby?"

"Will we ever have a house like this?"

"Maybe," Deena said, but her voice lacked conviction.

"Mommy?"

"Yes?"

"I'm tired of moving all the time."

As Deena exhaled, it was as if all life within her exited with that breath. "I know, baby. So am I." The wind whooshed through the leaves in the trees outside the windows, and the rain pounded the glass. Deena turned to Kat, who, in a moment, had slipped into a slumber where she lived in a big house with soft, bouncy beds and milk and warm cookies in the kitchen. _Dream_ , Deena thought. C _hildhood is a time for that._

At times throughout the night, the wind howled in the eaves and the rain clawed at the windows. Each time, Deena jumped, sitting upright. She'd blink, trying to get her bearings. A few times she stumbled to the window and peered through the closed blinds to the street below. Satisfied that it was empty, she slipped back into bed. Pulling Kat close, she wrapped her arms protectively around her as the storm prowled just outside the windows.

# Chapter 4  
Questions

Light streamed through the slats of the blinds like sharp, gleaming razor blades. They sliced through the dark room, heightening the pain that raged in Deena's head. She closed her eyes and brought her hands to her temples, rubbing them gently. The faint aroma of bacon and freshly brewed coffee filled the air. There was a knock on the door.

"Breakfast is almost ready if y'all want to eat." Mama Jo's voice was too cheerful.

Deena moaned. "OK, we'll be down in a minute."

"You all right?"

"Yeah, just a headache."

"Well, come on down. I've got somethin' to take care of that."

Deena woke Kat. After sliding the dresser back and setting the pictures in place, they headed downstairs.

The table was set with china and nice silverware. Mama Jo busied herself with plates of scrambled eggs, bacon, and pancakes. Glancing at the two framed by the kitchen doorway, the old woman called out, "Well, don't just stand there. The food's gonna get cold." She motioned with her head. "Since you liked the china so much, I decided we'd use it this morning." Mama Jo smiled.

As Deena took a seat, Mama Jo set a blue-and-white box next to her. Deena opened it and pulled out a paper sleeve filled with white powder. She turned it over, examining it. "What's this?"

"BC. It's for your headache."

"Powder? How do I take it?"

"Just put it on your tongue and wash it down with some water."

Deena grimaced. "Ugh. I can't do that. I need pills. Do you have any?"

Mama Jo shook her head as she brought the coffee pot to the table. "Coffee?"

Deena nodded, still staring in disgust at the powder.

"Morrison's is just around the corner. They carry a little of everything. You should be able to get somethin' there." Mama Jo poured two steaming cups, returned the pot, and sat down. She smiled, watching Kat eat. "The girl's got an appetite."

"She doesn't get good food very often."

"Nothin' special, just eggs." Mama Jo sipped from her cup. "I think your clothes are dry. After breakfast, you can pack up and change."

Deena ate silently as Kat shoveled in more eggs.

Mama Jo leaned in. "I guess you've got family in Baltimore."

No response.

Mama Jo studied Deena. "Well, at any rate, you've got several hours before Blake comes by. You're welcome to watch TV while you wait."

"Thanks, I think I'll try that store you mentioned. Get something for my head."

"A thing as young as you shouldn't get headaches."

Again, no response from Deena.

"No, child, you're much too young for headaches."

Deena continued to eat.

"You certainly seem too young to have a girl as old as this one." Mama Jo motioned toward Kat with her fork.

Deena's glance was cold.

"Well, there I go talkin' on and on. Buster used to say I was the cause of global warming—hot air and all." The corners of Mama Jo's mouth rose slightly, the shape of a smile with the feeling of a frown. The morning sunlight poured through the windows. Time ticked by on the rooster clock hung above the sink. Breakfast passed to the silence of silverware clinking on china.

# Chapter 5  
The Bus

Deena pushed open Morrison's glass door to the tinkling of a bell hung from the inside handle. She stood with Kat surveying the cramped aisles of food items. A large man, maybe midforties, was stacking cans of beans on a shelf. He must have been close to seven feet tall and was broad and solid. His salt-and-pepper hair was closely cropped. He turned toward them. "Can I help y'all?"

"Aspirin?"

He began to motion toward a row of shelves but stopped as he cocked his head and examined Deena closely. "You must be the lady stayin' with Mama Jo." He smiled.

Deena rolled her eyes. _Small towns_ , she thought. "The aspirin?"

The man continued to study her face. "You're purty."

"What?"

"You look like my mama. She was purty too." He reached into his back pocket.

Deena glanced around uncomfortably. Leaning in, she whispered to Kat, "Come on. Let's go."

Just as she turned, a smaller, older man appeared from a back room. "Enos, leave the lady alone. She didn't come here to hear about your mama."

Enos had fished a faded Polaroid from his back pocket and was holding it out for Deena to view. In it, a young woman and her son stood on a dock, calm water in the background. The boy was maybe eight or nine, but dwarfed the woman. There was no doubt that it was Enos. "See? Mama was purty just like you." Enos grinned broadly.

"Enos, I said to leave the lady alone. You finished shelvin' those cans?"

Enos nodded.

"Well, then, go in back and bring out the box of paper towels and get them shelved."

Enos wiped the photo against his shirt as if cleaning it, then stuffed it back into his pocket. "Skip, are the paper towels in the blue box or the red box?"

"Blue. Now, go take care of it so I can help this lady." Enos lumbered into the back room. Once he was out of sight, Skip lowered his voice. "Sorry, he doesn't mean any harm. He's a gentle giant. Got a big heart, but God didn't give him much up here." Skip tapped his forefinger against his temple. "So what can I get you?"

"Aspirin," Deena said.

"Yes, ma'am." Skip pointed. "This aisle right here. All the way down on the end."

Deena found the small selection of pain relievers. The bell on the door tinkled. The color drained from her face as she spun around. She sighed in relief as an elderly woman waved to Skip and headed to the refrigerated section toward the back. Trembling, Deena took her purchase to the register and glanced around. "Say, is there a bus that runs from here to Baltimore or Washington...or anywhere?"

Skip chuckled. "Here? In this postage stamp of a town? No, sorry. We're so off the beaten path that sometimes I get lost just tryin' to get home."

"Yeah, one time I got lost and Skip had to find me." Enos had emerged from the back room with a large box.

"I remember that day. You were halfway to Cape Charles." Skip chuckled then stopped. "Enos, I said the _blue_ box."

Enos stood for a moment, staring at the cardboard box with the red lettering of a toilet paper brand. "Sorry, Skip." He lumbered out of sight again.

As Skip rang up the aspirin, he commented quietly, "You know, I really don't need the help, but he needs the work. Ever since his mama passed, me and three others been givin' him a few hours each week. We kinda share takin' care of him." Skip smiled and handed Deena her change. "Have a good day."

Just as she reached the door, Skip called out, "Hey."

Deena turned.

"If you're still interested in a bus, there's a gas station about ten miles up the highway in Exmore that serves as a stop."

Enos reemerged, this time with the blue box. "The bus?" He put down the box, his eyes wide. "Are you taking the bus?"

Deena didn't reply.

"My mama took the bus. She's visitin' Jesus."

Deena glanced over at Skip. He grimaced and shrugged.

"If you see my mama, will you tell her I miss her?"

Skip sighed. "This nice young lady ain't gonna visit Jesus."

Enos's shoulders slumped, and his face fell. He turned and picked up the box of paper towels. Deena turned as well and pushed through the door. _Skip doesn't know how right he is_ , she thought.

Deena and Kat walked toward the turnoff to Mama Jo's. What she couldn't see in the storm last night was the shoreline running parallel to the road and the dark water of the Chesapeake Bay just beyond. The lapping of the waves sang a lullaby in the warm morning sunlight. They passed a long, squat metal building. Large, weathered letters painted on the siding declared, jimmie's wholesale seafood. Two large mounds of clamshell fragments stood in the parking lot. Several deadrise workboats were moored next to the building. These were the angular, muscular-looking commercial fishing boats of the Chesapeake Bay. Just beyond Jimmie's was a small marina where workboats and pleasure boats gently rocked in their moorings below the shrill call of the gulls that spun in circles above.

Turning the corner, Deena found Mama Jo tending to her storm-beaten flowers. The white picket fence, the flower beds, the large Victorian-style house, and the kindly old woman—it was so much like her grandmother's home. It had been her safe place when she was a child. Even later in life, it was her rock when the world around her was quicksand. A quiet, loving place in her mind when the outside world was filled with cruelty and pain. What had Skip said? So off the beaten path you could get lost just trying to find it? Could this be a safe place? Her safe place?

Looking several houses past Mama Jo's, she noticed a rusted white sign dangling awkwardly by one corner from a peeling wooden real-estate signpost. Deena pulled Kat along as they passed Mama Jo's house. Drawing closer, she barely made out the faded, hand-scrawled message in front of the house: for rent: inkwire next door.

The building was a small, squat, gray rancher. One shutter was missing and another hung at a strange angle. The remaining shutters were years past seeing a paintbrush. The roof was missing shingles, and the brick chimney was black with soot. It wasn't a thing of beauty, but nothing could be more beautiful to Deena right now than a safe place.

Down the street, Mama Jo watched Deena and Kat curiously.

# Chapter 6  
The Snake

The two men peered through the dark tinted windows of the black sedan. The sunlight struggled to make it in to where they intently watched the glass door of Beach Pizza across the way. At eleven, an aproned figure unlatched the door and flipped the closed sign to open. The driver reached for the door handle.

His passenger stopped him. "You're sure this was the pizza place?"

The driver nodded. "The car had one of those light-up signs on the roof."

As the driver opened the door, the passenger growled, "Fry!"

Hearing his name, the driver glanced toward the voice from the passenger seat, Fry smirked. "Don't worry. I've got this."

"You'd better."

Fry closed the car door and crossed the lot. He was tall and lean. Despite that, his arms, shoulders, and chest were muscular, as if he lifted weights. He wore a T-shirt that displayed an electric-blue lightning bolt and "JOLT" in darker blue letters. His blond hair fell straight in bangs and was slightly long in the back, and his face possessed the strong angular lines of a TV-show lifeguard. With his tanned skin and dark sunglasses, he might have been a model for surf products.

Fry pushed through the door. As he entered, a mechanical ding alerted a young man, who was scurrying about. The employee's flat response to the chime came before he even turned toward Fry. "Welcome to Beach Pizza, best pizza in Virginia Beach. What can I get you?"

Fry eyed the man through his dark sunglasses. "Medium cheese pizza."

"Would you like hot wings with that?"

He shook his head. "Just pizza."

"Great. It'll be just a few minutes." The aproned young man stepped over to the prep table and worked a ball of dough into a flat circle.

"I hear one of your drivers got jacked last night," Fry remarked.

The young man laughed as he spread the sauce and sprinkled it with cheese. Then he slipped the pizza into the oven.

"What's so funny?"

"Dumbass left his car running while he went into an apartment building to deliver. How stupid is that?"

"Yeah, stupid."

The aproned man glanced at Fry, who returned a friendly smile.

"So did they find the car?" Fry asked.

"That's the other stupid thing." The young man chuckled. "The gas gauge was broken, stuck on full." He laughed again. "The other dumbass, the one who stole the car?"

"Yeah?"

"Ran out of gas in the middle of that storm."

"Really?"

"Yeah, in Podunk. Guess they got a nasty surprise." He was grinning and nodding. "That's what you get for stealin' a car."

"Podunk? Where?"

"Eastern Shore. Just made it across the Bay Bridge Tunnel before the gas gave out."

"Whereabouts?" Fry asked.

"Police told my buddy it was somewhere just past Cape Charles."

The young man opened the oven, slid the pizza out, boxed it, and sliced it. "That's twelve seventy-one."

Fry placed a twenty on the counter and picked up the box. "Keep the change," he said, then pushed out the door. As he crossed the lot to the sedan, he dumped the box and pizza in a trash can.

He slid into the driver's seat and was swallowed by the darkness. "The guy said she ran out of gas on the Eastern Shore."

The raspy voice from the passenger seat asked, "Where?"

"Near Cape Charles."

Another breathy rasp. "Drive."

"But that was over twelve hours ago. She could've—"

"Whose fault is that?" The passenger studied his fisted right hand. A tattooed anaconda wrapped around his muscular arm, with the head extending over the backs of his fingers.

"I told you my car was parked two blocks away. By the time I got back, she'd ditched the pizza sign from the top of—"

Fry caught a flash of the serpent's reflection in the windshield as it lunged toward him. As its strong jaws struck, he jerked backward, his head pinned against the headrest. He frantically clawed at the head of the snake, trying to free his throat. Gasping. Choking. His feet kicking. The inked serpent released the death grip. Coughing, Fry reached for his throat, sucking in air.

"I said drive."

Still coughing, Fry nodded and put the car in gear.

The raspy voice from the passenger seat snickered. "Eastern Shore. It's perfect. A narrow strip of nothing lost between the ocean and the bay." He laughed again. "For miles, there's only one road in and one road out." His fingers flexed swiftly, like the jaws of a snake snatching a rodent. "It's the perfect mousetrap for such a bad little mouse." He inhaled slowly, as if taking in a sweet scent, and his tongue slithered over his lips. "I can almost taste her." He closed his eyes. "After all these years...almost taste her."

# Chapter 7  
A Safe Place

Deena couldn't put her finger on it. She felt an unease that bordered on queasiness. The kind of feeling she got anytime she watched a slug slithering along the pavement, leaving a slimy trail in its wake. She shivered at the thought. She wanted to look away from the source of her distaste but almost feared to take her eyes off him. He was a short man, more plump than stocky. His hair, the little that was left, was slicked back in a feeble attempt to cover his pale scalp. He wore a faded blue T-shirt that was strained to the limit near his round waist. Dark grease stains, perhaps from last night's dinner, stood in splotches. She picked up the distinct smell of crab, also possibly last night's meal.

"So you want to rent the place, cash up front, no paper work, right?" His dull brown eyes were fixed on her breasts as he spoke.

Even though Deena hid herself in a baggy sweatshirt and warm-up pants, it was difficult for her to completely disguise her figure. Most men at least tried to make eye contact during conversation, but he continued to speak to her breasts. She crossed her arms and slumped her shoulders, trying to disappear within her clothes.

"I don't know." He ran his hand across his scalp.

Deena suspected his hesitation was for effect.

"Well, then, I think it'll need to be an 'as-is' rental. I can't afford to sink money into the place without a contract. Last guy who rented this place just up and left, no notice or nothin'." He slapped his hand on the worn fabric of an old gray sofa, sending up a faint cloud of dust. "Some of this stuff was his. You're welcome to use it. He was a sick pile of bones. Never showed his face outside. A few weeks later he was gone. Probably wandered off and died somewhere."

Deena looked around the bleak little living room, with its dirty walls, creaky wooden floors, and sparse furnishings. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing...and no paper work or questions. The place would do. She glanced at her feet, then jumped, shrieking, "Kill it! Kill it!" In an instant, she was up on the coffee table, her feet dancing wildly.

The man jumped, his eyes darting around the room. He followed her laser gaze, which was focused on the floor. There, at his feet, a large spider was crawling toward the wall. He pointed. "That?"

"Yes, kill it! Kill it!" Deena screamed.

"It's just a granddaddy long legs. It won't hurt you."

"Kill it!"

He brought his sneakered foot down on the spider and mumbled, "City girl."

"Is it dead?" Deena gasped.

"Yep, dead."

Cautiously watching the floor, she stepped down from the table. Her eyes swept the room from corner to corner. "Are there more?"

"Probably."

"I hate spiders."

"There's a news flash."

"I'm not sure I can stay here if there are spiders here."

"Spiders are everywhere. Just get some bug spray. They sell it at Morrison's."

Deena's ragged breathing was beginning to settle into a rhythm. "Sorry, what were you saying before?"

"Before the spider?"

"Yeah."

"Well, the sickly guy who rented this place last just up and left."

Deena nodded for a moment, and then it hit. "Wait, you mean he left without telling you?"

"Yep."

"You changed the locks, right?"

Her prospective landlord glanced at the door then back at her breasts. "No need. He ain't comin' back." His gaze shifted to the open door as he ran his hand over his scalp again. "Of course, if you'd like to pay for it, I'll change the locks."

"Shouldn't that be part of the rental?"

He just grinned at her breasts. "Yeah, and so is a credit check, security deposit, and lease. Like I said, no lease—'as-is' rental."

As uneasy as he already made her, the reminder that he'd have a key to her house sent a chill through her, especially since he lived next door. "No, thanks. I'm good." She'd never changed a lock before, but she'd do it herself and keep the keys. How hard could it be? She'd seen locksets in hardware stores.

He grinned. "Well, all that's left is to seal the deal with cash—two hundred fifty for the first week."

_What a weasel,_ she thought. "Two fifty a week for this dump?"

"That's my discount rate. I normally charge twelve hundred a month."

Deena hesitated.

"If you don't want it, I've got a couple others interested—"

"Nobody's interested in this place except the termites," someone said.

Startled, Deena jerked her head toward the voice. Mama Jo stood in the doorway. "This place has been sittin' empty for over a year, and you were lucky to rent it then."

"Not so. I've got several offers."

"You say, do you? Well, then, she can rent a room at my place for a hundred a week. Come on, child. I've got a place for you."

"But that's just a room." He swept his hands around. "This is a house. Nice and private."

"It's a dump. Come on, Deena." Mama Jo motioned with her hand.

As the two headed out, the man shouted, "Wait!"

Deena and Mama Jo turned back.

He ran his hand over his stubbled chin and looked around the room. "Since she's a special friend of yours, I'll give her my best discount...one fifty a week."

"Let's go," Mama Jo said, staring him down.

"OK, OK, a hundred...but that's it."

Mama Jo turned to Deena. "Well?"

Deena looked around the small, dingy room. "We'll try it for a week."

"First week's due up front." The man held out his hand.

Deena reached into her backpack and brought out a hundred-dollar bill.

He held it up to the light, turning and inspecting it. "You got quite a steal. They don't call me Bighearted Stan for nothin'."

Mama Jo laughed. "They don't call you that at all."

Stan stuffed the bill in his pants pocket and scowled. As he walked past, he muttered, "Busybody old woman needs to keep outta people's business."

Deena looked at Mama Jo, who winked. As Deena started to close the door, the knob came off in her hand. By this time, Stan was halfway to his house. She held up the broken piece and called out, "The doorknob came off."

Stan never turned. He wave his hand as he yelled, "As-is. Your problem, not mine." Then he disappeared into his house.

Deena's shoulders sagged as she stared at the knob in her hand.

"Don't worry," Mama Jo said. "I know someone who can fix that for you."

Deena shook her head. "No, I've got it."

"OK, but—"

"I've got it."

"All right, but if you change your mind—"

"I know. You know someone."

Mama Jo nodded as she looked around the room. "Well, I'm gonna go home and fix you and your girl a nice supper. Kind of a housewarming."Her smile faded.

"You don't have to do that."

"I'm not doing it 'cause I have to. I'm doing it 'cause I want to."

Deena studied her for a moment. "Why are you being so kind? You don't even know us."

"Sure I do. I met you last night. Besides, you don't have to know someone to be kind to them."

Deena was silent.

Mama Jo stepped outside. "I'll be back in a bit with supper."

Deena watched her shuffle off. With a start, she glanced around. "Kat?" No answer. "Kat!" The girl appeared at the door.

"What, Mommy?"

"Get in here! You scared me to death."

"Can I play with Sarah?"

Deena blinked, and her eyes narrowed. "Who?"

"Sarah." Kat motioned toward the road. Deena looked beyond her and saw a girl about Kat's age, crouching on the asphalt. She had red hair and freckles and wore a faded gingham dress that was a size too big. She made sweeping lines on the asphalt with pieces of colored chalk. _A roadside Picasso_ , Deena thought with a smile.

Just then, four boys on bikes sped past, barely missing the girl. One of the boys yelled, "Move, splatter face!" The others cackled.

As they turned a corner, she screamed back, "Don't call me that!"

Then they disappeared.

"Please, Mommy? She wants to be my friend."

Deena watched the girl settle back to her art.

"Please?"

"OK, but you stay right out front where I can see you. You understand?"

Kat smiled, nodded, then ran to join Sarah, who was standing now, admiring her work. Deena watched the two girls for a moment. _The innocence of youth. How quickly it passes._ She frowned as she studied the doorknob in her hand, wondering if Morrison's carried locksets as well as bug spray.

# Chapter 8  
Falling Apart

Blake slid out of his car. "Taxi's here." He glanced around. "Where are my passengers?"

Mama Jo snipped a red rose and lifted it to inhale the heady perfume. She grinned. "Don't need the taxi service." She took in the heavy fragrance again. "You know what roses smell like?"

"No, what?"

"Romance."

Blake rolled his eyes.

"What? You think I'm too old for romance?"

Blake went silent.

"Listen." She looked down at her breasts. "The mud flaps might drag the ground." She ran her hand through her unruly white hair. "And there might be rust on the roof." She shifted her hips from side to side. "But there's plenty of giddyup under the hood. Trust me."

Blake burst into laughter and held up his hands. "Oh, I trust you. Believe me."

Mama Jo held up the rose and drew in the sweet scent.

Blake watched with one eyebrow arched. "Why don't they need the taxi service?"

The old lady smiled. "They're staying."

"With you?"

She pointed up the street. "Stan's rental house."

Blake grimaced. "Really?"

"From what I saw inside, looks like it's falling apart."

Blake glanced at the rental and then Stan's house next door. A rusted pickup truck sat in the front yard, hood raised, engine in pieces on the ground. An old rowboat, a gaping hole in the hull, lay haphazardly between the two houses. Graveled bald spots were punctuated by wild spikes of green weeds. "I can just imagine what it looks like inside."

"She'll probably need help with the place." Mama Jo cut her eyes toward Blake.

"I'm sure they'll be OK."

"Not from what I saw inside."

He nodded, studying the rental. "Maybe I'll go check on her."

"Good idea."

As Blake walked down the street, Enos biked past him, wobbling with each turn of the pedals. The bicycle's wheels groaned under his weight. Several young boys on bikes raced around the corner and sped headlong toward him. Enos brought the bike to a stop, cowering and bracing for the impact. The boys whooped and screamed as they split, passing on both sides, just inches from him. Seconds later, he raised his head and looked around to find them gone. Slowly he urged the bike forward, heading out of town.

Blake shook his head. _Poor guy_.

Arriving at the rental, he found Deena sitting on the floor in the open doorway banging on the broken door handle with a hammer.

"Aargh!" Deena screamed, and slung the hammer across the room, the head crashing through the sheetrock wall. As Blake drew closer, she wiped both cheeks with her hands, seemingly mesmerized by the moisture on her fingertips.

Blake stood unnoticed for several seconds. "They're tears."

Deena's head jerked up. "Oh, it's you."

She looked back at her wet fingers and muttered, "Can't be tears. I haven't cried in years."

"Years?"

There was an awkward silence.

Blake shrugged. "Looks like you could use some help." He stepped inside the doorway and frowned. "What's that awful smell? Bug spray?"

"Spiders."

"What?"

"Spiders," Deena said. "The place has spiders."

Blake strode over to where the handle of the hammer stood out from the wall like a dart in a corkboard. He pulled it out, leaving a gash in the drywall. "Nice shot." He chuckled. "Want me to take a look at that?" He motioned toward the door.

Deena glared at him. "I've got it."

Blake looked at the door and nodded. "I can see that."

A long, uncomfortable silence followed.

"Well, I just came by to say I'm glad you're staying. I think you'll like it here."

More silence.

He shifted from foot to foot. "Well...OK, see you around." He stepped outside then turned back, pointing to the door. "Oh, and good luck with that."

Deena watched him disappear down the road. She waited until he was out of earshot, then growled in frustration.

She sat, shoulders slumped, face fallen, staring at the door, when Mama Jo appeared with a glass vase brimming with cut flowers. "Child, you look whipped."

Deena held up the crumpled installation directions. "This doesn't look difficult, but that...that..." She gestured toward the old, broken hardware. "Ugh!" She looked up at Mama Jo. "How much does your fix-it man charge? I don't have a lot—"

"Whatever you want to pay."

"Yeah, right."

"No, seriously. He's not licensed, but he's good. He's done lots of work for me."

"Doesn't sound right," Deena said.

"He doesn't need the money. He's not rich, mind you, but he's got enough."

Deena looked at the door again. "OK. Do you think he can fix this today?"

"Probably." Mama Jo raised the vase of flowers. "Let me set these down and I'll go call him." Her smile seemed mischievous. "And there's a bonus. He's easy on the eyes." She grinned and nodded as she placed the vase on the coffee table, then headed out the door.

Deena called after her. "Hey"

Mama Jo turned.

"Thanks for the flowers."

"Just tryin' to be neighborly." Mama Jo smiled, then turned and left.

Deena stood and glanced around the small living room. She picked up the can of bug spray and walked into the central hall that led to the kitchen, bath, and two bedrooms. In the kitchen, she opened cupboards and drawers. What she saw was eerie. Silverware was neatly stored in one drawer, carving knives in another. Plates, cups, and glasses were arranged in rows in the cupboards. Cereal boxes, cans of vegetables, boxes of pasta, and other items filled the shelves of the small pantry. Who had left all this? It was as if something had snatched the previous tenant up in the middle of a normal day. A chill crept over her as bumps rose on her skin.

Deena jumped at the knocking sound coming from the front door. Still catching her breath, she rounded the corner to find Blake standing in the doorway, a large leather tool belt draped over his left shoulder. He looked like a wrestler with a gaudy championship belt in one of those promotional posters.

"I hear you need some help."

Deena groaned. "You're Mama Jo's fix-it man?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She shook her head and folded her arms. "OK, how much?"

Blake glanced at the door and pursed his lips, as if making a mental calculation. "Well, you've already got the hardware, so it's just labor. How about I install the new lock and you pay me what you think it's worth?"

"That simple?"

He nodded. "Yep, that simple."

"What's the catch?"

"No catch."

Deena's eyes narrowed as she studied the grinning man in the doorway. "OK, I'll be back there if you need anything." She motioned toward the hallway. As Blake knelt to examine the old hardware, she turned to finish her exploration of the house.

Throughout the house, she saw the same unsettling scene. Clean bed linens folded in the closet, along with clean towels. The bedrooms were empty except for inexpensive furniture and several cardboard boxes with "Donation" scrawled in magic marker. Inside were folded men's clothes. Except for the layer of dust that coated everything, the place was neat and tidy. As she opened the closet door in one of the bedrooms, she was distracted by the sounds of banging and Blake grunting, followed by the clanging of metal hitting the floor. She smiled. _Mr. Fix-it_. She spun as she caught movement out of the corner of her eye.

As Blake was installing the new lockset, he heard a scream followed by the hiss of an aerosol can. The fresh odor of floral-scented poison wafted through the room. Blake let out a laugh. "Spiders," he muttered.

Deena called from the other room, "I heard that." She walked into the living room just as Blake finished screwing the new lockset in place.

He tried the inside lock. It held. Then he slid a key in the outside knob and turned it. It unlocked. "There you go, new lock."

Deena held out her hand. "Keys?"

Blake dropped them into her open palm. Looking around the room, he wandered over to one of the windows and fiddled with one of the locks. "This place needs a lot of work."

"The door lock is all I need. Thanks."

He held up a piece of the window lock. "Won't do you any good if the windows don't lock."

Deena frowned.

"I don't have a replacement, but I can fix it so no one can open it until I get a new lock." He looked at the fireplace. Its dark, sooty interior was enclosed by a brick hearth and a raised brick apron that extended into the room. "Got loose bricks here." He tapped the apron with his boot. Two bricks fell to the floor. His cheeks turned red. "I...I can fix that." As he stooped to pick up the bricks, he said, "Hello...what's this?" He reached into the hole in the apron and pulled out a small leather-bound book. After blowing the dust off the cover, he turned it over to study both sides. He flipped the pages; some with handwritten text. "Looks like someone's journal." He tossed it onto the coffee table next to Mama Jo's vase, then carefully placed the bricks back in the fireplace apron.

"Well, if you don't mind fixing the window," Deena said, "I think we'll be done."

Blake nodded. "What about the back door?"

"Back door?"

"Yeah, do you want a new lock on that too?"

Deena looked up at the ceiling in exasperation. She hadn't thought about the back door. Stan would have keys to that as well. "Yeah, but I don't have a lock."

"No problem. I just happen to have one in the car."

"Just happen? Really?"

He smiled. "What? You don't believe in coincidence?"

As Deena cocked her head, Blake laughed and stepped outside.

When he returned, he found her at the kitchen window, looking into the small backyard. Beyond the haphazard quilt of tall weeds and bare dirt, rose a thick wall of trees and choking underbrush, splattered with bright yellow-and-white honeysuckle blossoms.

Deena's brow was furrowed. "Those woods behind the yard. Are there snakes back there?"

"Probably. I used to play back there when I was boy. Saw a few from time to time. There's a clearing beyond the trees where we used to play ball."

Deena stood transfixed at the window.

"Let me guess. You don't like snakes."

"You could say that."

Blake grinned and shook his head as he began removing the back-door fixture, which was more cooperative than the front-door lockset. "It's a good thing I picked you and Kat up when I did last night," he said.

"Yeah, that was a nasty storm."

"No, not the storm. That stalled car not far from where I picked you up? Turns out it was stolen." Blake put down the screwdriver and studied Deena.

She turned from the window and opened a drawer, rearranging the silverware. "Really?"

Still watching, he continued, "Yeah, you could've run into the person who stole it. They could've hurt you or Kat."

"Kat? I need to check on her." Deena rushed out of the kitchen, calling her name.

Blake called back, "She was in the front yard with the Johnson girl."

He waited for Deena to return. She didn't. Turning back to the lockset, he smirked and muttered, "Interesting."

After installing the back-door lock, Blake checked the other windows, then rigged the one in the front room so it wouldn't open. Deena was nowhere to be seen. As he stepped outside, he found her in the front yard. Kat and Sarah sat, picking bouquets of clover. Deena was looking down the street, past the marina and off to the bay, where the sun streaked the sky in reds and yellows. He dangled the backdoor keys. "Sunsets are beautiful here."

Deena took the keys and nodded.

"Well, you've got two new locks. I rigged that one window so it won't open, and I checked all the others. You're locked tight for tonight. I'll be back tomorrow with the hardware for the window."

Deena turned away and wiped both cheeks with one hand. "Thanks."

"If you need anything, just tell Mama Jo. She knows how to reach me."

Deena continued to look away.

"Well, it's getting dark. I gotta go." As Blake walked toward his car, Deena watched, her cheeks glistening in the last rays of sunset.

# Chapter 9  
Supper and a Show

Turning to call Kat inside, Deena spotted Mama Jo struggling with a large wicker basket as she crossed the yard. She rushed toward the old woman and grabbed the handle.

"Thank you, child. I thought I might drop it."

Hefting it, Deena asked, "What's in this thing? Rocks?"

"Just a few meals. Chicken pot pie, a roast, meat loaf, some fresh vegetables."

Deena shook her head. "Oh...we can't—"

"I figured you'd need a little food to get you goin'."

"We can't take this." Deena held the basket out.

Mama Jo shook her head. "I'll never be able to eat all that. You keep it."

Deena sighed. "Thanks."

"So what did you think?"

"Think?"

"Blake in those tight jeans? I told you he was easy on the eyes." She lowered her voice. "I especially like it when he squats." Mama Jo cupped the air with both hands and squeezed while grinning. She winked at Deena. "You can thank me later."

The gray light of dusk was quickly melting into black. A car pulled to a stop, and the passenger window slid down. Blake, in a white dress shirt and tie, sat in the driver's seat, holding up a bouquet of flowers. "I got 'em. Thanks."

Mama Jo waved. The window slid up as he drove off toward the highway.

"Flowers?"

Mama Jo sighed. "While they're in season, I fix up a bunch for his wife every night." She watched his taillights vanish in the distance. "He is one good-lookin' man." She winked again.

"Lusting after another woman's husband, are you?"

Mama Jo glanced back at the road, where the car was now just a memory. "She won't mind."

Deena arched one brow. "Really?"

"Not a bit. She's been dead for over two years." She saw the question in Deena's eyes. "Car crash. He was driving. She died instantly." Mama Jo shook her head. "He can't forgive himself." She motioned toward the road that led out of town. "Every night he gets dressed up like he was that night, and he drives the same route they drove. Every night he places flowers at a small makeshift cross by the side of the road."

" _Every_ night?"

Mama Jo nodded. "Rain or shine."

"For two years?"

The furrows near Mama Jo's eyes deepened. "Guilt's a hard taskmaster."

"Wow. I never would've guessed." Deena nodded slowly. "Must have been returning last night when he picked us up." She thought for a second. "The wedding band?"

The corners of Mama Jo's mouth rose slightly. "You noticed?"

Deena nodded.

"He's never taken it off. She might be gone, but he's still married to her." She grinned. "Oh, there are a few single women around here who've tried to change that, but ..." She looked toward where the car exited town. "Well, you saw."

"Sounds like he's still hurting."

Mama Jo nodded. "I'll let you in on a secret, but you gotta promise not to tell him." Her eyes narrowed.

Deena waited a second. "OK, I promise."

"He tells people that he takes care of me. The truth is I take care of him." She lowered her voice and looked around for any listening ears. "Don't get me wrong. Buster didn't leave me a lot of money when he passed, but his nephew sends me money each month. I got enough to get by. I don't really need any help." Again, she searched for eavesdroppers. "I'm no psychiatrist, but Blake's therapy comes by helping others." She shrugged. "So I let him come over and fix things. Heck, a few times he was getting really low, and I didn't have anything for him to work on." She giggled. "So I broke things to give him somethin' to do." The smile disappeared. "Don't ever stick a metal skewer in the fan of your heating unit." She shook her head. "I thought I'd freeze before he got that thing fixed. He kept saying he couldn't figure out how the fan blade got so chewed up."

Deena rolled her eyes. "Thanks for the advice. I'll be sure not to do that." She took in a deep breath and hefted the basket. "Well, thanks again for the food." Her eyes glistened in the faint light. "I'd better get Kat inside."

"I'll leave you two to supper." Mama Jo waved and started down the walk. She called back, "Remember, watch for the squat."

Deena chuckled, but her laughter trailed off as she looked down at the basket. _There's no such thing as a free meal_ , she thought. Shadows from her past replayed her last "free meal" as she stared at the basket in her hands.

* * *

Deena gagged, coughing and sputtering half-chewed food onto the table.

" _Are you OK?" Concern swept across the handsome face of the stranger sitting across from her._

Deena took a sip of her drink and coughed again.

The man smiled. "You need to slow down. That food's not going anywhere." He chuckled.

Deena gave him a faint smile as she took another sip.

" _So how long have you been on the streets?"_

Attacking the hamburger once again, she glared at him as she chewed.

" _Sorry. Not trying to pry." Although the stranger was older, his boyish grin made him appear young. He motioned toward the street beyond the restaurant window. Heavily bundled individuals hurried, hunched against the blustery wind. "It's just that I was a teen about your age when I found myself living on the streets."_

Still chewing, Deena looked up, her eyes softening.

The man nodded. "Yep. I'd probably be dead right now if someone hadn't helped me out." He glanced out the window then turned back with that boyish smile. "Now I spend my time helping others get off the street. It's kinda my mission."

Outside, a police officer peered through the window. Deena's head dropped as she turned her back toward him. The officer hurried off, carried by the wind.

The stranger smiled. "The cop's gone."

Deena stole a sideways glance out the window.

" _So you've had a few scrapes with the law," he continued. "I get it. You're starving, so you take food. You're freezing, so you lift a coat. I've been there."_

Deena stuffed a handful of French fries into her mouth as she continued to size up the man sitting across the table.

He smiled. "Better than scrounging through a dumpster for food, huh?"

Still working on the fries, Deena nodded.

" _Anyway, I figured buying you a meal was the least I could do."_

Outside, the fierce February wind whistled, swirling dirt and trash down the bleak sidewalk. The stranger glanced toward the rushing sound. "It's gonna be nasty cold tonight. Single digits." He studied her for a moment. "If you need somewhere warm to stay, you can crash at my place."

Through a mouthful of food, Deena managed, "No, thanks."

The disarming smile returned as he nodded. He called for the check and paid. "Well, I've gotta go." He stood. "My name's Fry. I'm usually around here if you change your mind about getting off the streets." A blast of frigid air cut through the little restaurant as a new customer was swept through the doorway. Fry shivered as he pulled on his jacket. He slipped a pair of gloves from his pocket and placed them on the table. "You might need these tonight."

Deena looked up.

" _Stay warm." Fry smiled and turned to leave._

Deena called out, "Wait."

He turned back with a crooked grin.

* * *

Deena shivered in the chill that swept through the warm June air. Her eyes narrowed as she looked up from the basket to the old woman who worked her way slowly down the street.

# Chapter 10  
Spiders

With supper finished and the dishes cleared away, Deena and Kat worked on moving the twin bed from the back bedroom into the one in the front. Deena brought clean bedding from the closet, and they made the two beds. She sang softly as she tucked Kat in.

"Mommy?"

"What, baby?"

"I like it here. Can we stay?"

"We'll see."

Deena sang Kat to sleep. Then, she slid beneath the covers of the other bed and whispered, "Good night, baby." Moonlight crept through the blinds, casting a faint blue hue in the darkness. Deena watched as the blue light melted into the blackness behind her eyelids.

It was a warm night. Deena tossed and turned beneath the covers. Half asleep, she kicked them to the side. Turning toward Kat, she watched through drooping eyelids as the covers on the other bed rose and fell in time to her daughter's rasping sounds of slumber. Deena drifted off again. The covers brushed lightly against her ankle. She pushed them away. Again, the tickle. She rolled away from the bunched-up covers and fell asleep once more. Somewhere in the haze of half-asleep she felt the hair on her legs and arms. Each hair seemed to be alive and moving. A weightless motion that tickled and prickled.

Eyes closed, she moved her arms and legs. The sensation stopped. Moments later, her skin felt alive with movement. One eyelid crept up just enough to let in light. Something was moving in the blue darkness. The eyelid slid shut. _Something's moving?_ she thought. _Something's moving!_ Deena's eyes flew open. She was afraid to move. Spiders were climbing, crawling, and swarming. They were all over her body. Moving up her arms. Scurrying over her belly and breasts. Big spiders. Long, claw-like legs. She felt movement on her forehead. Just above her eyes, a huge spider crawled into view. The eyes glowed in the blue moonlight. Its fangs opened and closed as it crept forward.

Deena screamed. Springing up, she swiped her hands over her face, arms, body.

"Mommy?"

"Aaaggghhh!" A wild dance of flailing arms and legs in the moonlight.

"Mommy!"

"Aaaggghhh!" Thrashing and scratching wildly.

" _Mom_!"

Gasping and heaving, Deena looked at her outstretched arms then at her daughter, who sat upright in bed.

"Are you having that spider nightmare again?" Kat said, wiping the sleep from her eyes.

Once again, Deena examined her arms, her body, her legs. Then she looked at her bed. She bent over and looked under it. With the forefinger and thumb of her outstretched hand, she gingerly lifted the covers and shook them. No spiders. She exhaled as her trembling body slumped.

Kat yawned, her eyelids half closed. "I'm tired. I'm going back to sleep." She curled up in bed and was quickly swept into a spider-less slumber.

Although the room was warm, Deena shivered. She couldn't stop. She looked at her bed and shuddered more violently. _No more bed tonight_ , she thought. She walked through the small hallway and into the bathroom. In the yellow light, she studied her hair carefully in the mirror. She knew it was stupid, but she had to be sure there were no spiders.

Still trembling, she walked to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out a can of beer, a remnant of the six-pack left behind by the previous tenant. She popped the top, took a long sip, then wandered into the living room, beer in one hand and bug spray in the other. She stood in the middle of the room and scanned each corner for movement. There was none. She checked the sofa carefully and looked underneath, no spiders. Deena released her fear in one long breath and plopped onto the sofa. She took another long sip from the can, gripping it tightly to steady her hand. She surveyed the room—no TV. How she wished she had a TV right now. She glanced at the vase of flowers on the coffee table then noticed the journal Blake had discovered earlier. It had a light cover of dust, but the leather binding didn't seem old. Deena picked it up and shuffled through the pages. Although some were filled with writing, most were blank. They weren't yellowed. The journal had been there a while but not like a hundred years. She tossed the journal onto the coffee table and took another long, slow swallow. The alcohol was beginning to blur the sharp edge of her anxiety. She drummed her fingers on the aluminum can. As she glanced around the room, her eyes again settled on the journal. Taking one more sip, she placed the can on the table. She picked up the leather-bound book, flipped on a lamp, and opened to the first page. Lines of text crawled across the page in a ragged scrawl. The writing appeared labored and shaky, making it as difficult to read as she imagined it had been to write. The title of the first entry seemed odd. She began to read.

Journal: The Walking Dead

I am one of the walking dead. Not as lucky as those flesh-eating monsters that roam the earth eternally. No, my flesh-eating monster lives within. It roams at will, minute by minute. Consuming me from the inside. Stealing what little life is left. My monster? The Big C. Advanced stages. No treatment. What do you do when you're a nobody from a little nowhere town who's accomplished nothing and has no family? What do you do when you're told to "put your affairs in order" and you have no affairs? What do you do when the sum and total of your legacy is secrets and lies?

I can still see it as if it were yesterday. Pastor Tompkins at the pulpit. A warm summer Sunday. A packed house of mostly drowsy parishioners. His fist hammered the pulpit. "And Jesus declared, 'The truth will set you free.'" People amening and nodding in agreement. My father nodding, mostly from exhaustion. Church was his nap time. Pastor Tompkins wasn't known for his stirring sermons, but all the thumping on the pulpit that day caught my dad and a few others between peace in God and peaceful sleep.

As a teenage boy, I didn't spend much time listening in church. If Pastor Tompkins was right and God's elect were "long-suffering," I figured I had a special place in heaven just from sitting through his sermons. Usually I entertained myself by watching other people. There was Miss Jessup, an old spinster, who snuck romance novels into the service and read with the book hidden in the hymnal. Or Mr. Wilmar, a failed artist who now stocked shelves in the grocery store. He pretended to take notes during the services, his head nodding in agreement and his pencil moving quickly in his notebook. He sat in the pew in front of me and I would catch glimpses of his notes. He would sketch unflattering caricatures of the good pastor. Once in a while, they'd make brief appearances on the church bulletin board until they were discovered and removed. But during my senior year of high school, I mostly spent my time studying the profile of a sixteen-year-old girl who sat with her father two rows up and across the aisle. She had soft flowing curls that cascaded over her shoulders and glowed in the sunlight that streamed through the stained-glass windows. Sometimes she'd glance back and catch me watching. When she did, I'd snap my attention to the pulpit and pretend to be listening. I hoped she didn't notice the color rising in my face. Her first day in church, her father caught her glancing toward me. There in church, I saw her wilt in the heat of his glare.

That's why I remember that particular sermon. It was the irony of it all. Truth, lies, and secrets. In a small town, there are only two types of secrets: the ones everybody knows and the ones everybody will soon know. The not-too-well-kept secret was that her daddy was a mean drunk. The adults all knew it, and it wasn't long before I knew it too. I still cringe at what that glare would mean for her.

Of course, the true irony of the sermon came in November, when one of the deacons found Pastor Tompkins at a "pastoral retreat" being conducted at a blackjack table in Atlantic City. It seems the good pastor was reenacting the parable of the unprofitable servant and was attempting to multiply the church's donations. When that truth came to light, he found himself serving twelve months in an orange jumpsuit and performing lawn maintenance by the highway. I'm not sure that at that moment he would have said, "The truth will set you free."

Regardless of the irony I feel the weight of a lifetime of secrets. I have feared and run from the truth my entire life. What has it gotten me? Loneliness and despair. A prisoner of a disease that consumes my body and a regret that consumes my soul. I can only hope that the truth will set me free.

But how can I tell the truth that can't be told? How can I share secrets that can never be said? The release is in the telling, not in the hearing, so I will write. Here in my little book of secrets, I will tell the truth. Someone might find it and read it one day, but by then it will all be irrelevant. As Shakespeare wrote, "It is a tale. Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." This is my tale.

* * *

Deena placed the book in her lap, picked up the can, and finished off the beer. _The truth?_ She snorted. _The truth is a dangerous thing._ Her eyes felt heavy. She closed the book, placed it on the coffee table, and laid her head back. In seconds she was asleep.

# Chapter 11  
The Night Shift

The neon sign flickered o g tel _._ Most of the sign was completely dark. Only these five remaining letters in machipongo motel continued to fight for life. The sad little motel was a squat string of twelve rooms in a row. It had been built in the forties and probably hadn't undergone any renovations since. The once-concrete parking lot was now broken and mostly grass-choked gravel. A beat-up pickup was parked in front of the far end room. A newer pickup with a gun rack sat at the other end, in front of the office. The parking lot was dark. Any thought of exterior lighting had been abandoned years ago. The black sedan slowed, melting into the darkness between the office and the surrounding trees.

Fry spoke. "What a dump."

The passenger nodded. "Just the kind of place she might have landed."

"I'll go check." Fry slid out of the car and walked toward the office.

He stepped through the glass door to find a small check-in desk with a lamp that hung precariously above it. The lamp had recently been duct taped together. The roll of tape sat on the counter. With the exception of the desk, the tiny room was empty. The walls were bare, except for the corners, where the yellowed wallpaper curled. Behind the desk, a doorway led into an even tinier office. A TV played, the volume a bit too loud. The laugh track of some show erupted and subsided with the flickering glow of the screen.

"Anybody here?"

An elderly man shuffled from the back office. He was tall, with a disheveled fringe of white hair framing his balding head. "Yeah?"

"I'm looking for a girl." Fry placed a photo on the counter.

"Haven't seen her."

"You didn't look at the picture."

"I said, 'I haven't seen her.' You want a room or not?"

Fry looked around the small lobby. No cameras—the place was too cheap for security. He smiled and tapped his fingers on the counter. "No, I don't need a room. Sorry to bother you." As he picked up the photo, the night clerk padded back into the office.

A moment later, the clerk jerked around at the sound of the office door closing behind him. A knife blade hovered inches from his face. Fry held the knife in his right hand. With his other hand, he lifted the roll of duct tape, his index finger to his lips. "Shhhh." A stack of worn towels and washcloths sat folded on a small counter. "Take one of those washcloths and stuff it in your mouth."

The clerk's eyes grew wide. His voice cracked as he stammered, "Why?" The blade, now at his throat, pressed into the skin. Blood trickled down his neck.

"Just do it."

The clerk crammed the cloth into his mouth.

"Now, rip off about a foot of the tape." Fry handed the man the roll of duct tape. "Put it over your mouth good and tight."

The old man complied.

A worn wooden chair sat across from the TV. "Sit there and tape your legs to the chair legs. Wind it around a couple times. Make it tight." Fry stood behind the man, the blade of the knife nestled below his chin. Perspiration streamed down the clerk's face onto the sharp edge.

Fry commanded him to tape his right wrist to the wooden armrest. Next, Fry cut a length of tape. "Put your left wrist on the armrest and don't move." With his left hand, he held the knifepoint to the clerk's throat. "That arm moves and you're dead." He fastened the man's left arm to the chair with more tape. Next, he wound the tape around the man's chest and the chair back to secure his torso.

Fry stood up and inhaled. "That's better. Let's try this again." He held up the photo. "This time look at the picture. Look at it good. She would be older now." He waited as the old man blinked, trying to focus. "Have you seen her?"

The old man shook his head.

Fry nodded. "She's not staying here?"

Again, the clerk shook his head.

"Well, that's unfortunate." Fry smiled as he looked around. "Let's see what we have." A small refrigerator sat on the counter next to the towels. He opened it, pulled out a bottle of water, twisted the lid, and swallowed the cold liquid. "Where are my manners? Would you like some? Oh, that's right. Your mouth's full." He chuckled.

He set the bottle down, stepped over to the TV, unplugged it, then cut the power cord with his knife. Then, he shaved the insulation from the ends of the cord and pulled them apart so two separate pieces were coming from the plug, each with bare wire at the end. The clerk's eyes grew wide as he thrashed in the chair. Fry grabbed a towel and soaked it with water from the bottle.

The old man's muffled voice repeated something over and over.

Fry bent down to listen. "It's hard to hear you, old-timer. Speak up." He cackled then listened again. "What's that? You told me the truth?"

The man nodded wildly.

Fry's smile turned cold as he stared into his eyes. "I know." He draped the wet towel over the thrashing man's head. Next, holding the wires apart, he plugged the cord into the wall. He grasped one wire in each hand. "You should've looked at the picture the first time I asked."

* * *

It was a quiet night. The passenger in the black sedan couldn't hear the muffled shrieks that struggled to escape the office walls.

As Fry slid into the driver's seat, the passenger said, "What took so long?"

"He needed some help remembering."

The man's lips twisted upward in a grin. "Well?"

"No luck."

The passenger slammed his fist into the dashboard. "How many people have we asked today? She's gotta be around here. Someone's seen her. Someone knows where she is." He took in a deep breath then let it out slowly. "We need a place to stay tonight."

Fry nodded. "Not here."

"Right."

The sedan pulled onto the highway and moved silently north. The two men didn't notice the car passing southbound, or its driver in a white shirt and tie, a bouquet of flowers on the passenger seat.

# Chapter 12  
The Date

Blake tottered along the narrow dirt path, gripping the necks of two cold beer bottles between the fingers of one hand. "Sorry I'm late." It was a warm evening with a breath of a breeze. The full moon was a golden medallion hung low on the black-velvet horizon. The stars were scattered specks of silver across the inky sky. Blake took it all in then sat on the ground. He unscrewed the cap of one bottle and set it across from him. Then, he twisted the lid of the other and tilted it up to his lips. "It's beautiful tonight. Much nicer than last night." He inhaled deeply then let out a heavy sigh. Lifting the bottle, he took several long swallows. "I've been thinking..." He hesitated. "I...uh...I..." He sighed. "Well, I don't think this long-distance relationship is working very well, and...uh...I thought maybe I should come join you." He looked up expectantly.

There was no answer.

He waited then chewed his bottom lip and nodded. "I guess that's a bad idea, huh?" Blake lifted the bottle again and took several long swallows. Looking up at the sky, he recited:

"For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee..."

Silence, and then the corners of his mouth rose slightly as his gaze drifted back. "Some think he was crazy, you know. The guy in Poe's poem." Blake cocked his head. "Do you think I'm crazy? Some people do."

There was no response.

A broad smile swept across his face. "Smart woman not to answer." He looked up at the moon. "Maybe I'll dream of you tonight." His eyes grew moist. "I miss you, babe." He leaned forward, and with his outstretched hand, he lightly traced the letters—anna emberly moore—on the marble headstone. His fingers lingered on the final letter. "Well, I've got another stop to make, so I'd better get going." Once again, he waited for a response that never came. Gesturing toward the bottle across from him, he said, "If you're not going to drink that, I'll take care of it for you." He then rose from the ground, swept his hands over the seat of his pants, and grabbed the two bottles. "Good night, beautiful." Blake winked, his eyes still moist.

Turning, he ambled toward his car. He finished his beer, tossed the empty to the ground, then studied the other bottle before raising it in salute to the moon. "One for the road," he announced, then downed it in several long swallows and tossed the bottle next to the first one. Before sliding into the driver's seat, he glanced at the moon one last time. Then he disappeared into the darkness.

A few miles down the road, he pulled over and stopped. Leaving the engine running and the lights on, he tipped up the last bottle from the six-pack, drank the remaining few ounces, and stepped out unsteadily. The roadside was heavily wooded, with a narrow shoulder swallowed by trees and tangled shrubs. Just out of their reach stood a small white, wooden cross and a metal vase. Blake swept the old flowers from the vase and threw them into the trees. After placing the fresh bouquet in the vase, he stepped back and studied them. He closed his eyes and instantly regretted it as his world tilted and the present slid into the past.

* * *

Anna held an index card with a scribbled phone number in her outstretched hand. "Would it kill you to take time to help someone out?"

He cut his eyes from the road toward her. "Look, we're only going to be here two days. I don't have the time."

She pushed the card toward him. "Just take her number and give her a call. Can't you help an old widow?"

Blake snatched the card and tossed it back at her.

" _Blake! Don't be so childish!" Anna released the seat belt and bent forward to pick the card up from the floor. "So many people in this world need help." She sat up and waved the card in the air. "Can't you show a little compassion and help just one of them?"_

A deer leapt into the headlights. Blake swerved. Leaves and branches rushing in the high beams. Metal crashing. Glass shattering. The hood crushed into jagged peaks. Anna's crumpled body splayed across the peaks and valleys of the hood. Blood everywhere. Blake's voice frantically calling her name.

* * *

He opened his eyes. They had only been closed an instant. He shuddered. Only an instant. How life had changed. The blood throbbed in his ears as his heart raced. "Damned deer!" He took in several deep breaths, trying to slow his breathing, then hung his head. "Damned me."

As Blake slid into the driver's seat, his gaze drifted to the Smith & Wesson on the leather upholstery of the seat next to him. It was Anna's handgun. She had laughed at him when he'd given it to her. She was teaching night classes at VCU in Richmond, and Blake had worried about her safety in a dark, urban setting. He had to do a lot of talking to get her to go to the range to practice and even more to get her to carry it.

He lifted the pistol from the seat and gripped it. A bit small for his hand but perfect for Anna's. He turned it, examining it in the moonlight. Glancing up at the small roadside memorial, he thought, _How ironic_. _I was so worried about someone else hurting her. I should have protected her from me._ He closed his eyes. One deep breath. Then he exhaled slowly. _I know what she would want. This isn't it._ He looked at the gun for a moment then stowed it in the glove box.

Shifting into drive, Blake glanced back in the rearview as he pushed the car forward into the darkness.

# Chapter 13  
Ice Cream Served Cold

A bass drum in her head, pounding, reverberating. Each throb brought pain. Deena opened one eye. There was ceiling and a brightness that brought more pain. She closed the eye. Her neck throbbed in unison with her head. She sat on the sofa with her neck at an awkward angle. She lifted her head and massaged the back of her neck with one hand. _Bang, bang, bang_ \- her head throbbed. It took a second for her to realize that the drumming wasn't coming from inside her head. It was coming from the door. Still massaging the back of her neck, she struggled to her feet and groaned. Squinting against the light, she peered through the closed blinds. Blake stood outside. Again, he hammered on the door with his fist.

Kat raced in from the kitchen. A faint shadow of milk outlined her lips.

"Kat!"

The girl spun to see her mother moving toward the door.

"Never open the door."

"But—"

"No buts. Never open the door." Deena turned the lock and inched the door open. "Yeah?"

Blake grinned. "Good morning." He strained to see her through the cracked door. "You look like a ray of sunshine," he added.

"What are you doing here so early?"

"Well, ten thirty isn't early, and you have a window lock that needs to be fixed."

Deena blinked, trying to clear her thoughts. Still massaging her neck, she moved her head from side to side. "Yeah, the window." She opened the door to let Blake through.

Blake stepped into the tiny living room and eyed Deena with a crooked grin. "Rough night, huh?"

Deena ran the fingers of both hands through her wild hair. "You might say that."

Kat went bouncing back to the kitchen. "She had a nightmare," she called out.

"Nightmare?"

"Yeah, spiders," she said from the kitchen.

Blake's laughter ended as abruptly as it began.

Deena shot him a suffocating glare. "You have no idea."

He fiddled with the lock and screwdriver in his hands. "Well...I should get to work." The two passed each other, Blake heading to the window and Deena into the kitchen.

She searched through the cupboards for a bowl and settled in next to Kat, who was pouring her second bowl of cereal at the small wooden table.

Deena propped her head up with one hand and peered into the depths of her bowl through heavy eyelids.

In the living room, Blake worked on replacing the window hardware.

"Where's Kat?"

Startled, Blake spun around to see Sarah Johnson, in the same dress she'd worn yesterday, standing just inside the front door. In her hands were two threadbare, soiled cloth dolls.

"Sarah, don't you think you should knock?" Blake said.

She looked around the room. "Where's Kat?"

Blake shook his head and pointed toward the hallway. "In the kitchen."

Sarah walked out of the room.

Deena sat, elbows on the table, head in her hands, her hair flying and twisting out as if from an electrical charge. She was now peering into the darkness behind her eyelids.

"Wanna play?"

Deena's head shot up. She blinked against the sunlight pouring through the window. "Sarah, how'd you get in here?"

Sarah smiled. "The front door."

Deena shook her head and rolled her eyes.

"Can I, Mom?" Kat was already out of her seat.

"Can you what?"

"Play with Sarah."

Sarah held up the two limp dolls, their stuffing escaping the worn seams. "I brought dolls." She grinned again.

"Please, Mommy?"

"OK, but stay out front where I can see you."

The two were gone, leaving Deena holding her head as if it might fall off.

Sometime later, her head jerked forward as her elbow slipped. She snapped up in her chair, blinking, a bit disoriented. The corner of her mouth felt wet. She wiped the drool with her hand. She must have fallen asleep. Hearing a scraping sound in the living room, she rose and dragged herself through the hallway.

"There you are." Blake squatted beside the fireplace, a brick in one hand and a trowel in the other. "I looked in on you once, and you were studying the inside of your eyelids." He held up the brick. "I'm working on putting these back in place." He pointed the trowel toward a gray smear on the wall. "I just patched the hole you made in the wall yesterday."

"That doesn't look good." She stared at the patched wall.

He waved the trowel. "Once it's dry, I'll paint it. You'll never notice it."

"Paint it?" She sighed. "I didn't ask for all this. You were just supposed to fix the window."

Blake blinked.

"Do you think I'm made of money?"

Blake smiled. "Don't worry about the money. Pay me whatever you can."

She lifted her hands as if to speak, then let them drop as she shook her head.

Kat bounded through the door. "Sarah had to go in for lunch. I'm starving."

Blake looked at his watch. "Yep, it's that time. You know what you need?"

Kat's eyes grew wide. "What?"

"The Choco Lock Me Up and Throw Away the Cream."

"What's that?"

"Three big scoops of chocolate ice cream on a thick slice of chocolate chip pound cake. All of it swimming in hot fudge and topped with mountains of whipped cream."

Kat licked her lips.

"Or maybe you'd like the Rum and Butterscotch on the Rocks Parfait. The Burger Barn up toward Exmore has killer ice cream sundaes and the best burgers this side of the Chesapeake Bay. Wanna go?"

Kat jumped up and down. "Can we, Mommy?"

"We've got food," Deena said, folding her arms.

"But do you have the Caramello Yellow Milk Shake Cake? I think not." Blake grinned.

Deena frowned, her arms still crossed.

"Come on. I'm buying. You can't beat that."

"Mommy, please, please, _please_."

Deena sighed again. "OK."

As Kat clapped her hands, Deena shot a hard look at Blake, who smiled and shrugged.

Minutes later they were swinging onto the highway headed north. Stretches of heavily wooded road gave way to open fields dotted with occasional houses and businesses. While some of these buildings seemed well maintained, Deena was surprised by the number of ghostly structures they passed. Vine and overgrown brush nearly swallowed up some of them. Others, like flood-swept bridges, slumped near collapse. Many showed the ravaging scars of rot, with gaping holes and sagging walls. They drove past skeletal remains of businesses, with boarded windows and spray-paint-scrawled cinder-block walls. Like cicadas' hollow husks clinging to summer trees, they sat abandoned. A sense of hopelessness dwelled in each of these —a hopelessness Deena knew well.

Turning to Blake, she asked, "Is this the same road where you found us the other night?"

"You were a little farther south, but yeah, same road."

Deena shook her head. "I couldn't see any of this that night."

"When you're battered by a storm, all you see is rain." He glanced over with a crooked smile. "Things look different in the light."

Deena thought how even Blake looked different in the light, more...normal. Not so suspicious. His smile seemed genuine. She hadn't noticed before, but he had intense blue eyes.

"Well, here it is, the Burger Barn."

Blake swung the car off the highway into a large gravel parking lot.

The Burger Barn was just that, an old barn that, with a fresh paint job, had been repurposed. The gravel lot was a bit haphazard without lines, but it was busy with cars and trucks pulling in and out. Drivers circled several times trying to find an open spot.

Deena glanced around nervously. "You didn't tell me there would be so many people."

"I told you they have the best burgers this side of the bay. That draws people."

Deena's focus shifted with the constant movement.

Inside, the dining area was a large open space with rows of picnic tables arranged neatly on the concrete floor. Against the far wall stood a life-size plastic cow. Old license plates covered the wall behind it. Deena was sure every state was represented at least several times.

Blake motioned to the two. "Let's find a place to sit." He led them to any empty table covered with white butcher paper. A Mason jar full of crayons served as the centerpiece. He scooted the jar toward Kat. "Can you draw me a picture?"

Kat's jaw dropped open.. "On the table?"

Blake laughed. "Yeah, that's what the paper's for."

With a broad smile, she dumped the crayons onto the table. After choosing a brown one, she began sketching.

Blake watched as she drew. "A cow?"

Beaming, Kat nodded.

"That's a great cow. Mind if I draw a barn?"

"A red one."

Blake lifted the red crayon and drew from his upside-down vantage point.

Kat giggled. "It looks like a dump truck."

Blake laughed and drew two circles for wheels. "There. A dump truck."

Kat laughed too.

Deena smiled at the two caught up in their art project. Blake had an ease with Kat that surprised her. Deena's attention, however, was soon drawn elsewhere. _Lots of people_ , she thought. _Lots of movement_. Her eyes darted around the room.

The cow sketch complete, Kat became absorbed in the two pages of burger choices and the two pages of sundae selections. Blake ignored the menu. Instead he watched Deena as she anxiously scanned the room.

"You know what you want?" he asked her.

"What?"

"The menu."

Deena picked up the menu, glanced at it, and placed it back on the table.

"Well, this is a pleasant surprise." The voice startled Deena. She turned to find a tall, shapely woman, midthirties, standing next to the table. She wore a Burger Barn T-shirt that was snug and accentuated her curves. The words "It Don't Get No Fresher than a Table in the Barn" were stretched and warped where they ran across her breasts. She held a pad and pencil. "Blake Moore, you've been a stranger these last few months." She ran her fingers lightly across his back as she spoke.

"Hey, Lisa." Blake didn't smile. "This is Deena and Kat," he said, gesturing toward them. They're newcomers to Opechancano...renting Stan's old place."

The waitress's smile went from sugar to saccharine as she stroked Blake's shoulder. "Nice to meet you."

He motioned with his thumb. "Lisa and I went to school together."

Deena nodded.

"And dated for a while until he ran away to college," Lisa added. The corners of her mouth turned up in a twisted smile. She turned to Blake. "Hey, you plan on goin' to the Blue Crab Fest?"

Blake shook his head. "Nothin' there I haven't seen before."

"Well, I was hoping to go, but it's no fun by yourself." Her sugary smile returned.

Blake looked across the table. "Deena, you know what you want to drink?"

"Water's fine."

"Kat, how about you?"

"Chocolate milk shake?" she said, looking hopeful.

"Chocolate milk shake it is. And I'll have water too. Thanks, Lisa." Blake looked up.

Lisa's smile went from sugar to saccharine again. "I'll be right back with your drinks and to take your order." She glared at Deena as she left.

"What's the Blue Crab Fest?" Kat's chin was nestled in her hands, her elbows on the table.

"It's a small-town festival...games, crafts, music, and food."

Kat's head popped up as her eyes grew wide. "Mommy, can we go?"

"I don't think so."

Kat's face fell as it slumped into her hands.

"Are you sure?" Blake said. "I think Kat—"

"Kat will be fine."

Blake began to speak, but Deena cut her eyes toward him. He fell silent.

Lisa brought the drinks and took their burger orders. There was a coldness in the exchange that would have bothered most people, but Deena thought it was amusing. As Lisa walked away, Deena turned to Blake. "So you went to college to become a handyman?"

Blake sipped his water and shrugged. "Who knew that sitting in a cubicle day after day, staring at a computer screen, wouldn't be for me? Just one of life's unexpected twists."

Deena's gaze was drawn beyond Blake to a sheriff's deputy entering the restaurant. She watched intently as he strode to the register, paid, and picked up a to-go order. She exhaled and slouched in her chair. That's when she noticed Blake glancing back from the deputy to her.

"Are you OK? You look white as a ghost."

"I'm fine," she said, the color rushing back to her cheeks..

Blake smiled and nodded. He took another sip of water. "So...you never told me why you decided not to go to Baltimore."

Deena held his gaze for a moment. "Just one of life's unexpected twists."

Blake chuckled and nodded. "Good answer."

Deena wasn't sure, but something unspoken in his response seemed to say, _I get it. You've got your secrets; I've got mine_.

Lisa brought the burgers and later took the sundae orders. Each time she glared at Deena. As she dropped off the check, Kat spoke excitedly, wiping the chocolate from around her mouth. "Mommy, can we come here again?"

"Well..."

Blake spoke up. "Kat, I'll be glad to bring you as long as your mom is OK with it."

Lisa pointed her pad at Kat. "She's your daughter?"

Kat nodded and smiled.

Lisa stared at Deena for a second. "I would've swore she was your sister." She smirked. "You must have been awfully young when you had her." A silent momentary exchange took place as Lisa continued to smirk and tapped her pad in the palm of her hand.

Blake caught it. "Lisa, we're in a hurry," he said. "Can you ring us up? We need to run." He held out a credit card.

The women's eyes were locked a second longer.

Lisa turned to him with her sugary smile and took the card. "Sure, Blake."

As she walked away, he said, "If you like, the two of you can wait in the car while I take care of the bill."

Deena, grateful to get away from the ever-changing crowd, ushered Kat out the door.

A few minutes later, Blake climbed into the driver's seat. He turned the key and swung the car out onto the highway. "Sorry about Lisa. I'm not sure her social skills ever fully developed." They drove the rest of the way in silence.

As they pulled up to the house, Sarah was standing on her tiptoes in front of Deena's living room window, shielding her eyes with her hands and peering into the house.

"Sarah, what are you doing?" Deena called out.

Sarah spun around. "There you are! Can Kat play?"

Kat was hurrying out of the car. "Can I, Mom?"

"Yes, but you know the rules."

Kat chanted in a singsong voice, "Stay in the front. Don't go where I can't see you."

"Right."

As the two girls ran screaming toward each other , Deena turned to Blake. She crossed her arms. "I want you to stop."

Blake frowned. "Stop what?"

"Stop saying things in front of Kat to get her excited about going places and doing things."

Blake shook his head. "Didn't know I was doing that."

"The ice cream? The Blue Crab Fest?"

"Ah." Blake looked off toward the bay and shrugged. "I was just trying to be nice."

"I didn't ask for that."

"You don't have to ask for people to be nice. It just happens naturally."

"Not in my life. Not in my world."

"Well..." He looked down and kicked a few rocks around in the dirt. "I feel sorry for you then..." He smiled and motioned with his hand. "...because here, in my world, it does."

"Just stop it, OK?" Kat and Sarah glanced over as Deena's voice rose.

Blake held up his hands. "Got it!" He backed away then turned and waved his hand. "I've gotta go." He got into his car without looking back and slammed the door.

Deena watched as he swung the car into a quick U-turn. Rocks flew up as the tires hit the gravel shoulder, and the car sped off toward the highway. Deena wasn't sure why, but her eyes were moist, and she felt the empty panic that comes with losing something valuable.

"You, OK?" a voice called out.

Deena jumped. She hadn't seen Mama Jo crossing the road from the other direction.

"Sorry," Mama Jo said. "Didn't mean to startle you."

Deena nodded then glanced toward the car as it disappeared in the distance.

"You two have a fight?"

She shook her head "Just a disagreement."

"Mighty hot disagreement. Round here, they call that a fight."

"You make it sound like there's something between us." Deena scowled. "There's not."

"I don't know. It's sure taking a lot of time to fix that doorknob." The old woman winked.

"Trust me. He wouldn't be interested in me." Deena looked off toward the highway. Only asphalt and trees were visible. "I'm not sure anyone would be."

"You're selling yourself short." Mama Jo's eyes traveled over the woman in the baggy T-shirt and loose jeans. "Sure, you could use some fashion advice and a little makeup, but—"

"That's not it."

"Well, what is it then?"

Deena frowned. "It's not something I want to go into." As their eyes met, an awkward silence followed

"We all have _things_ , you know." The old woman paused and the furrows at the corners of her mouth turned downward. "Sometimes it helps to talk about them."

Deena was silent.

Mama Jo nodded. "Well, it's your secret, Deena. You're welcome to keep it if you like." She held up a bunch of zinnias she had carried from her house. "I brought you a second vase."

Deena hadn't noticed the flowers. Her stern expression wilted as she took the vase.

"I thought the place could use some brightening up."

There was a colorless moment as Deena stared at the bright bouquet.

Mama Jo looked back toward her house. "Well, I'd better be getting back."

"Mama Jo?"

"Yes, child?"

"I...um...thanks for the flowers."

Mama Jo returned a faint smile.

Deena wanted to tell her she was sorry, but she didn't. Instead, she watched silently as the kindly old woman crossed the street. _It's your secret._ Deena thought back to the journal entry she'd read the night before. _In a small town, there are only two types of secrets: the ones everybody knows and the ones everybody will soon know._ She shuddered and hoped the journal's author was wrong.

# Chapter 14  
Shadows

Deena watched Kat and Sarah chasing each other around the yard, squealing and laughing. The world was their playground. Deena smiled weakly, fearing the day when Kat would find out that the world was a dark, unhappy place. She watched for a moment longer then stepped into the house. Completely drained, she found a comfortable spot on the sofa and thought, _Maybe just five minutes_. In the quiet, her eyes grew heavy, and she drifted off to sleep. When she awoke, the sun was low. Outside, the approaching sunset cast long, misshapen shadows across the ground. She stepped outside to call Kat in for the night. She looked toward the water to find Enos laboriously pushing the pedals of his bike, which was dwarfed by his large body. No Kat and no Sarah. She looked in the other direction. Again, no Kat and no Sarah. Across the street, four boys were yelling and throwing rocks at the large trunk of an oak tree. Deena panicked.

"Kat! Kat!" She cupped her hands and turned, calling louder. " _Kat_! _Kat_!"

Enos pulled to a stop in front of the house. "Did you lose your cat? I'll help you find it."

"My daughter! I lost my daughter!"

Enos cocked his head with a furrowed brow.

" _Kat, where are you_!"

Kat and Sarah came running from the backyard.

"Kat!" Deena grabbed her and wrapped her up in her arms before holding her at arm's length. "You scared me to death! I told you to stay—"

Kat stared at the ground. "The boys were throwing rocks at us."

"The boys?"

Deena heard raucous shouting from behind her. She turned to see Enos cowering over his bike, shielding his head with his arm. Several boys were throwing handfuls of rocks that rained down on the big man. One boy chanted and the others joined in: " _PEnos_ , _PEnos_ , big fat Weenos."

Deena strode into the road and yelled, "Stop it! Stop it now!"

The chanting died down and the boys dropped the rocks.

"Do your parents know you're doing this?"

At that, the boys took off running in different directions.

Deena placed a hand on Enos's shoulder. "Are you OK?"

He peeked out from under his arm. Seeing that the boys were gone, he lifted his head. "Yeah, I'm OK. They're just having fun."

"That's not what I would call it. Do you know what they were calling you?"

Wide-eyed, Enos shook his head.

"Well, they...uh... It's not a nice name."

Enos blinked.

"They shouldn't call you that."

Enos nodded and looked around. "Did you find your little girl and your cat?"

Deena laughed. "My little girl is named Kat." Enos's face squinched up in a question mark. "She's right here." Deena motioned for Kat to come closer. "This is my daughter, Kat."

Enos shook his head. "Cat is a funny name for a person."

Deena smiled. "It's spelled with a _K_ , not a _C._ It's short for Kathryn."

Enos grinned. "I don't know how to spell. I just know it's a funny name." He looked at Kat. "I'm gonna call you Kitty Cat."

Kat beamed. Deena's smile was less than enthusiastic.

He looked at Deena. "I'm gonna call you...uh..."

"Deena. My name's Deena."

Enos smiled. "I like that name." His smile disappeared. "You sounded real scared. Why was you so scared?"

"I thought something bad had happened to Kat."

"You don't need to be scared. Nothin' bad happens 'round here."

"Haven't you ever been scared, Enos?"

He thought for a moment then nodded. "When I was a boy." He pointed to the ground. "See that?"

All Deena saw was asphalt.

"That shadow thing follows me everywhere. Used to scare me. I tried to run from it, but it was just as fast."

Deena's face looked as though she had bitten into a lemon. "Well...there you go..."

Enos continued to nod. "But mama told me it weren't nothin' but _where you been_ tryin' to keep you from _where you goin'_." His eyes narrowed. "Here's the trick. Don't look down and don't look back. Just keep lookin' straight ahead."

"Did your mama teach you that too?"

Enos nodded. "She said, 'It might grab ahold of your heels and drag around behind you, but it can't slow you down unless you stop to look at it.'" He grinned. "So I ain't afraid of it no more."

"Sounds like your mama was a smart woman."

"She _was_ smart...and purty. You're purty just like her. I got a picture." He reached for his back pocket.

"You showed me the picture yesterday."

Enos blinked again. "Oh." He seemed a bit thrown. "Well, I gotta get to work." He picked up his bike and swung his leg over it. Placing his weight alternately on each pedal, he slowly moved along the road that led out of town.

"Enos, you're going the wrong way," Deena called out, trying to catch him before he got too far.

He stopped and looked toward the highway then looked toward the bay. He stood blinking again for a second. Deena motioned with her thumb. "Morrison's is that way."

Enos smiled. "I'm going to my other job at The Steamed Crab. It's a bar. I wash dishes, but sometimes they let me watch the register." He grinned proudly. "I'm not supposed to touch the money." He shook his head, looking serious. "Just make sure no one else does neither."

Deena called back, "OK, sorry."

Enos waved and started the struggle of moving his bike forward. "Bye, Kitty Cat. Bye, Tina."

"It's Deena."

Enos didn't acknowledge the correction.

Slowly he brought the bike up to speed. As he rode away in the long shadows of the late day, Deena thought, _Ain't nothin' but_ where you been _tryin' to keep you from_ where you goin' _._ As Enos disappeared into the trees, she repeated, "Don't look down and don't look back."

# Chapter 15  
The Spider and the Crab

Dark clouds smothered the western horizon. Sunset was blood red. As the sun sank deeper into the bay, an eerie twilight blanketed Opechancano. It was as if the world were suspended between light and darkness, between heaven and hell.

Blake pulled into the parking lot of The Steamed Crab. A bouquet of wildflowers lay beside him in the passenger seat. He stepped out of the car and stood for a moment. The bluish-gray light lay heavy in the air. It made him uncomfortable.

As he pushed through the door, the up-tempo honky-tonk music thumping through the room held the twilight at bay. He waved to several men as they called out his name. It was an evening like any other. Most of the seats at the bar were taken, and men sat at tables, eating, drinking, and laughing. TVs with baseball flickered in the dim light. Enos stood near the door.

"Hey, Blake. You're lookin' good tonight."

Blake wore his usual white shirt, tie, and dark dress slacks. Enos made his usual comment. Blake smiled, patted him on the shoulder, and drifted off to join his brother and a few friends at his usual table.

* * *

It was just another normal evening at The Steamed Crab. No one noticed the black sedan that had pulled in from the highway and parked near the door. No one could see, through the gray light and the tinted windows, the two figures that sized up the bar from the front seat. Watching the men through the windows of the bar, Fry said, "One of these good ol' boys might have seen her. I'll go talk 'em up." He reached for the door handle.

"No!" The passenger grabbed his right wrist. "You've come up empty all day. I'm doing this one."

"Are you sure that's a good—"

"Are you sure you want to ask that?" The grip on Fry's wrist grew intense.

"OK, OK, you're right."

"Damn right I am!" The passenger glared then released his wrist.

Fry massaged it with his left hand. As the passenger stepped out of the car, Fry called out, "Hey." He held up a pistol.

The passenger stood in the open car door and glanced through the windows into the bar. He shook his head and took a dismissive sniff. "These yahoos won't be a problem." A twisted smile crossed his face. "You know I prefer a knife. Carving is a lost art." He cackled as he closed the door and strode toward the bar. Fry jumped out and followed him at a safe distance.

* * *

Chum called out, "Hey, Enos, keep an eye on the register while I step in back." Chum was the owner of the bar. He'd picked up the nickname years ago when a close encounter with a shark had left him with some ugly scars and a tale he would tell the rest of his life. The guys had started calling him Chum after the bloody, chopped fish sometimes dumped into the water to attract sharks.

Enos grinned proudly as he stood by the register near the door. He tried hard but couldn't keep himself from eyeing the button that opened the register drawer. He was standing mesmerized when a huge snake leapt toward his face. He screamed and jumped, his heart racing. Then he realized the snake was tattooed in a coil around a muscular arm. Its fang-like fingers gripped a photo. Enos's breathing came in heavy rasps. He couldn't take his eyes off the picture.

"You seen this woman?"

Enos, absorbed by the photo, took it in both hands. As he followed the snake up the arm to the growling voice, his heart pounded harder. The man at the end of the snake had a shaved bald head. Staring at Enos were four intense eyes. The first set of eyes were dark and deeply set on each side of a flat, wide nose. The other set of eyes were red. A large spider with glowing eyes was crawling over the man's head and onto his forehead. The tattooed legs extended down to his ears. The fangs dripped blood and ended just above the man's eyebrows. Enos couldn't take his eyes off the spider. His breathing came in uneven gasps.

"I said, 'You seen her?'" The growl became more pronounced.

Enos looked from the photo to the spider. "Uh...I...uh... Sh...sh...she's pu...pu...purty...like my m-mother." The photo quivered in his hands.

The snake bit into Enos's collar and twisted it tightly around his neck. From the other hand, a knife stabbed just inches from Enos's eyes. "Look, moron, have you seen her? Yes or no!"

Enos let out a loud, high-pitched squeal that pierced the room. The knife moved to his throat. The room exploded, crashing, banging, shattering. The spider turned to find about twenty men on their feet. Some held the necks of smashed beer bottles like jagged knives. Others gripped chairs by their backs, the legs in the air like clubs. One man held an oar that had been mounted on the wall. They moved in a semicircle around the spider and Fry.

"You boys don't want to see this one get hurt." He held the point of the knife to Enos's throat. Enos was fidgeting, perspiration ran in streams down his face.

"Let him go."

Turning toward the voice, the spider came eye-to-eye with a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun with Chum on the other end.

"Get outta here before I turn you into ground beef."

The spider released Enos's collar and stepped backward toward the door. He held the knife out as he slowly backed away. As he passed, he said, "Let's go, Fry. No drinks here tonight." Fry, who also held a knife, followed him out the door. Chum, carrying the shotgun, stepped outside. Following, the other men spilled into the parking lot. A couple of them pulled rifles from parked pickup trucks. Fry and the spider jumped into the black sedan.

* * *

Fry threw the sedan into reverse and mashed the accelerator, spinning the wheels in the gravel. Then he threw the car into drive and floored it. Wheels spun, throwing rocks, as the car fishtailed from the parking lot onto the highway. Fry turned to the spider. "Do you think that good ol' boy at the register knows where she is?"

"I don't think that idiot knows much of anything, but she's here." He took in a deep breath. "I can smell her."

"I called a couple of guys to help us look."

"A couple of guys? Who?"

"Carolina and Ding," Fry said.

"Ding? That crackhead can't even tie his own shoes."

"All he's gotta do is show people a picture and ask if they've seen her. He can handle that."

The spider shook his head. "We'll see." He took in a deep breath and sneered. "When we find her, you'll have your turn at her, but first I'll have mine."

A twisted smile crept across Fry's face. "I don't think she's been properly introduced to Sparky." He licked his lips.

"It's just a damned car battery, not a person!" the spider snapped.

"Sparky?" Fry snickered. "No, when they're on the wire, and I'm turning up the amps, they beg Sparky for mercy."

The spider shook his head. "And fat boy with the shotgun back there? He needs some special attention. He needs to beg for mercy." He grinned. "But that's for later. There's a restaurant just up ahead. Let's try there."

The black sedan drove on into the gathering darkness.

* * *

The men filed back into The Steamed Crab. "That was nothing compared to the time I came face-to-face with that twenty-foot shark," Chum bragged. Some of the men groaned and others laughed as they left him standing at the door. They'd heard Chum tell the story too many times, and the shark seemed to get larger with each telling.

Enos was slumped in a chair. His elbows were on his knees, his head in his hands. He was trembling and breathing rapidly.

Blake put a hand on his shoulder. "It's OK, buddy. It's over."

Enos nodded.

"You all right?"

Enos shook his head.

"No? Why?"

Enos's eyes were wide. He was still clutching the photo and handed it to Blake. In the picture, a girl of fifteen or sixteen was wearing a black fishnet blouse that clung to her body. She wore nothing underneath. Her red skirt was tight and stopped just below the spot where her shapely legs met. Her face was adorned with heavy eye shadow and bright-red lipstick. Her expression was sultry. At the bottom of the photo, the name Simone was printed. Even through the heavy makeup, Blake could clearly tell it was a younger Deena. He tapped the picture against the palm of his hand and muttered, "Girl, who are you and what kind of trouble have you gotten into?" He glanced at Enos, who sat wide-eyed. "You know who she is, don't you?"

Enos nodded.

"You did good, Enos." Blake slipped the photo into his shirt pocket. "Don't tell anyone about the picture. Let me handle this, OK?"

Enos nodded again.

Blake patted the big man's shoulder. "I've got some thinking to do." He walked out to the parking lot and stood for a moment. He drank in the dark beauty of the night air heavy with the sweet scent of honeysuckle. This normal evening had just taken a wild turn. His drive tonight would be very different than all the nights before.

# Chapter 16  
In the Dark of Night

The sun was down. Supper was done. Deena locked the small house, and ushered Kat off to bed.

Kat's nose wrinkled up as she frowned. "It smells in here."

"Just making sure there are no spiders." Although she had just sprayed, Deena peered into the darkness below the beds before shutting out the lights.

"Mommy, will you lay down with me?"

"Sure, baby." Deena snuggled up next to her daughter. Most nights Kat drifted off within minutes, but tonight she tossed and turned. "Having trouble getting to sleep?"

"Uh-huh."

"Want me to sing you a song?"

"Yeah! The hush song."

Deena smiled. It was a song her grandmother had sung to her when she was a little girl. Singing it always brought back warm memories. Her grandmother's house was her safe place, her happy place. Too many times Deena had found herself in hell. The only way she survived hell was to close her eyes and remember. Baking cookies, playing in the backyard, swinging on the big wooden glider, listening to her grandmother sing. She would go to the only heaven she had ever known until the hell would pass.

"Mommy, are you going to sing?"

Deena sniffled. "Sorry, baby."

"Are you crying?"

"It's just the bug spray. Here you go, the hush song." Deena sang quietly:

Hush, little baby, don't say a word,  
Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird.

If that mockingbird don't sing,  
Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring

If that diamond turns to brass,  
Mama's gonna buy you a looking glass...

Hearing the quiet rumbling of Kat's sleepful breathing, Deena brushed the hair from the young girl's face and kissed her forehead. She sat there for a long time, watching her daughter in the darkness. Finally, she rose and crossed the hall into the bathroom and stared into the mirror.

Mama's gonna buy you a looking glass.

If that looking glass gets broke,  
Mama's gonna buy you...

The looking glass before her was solid, but the reflection was shattered, a life in shards, cracked and misshapen...ugly. Deena closed her eyes and turned away. She was bone weary but not sleepy. She crossed the hallway into the kitchen. After grabbing a beer from the refrigerator, she headed for the sofa. She sat in silence, drinking. Between each long, slow swallow of the anesthetic, she became absorbed in the song of the otherwise-silent night. The woods behind the house were alive with a rhythmic yet chaotic chorus. The frogs and crickets were a centuries-old, thousand-cog mechanism—the cogs squeaking or groaning, sometimes together, sometimes at odds. The windowpanes of the small house struggled unsuccessfully to hold the sounds of the night at bay. Deena set the beer on the coffee table. Sleep wouldn't come. She sighed, picked up the leather-bound journal, and began to read.

Journal: Moments

It was a sleepy September Sunday in the ninth pew. A fly circled Mr. Branson's slightly balding head like a helicopter searching for a level clearing. Old lady Carter's head dropped in notches like a Ford coming down an old-fashioned car jack. At the bottom, it bounced back up only to begin its jerky descent again. Mr. Wilmar was busily taking sermon notes in sweeping strokes—obviously another short-lived bulletin board art display. I was penciling small figures on the borders of successive hymnal pages. Then I flipped them to watch the dancing circle, with its moving stick arms and legs. I glanced up. It was at that moment that I finally understood what Pastor Tompkins called the "everyday miracle."

The morning sun was low and bright, straining to filter through the grays and blues of the stained glass, storm-tossed waters. Jesus, in a brown robe, strode triumphantly on the waves. Peter, in a faithless moment, reached for help as he sank in the sea. A broad yellow halo encircled Jesus's head. As the sunlight streamed brightly through the yellow glass, tiny particles of dust floating in the air gave a smoky glow to the ray that fell on the pew two rows up...fell on the girl I'd never seen before. A flip of her golden hair, a turn of her head, a smile.

There are moments in life that you remember because they're surprising or unique. They're the Christian Laettner buzzer-beating shots that win the game, or the Janet Jackson wardrobe malfunctions on live TV, or maybe the Richard Nixon resignation speeches. They're the "Where were you when?" moments in life. And then there are other moments—the ones in which the arc of your life is forever altered. You're no longer the person you were just seconds before. In one instant, the world screeches to a stop and spins out of control, all at the same time. These aren't just moments you remember. These are moments you'll never forget. The miracle of the girl in the seventh pew is that moment I'll never forget.

My makeshift flipbook was forgotten, to be discovered by some other spiritually stranded soul. The rest of that Sunday service was dedicated to the miracle in the seventh pew. I imagined several times that she glanced back, but then I quickly looked up at the pastor. I didn't want to give the impression that I was staring at her, although that's exactly what I was doing.

After the closing hymn was sung and the benediction prayed, I hurried out to the parking lot, as I usually did. Like every Sunday before, I met up with my friend Wallow. He was the oldest of eight children. His father was a small crop and pig farmer who struggled to keep clothes on his children's backs and food on the table. It was a hard life and required all the children to help out on the farm. Unfortunately, it meant Wallow, whose real name was Walter, had to tend to the hogs before coming to school. He and I moved through every elementary class together. There were days when he couldn't escape the stench of the hog sty. It hung on his clothes like dollar-store perfume but more unpleasant. The fact that most of his clothes had been donated by church members didn't help either. The older boys tormented him constantly. "Hey, pig boy! Here comes Bacon Butt! Don't cry, Pigsty." Their creativity seemed limitless, but the name that eventually stuck was Wallow. When his brothers and sisters were old enough to take on the task of tending to the pigs, the odor disappeared but not the nickname.

I was watching the doorway of the church as Wallow recited a joke about a three-legged dog that he had told me at least ten times already. As the girl emerged into the bright sunlight, I dug my elbow into Wallow's ribs and motioned toward the doorway with my head. "Who's the girl with Old Man Barker?"

Wallow squinted against the sunlight. "Must be his daughter. Like I said, the dog—"

" _Daughter? He has a daughter?"_

" _Are you listening to my joke?"_

" _That joke is old and isn't even funny."_

Wallow's jaw dropped in disbelief.

I stared at him until he closed his mouth. "Old Man Barker has a daughter?"

" _Yeah, I heard my dad talking about it."_

" _And?"_

" _Oh, he said it was back when I was maybe four or five. Barker used to get drunk and beat on his wife. Bad, real bad. They had a daughter a little younger than us. One day Barker's wife up and left with the little girl. She ran far and she ran hard."_

I watched as Old Man Barker and his daughter crossed the parking lot. "So, why's the girl back?"

" _Her mother died. Too bad for her."_

" _Too bad for who? The mother or the daughter?"_

As the man and the girl reached the pickup truck, she turned her head, saw me watching, and smiled. Old Man Barker looked from her to me, then bellowed, "Get in the truck, girl." As he climbed into the driver's seat, he growled, "Just like your mother! We'll fix that!" He glared at me as they pulled away.

Wallow said, "Both."

I was absorbed watching the truck disappear down the treelined road. "Both what?"

" _Too bad for both of them, the mother and the daughter."_

As a teenager, I wasn't much on religion. I only went to church because my dad made me. I didn't do much praying at church or anywhere else for that matter, but that day I prayed for her.

* * *

Deena laid the open journal on her lap. A tear ran down her cheek. She wiped it away, lifted the beer from the table, and swallowed the remaining liquid. Placing the empty can on the table, she picked up the journal again.

* * *

I didn't often ride my bike to school, but I did the following day. I wanted to be there early. I casually sat on the broad brick wall bordering the steps that led up to the school and waited. Busloads and carloads of students talked and laughed their way past. Wallow tried to get me to join him, but I sent him on. Finally, I ran to class as the bell rang.

Tuesday and Wednesday came and went in much the same way. Then, on Thursday, Barker's pickup pulled in as the last bus was unloading. I watched as he and his daughter crossed the lot and headed up the walkway toward where I sat. The man's eyes were fixed on me as they approached. As they drew closer, he leaned over and whispered to his daughter. She nodded and looked at the sidewalk just feet in front of her. Maybe it was the overcast daylight, but she appeared to be wearing thick makeup which she hadn't on Sunday. Barker ushered her up the steps and through the doors. His eyes remained on me until they were past. I glanced away, pretending to be interested in an argument between two girls in the parking lot, but I could feel his eyes on me.

I waited a moment before stepping through the entrance. As I passed the main office, Barker stood at the counter with the secretary. He was filling out a form, his daughter standing behind him to one side. When she glanced up and saw me standing in the hallway, she smiled. Barker's head came up. Her eyes grew wide; her smile dropped; and her head swung to face him. I disappeared beyond the glass window.

* * *

Deena laid the journal on the table. These were different people in a different place, but this was a familiar story. She closed her eyes and clearly saw little Deedee hiding beneath the covers of her bed as her parents' voices raged. She could still hear the crashing of lamps and banging of chairs followed by her mother's anguished cries. She remembered her mother's days of averted glances and thick makeup.

She sniffled and wiped both eyes with her fingers before looking up at the ceiling and blinking hard. She shook her head and whispered to the empty room, "What's wrong with me?" A moment later, she rose and walked down the hallway. Moonlight filtered through the blinds into the dark bedroom, where Kat slept peacefully. Deena's eyes grew moist again. She crossed the room and parted the blinds slightly, peering out at the dark, empty street. Then, she turned, bent over the sleeping girl, and kissed her forehead. She moved through the hallway to the kitchen and grabbed another beer. In the living room, she plopped onto the sofa, switched off the lamp, and sat drinking in the dark. She felt warm and her eyes grew heavy. The moonlit room and the darkness behind her eyelids became one.

Somewhere in a distant corner of Deena's mind, somewhere in a dreamy haze, came the voice of a woman pleading. _Please, please! I promise I won't do it again._

Fry's calm, almost soothing, voice replied, _I know you won't._

Sobbing and pitiful whimpering, a crackling sound, screaming. A heavy metal door clanged shut. The large padlock scraped and clicked closed before banging against the door. Deena woke, her eyes wide open. Her heart drummed in her ears and she gasped for air. She searched the darkness but only found the moonlit room and the song of the frogs outside. Deena took in a deep breath. _Just a dream. A bad dream._ She exhaled. Then a bang and clattering sound. Deena froze. That was no dream.

The sound had come from the back of the house. She stood up slowly, watching the dark shadows. As she crept toward the kitchen, she heard faint scraping sounds from the window. Was someone trying to pry it open? She backed up to the counter, never taking her eyes off the window. She felt behind her for the drawer handle. Finding it, she stepped forward just enough to pull the drawer open and run her hand inside. More scraping sounds. Her hand searched frantically behind her, and her breathing came in short, quick waves. She slid her hand from the drawer, a large carving knife pointed toward the window. The moonlight flickered from the trembling blade and danced in a light show on the ceiling. Slowly Deena moved forward. She jumped. Two glowing eyes shone in the dark window. She screamed. The eyes disappeared in a swirl of gray-and-black fur, followed by the banging of the trash can as it toppled over. The knife clattered to the floor as Deena slumped against the kitchen cabinets and slid to the linoleum. She was sobbing when Kat burst into the kitchen.

"Mommy, what's wrong?" Her eyes darted from her mother to the knife.

Deena gasped. "Nothing." She gasped again. "Just a raccoon."

"Are you OK?"

Still sucking in air, Deena nodded. Soon her breathing came in slower, smaller gulps. "I'm OK."

Kat's eyes narrowed.

"No, really. I'm fine. That raccoon outside just startled me." Deena took in a deep breath and stood. "Enough of this nonsense. Time to get back to bed." She put her arm around Kat's shoulder and guided her back to the bedroom. Then she climbed into bed beside her daughter. It was tight, but the closeness was comforting. Soon Kat was asleep. Deena stared at the wall for a long time and listened. Frogs, only frogs. At some point, the moonlight and the song of the frogs melted into something that resembled sleep.

# Chapter 17  
Fresh Paint

Blake sat in his car, studying the photo of Deena as he ran his calloused fingers through his hair. _Who is this woman?_ He blew his frustration out in one long breath. _Should I tell her? What will she do? Will she panic and run?_ He looked toward her house. _She'll run_. He frowned. For some reason, that thought troubled him. _Maybe she should run. These are bad dudes. Or maybe they'll be miles up the highway in a day or two._ He looked toward the water. The bay was calm; the sunlight dancing on the surface sparkled like a diamond pendant. He tapped the photo in his palm. _Maybe this is the safest place for her_. He wasn't sure what to do, but he did know one thing: whether she wanted it or not, he would stay close by. He slid the photo into his shirt pocket and stepped out of the car.

Blake set the buckets of paint on the porch and rapped on the door. A moment later, he caught someone peering through the parted blinds. Seconds later, the door opened. Deena's hair looked like wind-driven waves, racing in every direction and crashing into one another. Her eyelids were low hung clouds on a dark horizon.

He forced a smile.

"What?"

"You look like a storm strewn beach," he said, shaking his head.

"Huh?"

"Forget it." Blake motioned toward the buckets. "I'm here to paint."

Deena ran her hands through her hair. "Look, it's not that I'm not grateful, but..." She turned to look at the plaster patch where the hammer had once protruded from the wall. "It's just not that bad." She turned back to find Blake already placing paint cans on the floor. She looked up at the ceiling as she sighed. "You're persistent."

"I didn't know that was a bad thing."

Deena shook her head. "OK, so how long is this going to take?"

"Maybe a couple of days. Gotta prime the wall, let that dry, then one or two coats of paint."

Deena raised her hands, palms up, as if to object. Then she dropped them and shook her head.

"I wasn't sure what color you'd like, so I picked up ivory. Nice and neutral."

"You bought paint? How much is this going to cost me?"

Blake held up a hand. "Just pay what—"

"I know! I know! Pay what I think it's worth." She crossed her arms. "Look, men always want something more."

Blake grimaced and shook his head. "Business. Just business."

Deena appeared unconvinced.

"OK, let's settle up for the door," he said. "How much do you think it's worth?"

Deena glanced toward the door with a pained expression, chewing her lower lip. "Sixty?"

Blake chuckled. "It wasn't brain surgery."

"But the back-door lock..."

"That thing's been sitting in my trunk for months."

Crossing her arms, Deena returned a silent stare.

"Really, months."

"Well..." she said, continuing, to work on her lower lip. "Twenty?"

"Twenty it is."

Nodding, Deena disappeared down the hallway and returned with a twenty-dollar bill, which Blake stuffed into his jeans pocket.

"Now we're even for the door," he said.

"And the painting?"

"When it's finished, you'll decide what it's worth." There was an awkward pause. "Are we good?" He motioned over his shoulder with his thumb, "because I've got some work to do."

Deena hesitated. "Yeah, we're good," she finally said. She paused. "Hey, I was thinking about looking for a job. I noticed a gas station, a diner, and Morrison's in town. Are there any other places within walking distance that I could try?"

Blake nodded. "There's Jimmie's."

"The fish-processing place?"

"Yeah."

Deena's expression turned sour.

"I might be able to find you something."

She shook her head. "No, that's OK. I'll find something on my own." She turned and disappeared into the kitchen. Kat came running past her and out the door.

"Stay in the front where I can see you," Deena called after her.

Kat was gone.

Blake began moving furniture and laying out the drop cloth. He opened the windows and taped off the molding. Next, he started the time-consuming task of cutting in around the trim.

As he finished the last window frame, he looked out. He didn't see Kat. Crossing into the kitchen to clean out the brush, he peered out into the backyard. Kat and Sarah were picking honeysuckle and pulling apart the flowers to taste the sweet nectar. He smiled at a boyhood memory. Across the hall, he heard the rattling sound of slumber. He stepped into the hallway and watched Deena through the bedroom door. She was curled up in bed, asleep. Blake smiled. How many times had he watched Anna as she slept, curled up like that? So small. So frail. So vulnerable. He watched the gentle rise and fall of Deena's breathing. Her hair spilled in dark pools over the pillow, with breaking waves that partially obscured her closed eyes. So much like a child in a game of hide-and-seek. Blake's smile faded.

He returned to the living room, where he rolled the primer. The house probably hadn't been painted in twenty years. He finished one wall and started on the second. Through the open window, he heard the raucous voices of kids. Four boys across the street were throwing rocks at Sarah and Kat, who were now in the front yard. The girls screamed at the boys to stop, and the boys laughed and shouted in response. Blake set the roller down to intervene. As he reached the doorway, Enos came lumbering up the road on his bike.

As soon as the boys saw him, they chanted, " _PEnos_ , _PEnos_."

The big man stopped between the boys on one side and the girls on the other. He stepped off of his bike and let it clatter to the road. As he strode toward the boys, the chanting stopped. His right fist was clenched. With his left, he jabbed toward Kat. " _Leave...her...alone_!" Then, he continued toward the boys.

They stood, eyes wide and mouths open. A second later, they dropped the rocks and ran away screaming.

Enos watched them retreat then turned back to his bike. "You OK, Kitty Cat?"

Kat nodded.

Enos smiled and stepped over his bike. "Good."

Clutching a handful of white-and-yellow honeysuckle blossoms, Kat ran up to the big man. "These are for you," she said, smiling.

Enos beamed as he held his hands out. He brought the blossoms close to his face and took in the sweet fragrance. "They smell good." He arranged the flowers in his shirt pocket with the care of a florist. "No one ever give me flowers before." His smile faded. "I won't let nobody hurt you. _Nobody_." He put his weight on the top pedal and began the slow process of setting the bike in motion. Smiling and waving, he pushed down the road.

Blake watched as the girls ran into the backyard. Kat called out, "Let's get flowers for our mamas."

Sarah yelled, "I'll get some jars of water to put them in."

Blake smiled as the two raced off. Returning to his work, he soon fell into a rhythm with the swishing sound of the roller and the rumbling sound of Deena snoring.

A shriek cut through the house. The roller splattered onto the drop cloth as Blake ran into the hallway. Deena sat on the edge of the bed, her hands clutching her throat as her chest heaved. She was sobbing and gasping for air.

"Nightmare?"

Deena nodded as she struggled to catch her breath.

"Mommy! Mommy!" Kat screamed.

Deena's head jerked up, panic in her eyes, as she jumped to her feet. Kat ran past Blake into the bedroom.

"Mommy! I picked you some flowers!" The small girl beamed, the bright honeysuckle blossoms dancing in the Mason jar she held out.

Deena collapsed onto the bed, her hands over her mouth. Tears ran down her face as she motioned Kat to join her.

"Mommy, why are you crying?"

"I had a bad dream." Deena smiled weakly. "Where'd you get these pretty flowers?"

"They're all over the backyard."

Deena drew back. "The backyard? Didn't I tell you to stay out front?"

"But I wanted—"

"There's no buts! Do what you're told! You got it?"

Kat's smiled melted. Her head dropped as she nodded.

Blake spoke up. "They were just in the back—"

Deena's glare cut him short.

Kat was staring at her shoes. "Can I go back outside?"

"Are you going to stay out front?"

Kat nodded.

"OK, but I'm going to check on you."

Kat ran from the room.

Deena looked at Blake for a long moment. "I want a gun."

His head moved forward as if he were straining to hear her. "You want what?"

"A gun. I want a gun."

Chuckling, he walked into the living room, where he began to clean the splattered paint.

Deena followed him. "I'm serious."

Blake continued mopping up the mess with a rag.

"If you can't get me one, I'll find someone who can!"

Blake stood up, holding the paint-smeared rag. He looked out the window to his car. He shook his head and glanced back at Deena. Her pursed, determined lips were betrayed by the fear in her eyes. Blake glanced back to his car as he touched his shirt pocket and absently ran his fingers down the hard, sharp edges of the photo. "There's something I..." He saw the panic in her eyes. _She's going to run_. He shook his head. "You ever fired a gun before?"

She shook her head. A long, empty moment followed.

"OK," Blake said. "On one condition."

"What?"

"You let me show you how to shoot the thing."

"You just pull the trigger, right?"

Blake groaned and looked up at the ceiling. "If you don't care what you hit."

Deena hesitated. "OK, if that's what it takes."

"That's what it's going to take."

Deena nodded.

Blake held up his index finger then stepped through the door. He walked to his car, popped the glove box, and removed Anna's handgun. Kat, eyes wide, watched as he carried it into the house, then followed him inside.

Moments later, the three were fighting their way, single file, along a weed-entangled path that wound through the trees behind the house. The narrow dirt trail evaporated in patches of tall green weeds only to reappear a few feet beyond. Blake led the way, swiping at vines and branches as he cleared the path. "Doesn't look like anyone's been through here in a while." He held back a low-lying branch to let Deena and Kat pass through. "I used to come back here when I was a boy."

Deena's eyes darted across the ground just ahead. "I don't like it. Looks like there'd be snakes."

Blake was now leading again. "If I step on one, I'll let you know." He laughed. In the silence that followed, he looked back. Deena had stopped. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her as she searched the ground desperately. Blake stopped as well. "I was just kidding."

Deena's face twisted in disgust.

"OK, sorry. No more kidding."

They broke through the dark underbrush into a sunlit clearing—a sunken island in a sea of dark trees.

Blake turned to Deena. "We can shoot here safely."

Deena nervously surveyed the woods that enveloped the clearing.

Blake stepped in front of her. "OK, lesson number one. Always make sure the gun is unloaded when you're not using it." He held the gun up and popped out the magazine. "This is the magazine." He held it up for her to see. "But you still need to check the chamber for ammo." He pulled back the slide and removed the round in the chamber. He smiled. "Got it?"

Deena smiled wryly. "Yeah...so why did you have it loaded if that's so important?"

Blake frowned. "Well, it's different...uh..."

Deena's brows arched.

"It's just different, OK?" He hurried on. "This lever is the safety. He flipped the safety up with his thumb. "When it's up like this, it prevents the gun from accidentally discharging. Always keep the safety in the 'up' position unless you're shooting."

"Why did you—"

"Do as I say, not as I do, all right?" Blake looked around as if seeking support from the trees.

Deena struggled to contain her laughter. Kat, however, made no such attempt and was laughing out loud.

Blake took in a deep breath. "OK, the gun's empty, so we're going to practice gripping it before we get to shooting. Here, hold it as if you're going to shoot." He handed the gun to Deena, who held it out in front of her. "OK, use your other hand to hold it steady."

Deena placed her left hand around her right.

"No, no, no. That's gonna get you a busted thumb." Blake moved behind her and wrapped his arms around her, placing his hands on hers. Deena's body tensed at first, but his hands were gentle and warm as he positioned her hands. "You want to keep your hand clear of the slide..." Blake continued to talk, but "grip," "recoil," "sight," "stance," and everything else was background noise. Deena smelled a spicy fragrance, aftershave or maybe soap. She felt the solid muscle of Blake's arms against hers and his broad chest against her back. She felt the heat of color rising in her face as his cheek brushed against her ear. She found herself focusing more on controlling her breathing than on Blake's words. What was wrong with her? Feeling a rush of excitement that was consumed in a flash of doubt and distrust, she forced herself to listen. "Now line up the dots of the sights," Blake went on. Deena took in a deep breath and stared down the length of the gun. As the sunlight glinted off the ring on Blake's left hand, Deena stiffened, and her head banged into his face.

He grabbed his cheek. "What was that?"

"Sorry...I'm so sorry," Deena said, sounding flustered.

Blake massaged his cheek. "Don't worry about it. It's OK."

"I think I've got it," she said. "I think I'm ready."

Blake eyed her closely. Something was different, but he couldn't put his finger on it. "Well, I guess we'll try it with ammo." He had Deena load the magazine. "Now remember, don't point the gun toward anyone. It's loaded."

Deena nodded.

"Flip down the safety."

Deena pulled it down with her thumb.

"Now, aim at that big oak tree." Blake pointed toward a large tree on the other side of the clearing.

Deena brought the gun up. There was a pop. The barrel of the gun jerked up, and she stumbled backward. "Whoa, you were right. It does have a kick."

"Imagine that. I'm right! You're lucky that's a small conceal-carry. The recoil isn't as strong as some handguns. Let's try it again. This time, lean slightly into the shot and use your arms and hands to control the recoil."

Deena set her feet and brought the gun up. Then she looked down the sights.

"What's going on?" a small voice said.

Deena jumped and spun to see who was behind her. Blake, standing just to her side, managed to grab her arm and prevent her from turning. "Whoa." He held her with the gun pointing toward the trees. "Let me have the gun." Blake took the gun and flipped the safety. He looked back to see Sarah slipping up next to Kat.

Blake sighed. "Sarah, what are you doing back here?"

"I came to see what's going on." She smiled, her curly red hair and freckles framing her white teeth.

Blake motioned toward the trail. "It's not safe for you back here. You'll have to leave."

"But Kat's back here," Sarah protested.

Blake looked up at the sky and shook his head. He pointed toward the trail again. "I said you're going to have to leave."

Sarah's smile was gone, just hair and freckles. "My mama lets me play back here."

Blake's volume rose. "I'm not your mama."

She stared for a moment then turned, mumbling, "It's a good thing." She soon disappeared into the underbrush.

With Sarah gone, the target practice continued. The oak tree survived the day without a scratch. But if it made Deena feel safer, Blake thought, _What's the harm?_ It also eased his conscience a bit. Maybe tomorrow he would tell her everything.

# Chapter 18  
More than One Way to Skin a Cat

As the sun dipped into the Chesapeake Bay, leaving a glittering wake of silver that danced on the water, Blake finished rinsing out the brushes with the garden hose in the front yard. He stepped into the living room to find Deena examining the primer coat. "It's a bit splotchy because the walls are soaking it up in places," he said, "but it won't look like this when I'm finished." He smiled. "Well, it's getting late. Gotta run, but I'll be back tomorrow."

"Really, it's not that bad. Just leave it. I didn't want you to go to all this trouble."

Blake held up a hand. "Let me worry about that."

"But—"

"See you tomorrow." He waved as he stepped outside and strode toward his car. Looking up, he found Deena watching from the doorway as he slid into the driver's seat. He drove the short distance to where Mama Jo waited, a bouquet of flowers in hand.

As the old woman held out the bundle of brightly colored blooms, she asked, "How's the painting comin' along?"

Blake glanced back at Deena. "It's goin'."

"She seems nice." Mama Jo hesitated. "But she's a bit mysterious."

Blake nodded.

"She sure loves that little girl of hers."

"Yeah." He looked over at the now-empty doorway. "But she's running from something for sure."

"What do you think it is?"

Bake ran his hand over his shirt pocket. "That's a good question."

Mama Jo nodded. "Well, she wouldn't be the first person to do that, now would she?"

Blake eyed the old woman. "Are you talking about me?"

"Blake, honey, you're about to change clothes, drive to Anna's grave, then leave flowers at that little roadside memorial."

He waited, knowing there was more.

"Why?" Mama Jo said.

"What?"

"Why? Why do you make this nightly drive?"

Blake looked toward the bay, where the sun was quickly disappearing and the answer with it. "Well..." His mouth opened then closed. Moments passed. "I...uh...I'm showing Anna how much I love her."

Mama Jo shook her head. "I mean no disrespect, but Anna's gone."

"Not to me."

"I know you loved her, but this"—she motioned toward the car—"this is about you."

"Me?" Blake laughed. "How do you figure?"

"You're running...running from your guilt."

He shook his head.

"Every night you hope to leave it at that wooden cross."

Blake stared through the windshield at the now-dark water.

"But every morning you face the monster in the mirror again. Every day you wage a battle armed with good deeds, and every night you pay your penance."

Blake shook his head.

"But do you know why you're still fighting?"

He cocked his head. "I suppose you're going to tell me."

"Because it's a monster of your own making."

"I've gotta go." He shifted the car into gear.

Mama Jo placed a hand on his arm. "When are you going to stop running and start living?"

"Thanks for the flowers."

She grasped his forearm. "Is this what Anna would want for you? This nightly torture? Is it?"

Blake's eyes didn't leave the water.

* * *

Mama Jo released his arm as the car rolled forward. Her eyes followed as it disappeared around the corner, in the direction of Morrison's.

Enos waved to her as he urged his bike toward the highway, headed for The Steamed Crab. "Hey, Kitty Cat!" he yelled, and waved as he passed Deena's house.

Kat and Sarah were climbing on the abandoned rowboat that sat at an awkward angle between Deena's and Stan's houses. Kat waved. Sarah yelled out, "Death to all pirates!"

Mama Jo smiled and shuffled into her house. Moments later, she headed toward Deena's with a plate of chocolate chip cookies. She mumbled, "There's more than one way to skin a cat."

Deena appeared at the door. "Kat, time to come in."

Mama Jo called out, "I thought you and Kat would like some cookies."

Deena jumped. Her hand flew to her chest as she spun to see Mama Jo approaching.

"Didn't mean to startle you." She offered the plate, but Deena didn't take it. "I made an extra batch just for you."

"That's really sweet, but—"

"Cookies!" Kat was bounding toward the two women, her eyes wild with a pre-sugar rush.

"Not sweet at all." Mama Jo's smile flickered. "A widow's gotta do somethin' to pass the lonely hours."

Deena sighed. "Well, thanks."

Mama Jo stood smiling, cookies in hand.

"Um...you want to join us?" Deena asked.

"Child, that's so sweet." She stepped past her through the open door. "I'd love to." She surveyed the small room. "Where would you like these?"

Deena shut the door behind Kat, who danced before the plate of cookies like a shark in a feeding frenzy.

Deena motioned to the kitchen. "How about some milk to wash them down?"

Mama Jo beamed. "That would be lovely." She stepped into the kitchen, set the plate on the table, and settled into a chair.

As the plate went from cookies to crumbs and the glasses emptied into a glaze of white, Mama Jo spoke in glowing terms about the upcoming Blue Crab Fest: boat races, horseshoe competitions, tug-of-war, baking contests, music, dancing, and seafood, seafood, seafood. Crabs, clams, oysters, and fish. Steamed, broiled, and fried. Kat's face scrunched up. And the desserts? Cookies, cobblers, pies, and cakes. Kat's eyes now widened with interest. "You and Kat are coming, I hope."

"Well..."

"Please, Mommy, please, please."

Mama Jo's expression was in that limbo between hopeful and concerned. "I thought you could keep me company. Give me someone to talk to."

Deena chuckled. "I'm sure that—"

"People talk to me?" Mama Jo's eyes betrayed the sadness her smile tried to hide. "Don't get me wrong. Everyone's good to me, but this is a small town. There's family and then there's me." The corners of her smile drooped.

If Mama Jo didn't fit in, Deena was sure she and Kat would really be fish out of water. She studied the old woman, who swirled the remaining milk in her glass, which coated the sides in a translucent white. Here was this woman who had been so kind to her, the woman who reminded her of a happier time, the woman who seemed to need someone. Deena was surprised to hear herself say, "Sure, Kat and I would be glad to go with you."

Kat clapped and bounced in her chair.

Mama Jo looked up from her glass. Her eyes glistened, but her face glowed. "Thank you, child." She wiped at the corners of her eyes, stood, and announced, "Well, gotta get home. I've bothered you long enough."

Deena watched from the front window as the woman crossed the road, slowly making her way to her house. What she couldn't see was the triumphant grin spread across Mama Jo's face.

# Chapter 19  
The Watcher

Deena smiled as she listened to Kat's rumbling slumber in the dark. She tucked the sheets around her and kissed her forehead. With a last glance, she ambled into the living room, where she locked the front door and peered out through the blinds into the dark street. All seemed calm. Then she spotted a pinpoint of glowing red. It came from the darkness within a car parked on the roadside several houses down. She watched more closely. The red glow appeared again. This time smoke drifted from the open car window, the faint moonlight dancing blue on the vapor as it disappeared into the darkness. Someone was in the car. Had she seen that car there before? She wasn't sure. Deena continued watching the ebb and flow of glowing ashes and rising blue smoke. Everything else was shrouded in night's blackness. She tried to convince herself that it was just someone waiting for a friend or someone seeking a quiet moment out of the house. There was no movement, no reason to believe this was a threat.

She hurried to the end table and slipped the gun from the drawer. Flipping the safety off, she returned to the window. Nothing had changed. The glow and the smoke were all she saw in the darkness. She tiptoed to the hallway and glanced into the bedroom. Kat lay sleeping quietly. After crossing to the small window in the room, she peered through the blinds. A flame leapt momentarily as another cigarette was lit. In that flickering instant, Deena could just make out a bearded man. He wore a hat, maybe a ball cap. The light was gone and so was the face; all she could see was the glow of ashes followed by rising smoke.

She moved back to the front room and peeked through the blinds again—no change. _It's probably nothing_ , she tried to reassure herself. _A few more minutes and he'll be gone._

Still a bit uneasy, Deena sat on the sofa with the gun on the end table. She drummed her fingers on the wooden surface just inches from it. She wouldn't relax until she was sure the car was gone. The journal lay on the coffee table before her. Maybe she could read a bit then check for the car again. She picked up the small book and turned to her dog-eared page.

Journal: Sunsets

Tonight, the water was ablaze. Flame-red waves leapt and licked the shoreline. The distant horizon glowed yellow, with low clouds above moving in shades of neon red and pink. They were like a bright blanket of smoke above a raging forest fire. I'd never seen a sunset so violently beautiful. Maybe it's a premonition of the fiery waters that wait for me on the other side of my sunset.

I'm not sure if sunsets mark the end, or if they promise a new beginning. I've often wondered if each sunrise and sunset comprises the cover of a book. Each day we write a volume of the story of our lives between those covers. How many of those volumes, lying dusty on my shelves, are filled with blank pages? Too many, I suspect.

It's strange how sunsets surprise and amaze each time you see them. That's the essence of beauty. That's how I saw her, the miracle in the seventh pew.

She was a sophomore and I was a senior. We didn't share classes or lunchtime, but I often saw her passing in the hallway. Sometimes she'd be lost in laughter and conversation. But other times our eyes would meet. She'd smile, and I'd quickly glance away. My senior year was mostly a blur of boring lectures and meaningless conversations with close friends, punctuated by thirty-second moments between classes when life moved in slow motion.

Each day I'd wait anxiously near her first-period class for her to walk by. Too many days passed when I waited, only to race to class in distress when she didn't show. Those seemed to come in painful stretches of two to four days. When she'd finally return to school, her makeup would look a bit heavy, or I'd see faint purple and blue marks on her arms and wrists. Some days she winced with each step or movement. At other times, the touch of her clothing seemed more than she could bear. Despite all this, she smiled when she saw me. Those were the good days. The days when I knew, if only for a few hours, she was safe.

Old Man Barker kept her close. A stolen glance, a flicker of a smile, a teasing flip of her hair—these were the fleeting moments of my senior year.

That all changed on Memorial Day. Every year our little town held a big celebration. Local crafters, businesses, and churches had tables selling everything from blankets to paintings, hot dogs to steak sandwiches, and sweet tea to beer. But the main event was the horseshoe tournament. It was a double-elimination competition that many men saw as good-natured fun. But to others it was life and death. One of the latter was Old Man Barker. He was the tournament champion three years running and made sure everyone knew it. In our county, this was the Wimbledon of horseshoes, an event that ran from early afternoon into the evening, before the fireworks. Pits were set up under the lights in the local ball field so the competition could continue into the night, and town folk could sit in the bleachers and watch. This was serious business, at least according to my dad. He had been runner-up the past two years and swore that he'd beat Barker this year. We had a pit behind our house, and weeks before the tournament, he spent time each night throwing shoes. He tried to rope me into joining him, but I always found something else to do.

The testosterone was fueled by several coolers of iced beer that sat below tents near the pits. These were provided to cool the contestants but only served to heat up the competition.

I stood watching from the end of the bleachers. Old Man Barker was already fired up. He took a swig of beer and with his other hand pointed a shoe toward my father. He bellowed, "No two-bit barber is going to beat me! Not last year! Not this year!"

My dad fired back, "Talk's cheap." Then he smiled. "But a haircut isn't. It's more than two bits now." His smile vanished. "But you wouldn't know that, would you?"

Barker started toward my dad and roared, "You son of a—"

Sheriff Tynes, who was maybe six foot two and was somewhere in the range of huge, stepped in front of Barker. "This is friendly competition. Let's keep it that way." Barker started around him, and the sheriff put a hand on the man's chest. "I'd hate for you to miss the tournament because you're cooling off in a cell." Barker stared at my father for a second, spat on the ground, spun around, and strode off to the shade of one of the tents. Yes, we actually needed law enforcement at this "friendly" event.

My dad smirked as he strolled over to a tent at the other end of the field and drew a cold bottle from the ice.

" _You think your dad will win?"_

Startled by the voice behind me, I spun around. There she was. Her hair fell in golden waves, breaking on her shoulders and flowing over her cornflower-blue dress. Simple gold buttons ran from the neckline to the waist, which was cinched with a belt. The skirt of the dress was full and hung loosely. It was modest but hinted at a shapely figure. I stopped breathing for a moment and stood, mouth open.

She giggled, cocked her head, and squinted as if waiting for something.

" _I'm sorry. What?"_

She giggled again. "Your father...he's the barber, right?"

I nodded.

" _Do you think he'll win?"_

I shrugged. "Haven't thought much about it."

She smiled. "My father has. That's all he's talked about for weeks—how he's going to beat the barber."

Just then, Barker hurled a taunting insult at one of the participants. She jumped at the sound of his voice and stepped back. It was then that I realized she was standing where the bleachers blocked the line of sight to the pits. She recovered with a weak smile and gestured for me to move toward her. I glanced at Barker, who was absorbed in kicking the sand in one of the pits. As I drew closer, she glanced furtively toward the pits. Comfortably out of view, she smiled at me then nervously glanced down at her shoes. "I'm going to look at the booths. Wanna come with me?"

" _Me?"_

She nodded.

I grinned. "I'd like that, but what about your dad?"

As more bellowing came from the field, she frowned at the profanity-laced ranting. "Between the beer and the horseshoes, he'll never notice I'm gone."

I shrugged. "OK, let's go."

We spent the rest of the afternoon walking from booth to booth, laughing at the knitted dog booties and the tin-can bird feeders. Sometimes she'd study something, turning it in her hand to view it closely. She'd then declare that she could make that. We marveled at some of the paintings and stopped to have a charcoal sketch of her drawn.

The sun had made its way to just above the treetops, and the shadows were growing long. She stopped. "I'm thirsty."

I reached into my pocket. "I can buy us drinks."

She grinned.

" _How about hot dogs too?"_

" _You're going to buy me dinner?"_

I felt the color rushing to my face. "It's just a hot dog."

" _Oh." There was a note of disappointment in her voice. She pointed toward the lake park sign. "I'll meet you over there."_

It seemed strange to me, but I was grateful for a little separation to cool my flushed face. Minutes later, I juggled the two cups of soda and the hot dogs and found her by the path leading through the trees to the lake.

She took a cup and a hot dog. "Have you ever been to the lake?"

I nodded. "A few times to fish."

She glanced toward the trail. "I've never been. Can we go?"

I looked up. The sun had now dipped behind the trees. "They close the road to the lake at sunset to keep kids from parking down there."

She brightened. "We're not driving."

She was right. I shrugged. "OK, let's go."

Hot dogs and drinks in hand, we traveled the twisted trail. The town festivities were soon lost in the tangle of underbrush and pines. When we arrived at the banks of the lake, she stopped to take it all in. "It's beautiful." She stood there transfixed. Finally, she spoke again. "Who would know there's such beauty in the world?"

To me it was just a hole to pull fish out of, but to her it was much more. At that moment, however, the mirror image of the dark pines ablaze in sunset's dying fire transformed the murky water into a grand master's landscape.

" _We can eat over there." I pointed toward a picnic table a few feet down the shore._

She set her hot dog, drink, and purse on the table. "Do you have a bottle opener?"

" _Yeah, but we don't need one."_

She pulled two bottles of beer from her purse, dumped her soda, and held out her hand. "Give me the opener."

" _Where did you get those?"_

She smiled coyly. "I borrowed them from the back of the booth while the man was helping you with the drinks and hot dogs."

I shook my head as I fished out my pocketknife and flipped up the bottle opener. She pried the caps off both bottles, handed me one, and poured hers into the empty soda cup. With her eyes closed, she took a slow drink then inhaled deeply, savoring it. She looked at my bottle on the table. "Go ahead."

I lifted the bottle to my lips, tipped it, and took a sip. To me, it had the flavor of model airplane glue. It must have shown in my twisted expression.

" _First beer?"_

I nodded.

" _You get used to the taste. After a while, you even enjoy it." She took another swallow from her cup. "I started drinking after I was sent back to live with my dad." She was staring out at the lake. "He gets so drunk that he can't remember how much he's had. It's easy to slip some off without him noticing." Her eyes were moist and she seemed distant. "It's the only way I can survive the hell of living with that man." She seemed lost in thought._

I had opened the knife and was absently carving my initials on the tabletop. She glanced down. "Aren't you going to carve my initials?"

I looked up and smiled. "You want me to?" I felt a little flutter inside.

" _Sure."_

I quickly carved her initials in the table below mine. I looked up, pleased with my work.

She sighed and shook her head. "That's not right."

" _It's not?"_

" _No. Give me the knife." She held out her hand. The color was rushing to my face again; I couldn't figure out what I'd done wrong. She took the knife and carved a plus sign between our initials. The rush of blood was burning in my cheeks._

A P

+

E B

Then she carved a ragged heart around the initials. "Now it's right." The color was now raging hot in my face. She looked up proudly but must have noticed my embarrassment because she quickly glanced away at the lake.

Suddenly she gasped. "Let's go for a swim." She twisted her hair and pinned it up in a bun.

" _A swim?"_

" _Yeah." She loosened the belt on her dress._

" _But...we don't have swimsuits."_

Unbuttoning the dress, she walked toward the water. "Don't need 'em." She slid the dress off her shoulders and let it slip to the ground. Then she stepped out of it and began unhooking her bra. She looked back over her shoulder at where I was still seated. "Well? Are you coming?" She slipped the bra off and dropped it to the ground before gingerly stepping into the water in the twilight of sunset. She covered her breasts with one arm as she went from ankle deep to knee deep. "The water's cool. It feels good." She glanced back and flashed me a smile. "Come on." Her wet, clinging panties and rounded hips disappeared into the silvery water. Next, her slender waist slid beneath the surface. She was soon shoulder deep in the sleepy lake.

I took a deep breath, kicked off my shoes, and stood as she turned to face me. I slipped off my shirt and shorts. She laughed as I ran and jumped into the cold water near her.

As I surfaced, she scowled, "Don't get my hair wet!"

I was crestfallen. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

Laughing, she splashed me, her hands pushing waves of water over my head. I fought my way toward her, shielding myself with my hands. She tried backing away, but I caught her arms and drew her toward me. Her laughter subsided. Her eyes were wide and seemed deeper than the lake. She moved closer and kissed me. Her lips felt light and soft, gently touching mine. I found her waist and pulled her to me. Our bodies were touching, warm in the cool water. I felt her excitement and was certain she could sense mine.

" _Well, well, what do we have here?"_

_We jerked around at the voice from the shore, the coldness of the water suddenly making me shiver. Through the dim light, I saw Deputy Arnold Stemple. He was a young man and shorter than the sheriff and definitely thinner. A good wind might pick him up and deposit him in the next county. With his long, thin face and pointed chin, nobody would accuse him of being handsome. Most people called him Arnie. The high school kids called him Barney after the deputy on_ The Andy Griffith Show _. There he stood, holding two beer bottles in one hand and a bra in the other. At that moment, he didn't seem so funny._

" _You're the Parsons boy, right?"_

I nodded.

" _And you're Old Man Barker's girl?"_

She nodded.

He let out a low whistle. "Well, if this ain't somethin'." Deputy Barney looked up at the sky and shook his head. "Do you know what your daddies would do if they found out?"

Even in the waning light, I saw the color drain from her face.

" _No, don't," I pleaded. "Just let us go. We'll go."_

The deputy motioned to his left. "Boy, you move over this way so I can keep an eye on you." He tossed the bra near where the dress lay on the ground, and then he moved away, turning sideways with his back toward her. "OK, young lady, I'll keep my back turned. You get over here and get dressed."

I watched as she splashed toward the shore.

" _You"—he pointed at me—"turn around and quit gawking."_

I turned and faced away from the shore.

A minute later, he called out, "Dressed yet?"

" _Yes, sir."_

" _Then get on back before your daddy notices you're missing."_

I turned around to see her disappear in the dark trees.

Deputy Barney motioned to me. "All right, boy, get yourself dressed." He stood, arms folded, glaring as I splashed my way out of the lake. As I slipped on my shirt, he said, "We need to talk."

I stared at the ground.

" _No, you look at me."_

I met his eyes. They were hard.

" _Do you like her?"_

" _Huh?"_

" _The Barker girl. Do you like her?"_

I shrugged.

" _Do you care about her?"_

I nodded. "Look, I get it. I'm eighteen and she's a minor."

Deputy Barney laughed and shook his head. "You don't get anything. You think Old Man Barker cares about the law?"

I shrugged again.

He motioned toward the lake. "If he'd seen this tonight, he would've killed you, and then he would've killed her." It felt like his eyes were boring into my brain. "I'd have two dead teenagers, your grieving father, and her father in jail." He shook his head. "They don't pay me enough for all that." He glanced at the lake, sighed, then turned back to me. "Look, if you want her to be safe, you need to steer clear of her."

A long silent moment passed between us. "Can I go now?"

His shoulders slumped visibly. "Yeah, go on." As I walked away, he called out, "Don't go gettin' yourself killed."

I left the dark lake behind.

The charm of youth is that good judgment is never allowed to interfere with hormonal drives. We were young. Good advice and good judgment were never an issue. We simply ignored them. I would slip away at night. Her father would slosh his way into an alcohol coma, and then she'd slip out to join me. Looking back now, I'm sure the excitement of these stolen moments was heightened by their forbidden danger.

* * *

Deena glanced up from the journal. _Youth? Hormones? Good judgment ignored?_ Her eyes were brimming. She swept away the streams that ran down her face before folding the corner of the page, closing the book, and setting it on the table. She then picked up the gun and walked to the window. Carefully she parted the blinds and peered out into the dark night. A chill ran through her. The car was still in the same place. Intermittently the red glow of a cigarette illuminated the darkness, while the blue smoke evaporated into the night. Deena watched for minutes. Nothing changed. She walked into the hallway and comforted herself in the rise and fall of Kat's breathing as she slept. Then she crossed into the kitchen and peeked out the window into the darkness of the woods behind the little house—nothing. She checked the back door. It was locked. She grabbed another beer from the refrigerator, crossed back to the front room, and peered through the blinds. Nothing had changed: the car, the red glow, the smoke. After a long moment, Deena returned to the sofa. _Who is he? Why's he out there? What's he doing?_ She drummed her fingers on the end table. _Nothing to do but wait... But for what? If he's a danger, wouldn't I know by now?_

She opened the beer and took a long swallow, then checked the gun next to her. She took another sip. She drummed her fingers on the table. This was maddening. Moments later, she picked up the journal and opened it at the folded corner. She thought, _Maybe a little longer and then I'll check again._ She continued to read.

* * *

Deputy Barney's advice was like paper in a fire—no more than smoke and ash in the heat. That summer was one of the hottest in local history, but the nights flamed white-hot: desperate, fleeting, breathless moments that left us clinging to each other like a drowning man clutching a piece of drifting wreckage. Yet, I would rather be adrift in the ocean with her than have my feet firmly planted on dry land.

We didn't know it, but that heat was about to consume us all. I was so used to Old Man Barker drinking himself into a stupor that I had become careless. One evening I walked up to their farmhouse as if I were an invited guest. As I approached, she slipped out the door and frantically motioned for me to move away. Just as I slipped behind a stand of trees, Old Man Barker threw open the door. "Girl, what the hell are you doin'?" Looking beyond her, he roared, "Who's that out there?" He spun and grabbed her by the arm and shook her like a dog thrashing a stuffed toy. "Was that the barber's boy? Was it?"

While he was distracted, I slipped behind their smokehouse and then into the woods beyond. I began working my way around the perimeter of the property. Then I stopped. Her shrieks cut through the dark night and deep into my heart. She was screaming and crying, begging for him to stop, all between shrieks of pain. He was beating her and bellowing. "You whore," followed by a shriek. "Just like your mother," another shriek. "Filthy slut," another shriek. Suddenly I was running headlong into hell, straight for their house. Crossing plowed fields of crops, I stumbled and fell but continued to race to stop him. As I neared the house, the shrieks gave way to loud sobs. Old Man Barker strode out the door, a bottle of whiskey in his hand. As I reached the house, he disappeared into the woods on a path that led to a small creek that fed the lake.

When I reached the house, I peered through a window to see her crumpled on the floor. Her body was heaving as she sobbed. Her back looked like raw hamburger. There was little left of her blood-soaked blouse.

I was almost to the trail before I realized I was running again. Branches and vines lashed my face as I sped down the trail to confront the old man. My lungs were burning, and I struggled to breathe as he came into view. He was standing at the bank of the creek, the bottle raised moonward as he guzzled the whiskey. As I rushed toward him, he dropped the bottle and took a swing at me. I ducked, and his fist connected with the top of my head. I stumbled and sank to the ground, dazed by the blow. He roared in pain from connecting with the solid bone of the top of my skull.

Still dazed, I managed to demand, "Leave her alone!"

He stormed toward me. "Or what?" He clutched my shirt and jerked me into the air. My feet kicked wildly to find the ground. "Or what?" He threw me to the ground. I scrambled crawling toward the creek. He caught me just as I reached the bank. I turned to fend him off, my upper body in the water. He sat on my stomach, his bulk pinning me to the ground. He grabbed my shirt, pushed my head under the water, and held me there. I fought to free myself. My lungs were on fire. I clawed at his hands. The world was going black. I flailed my arms. In the dizzying panic, my hand found something hard. I grabbed it and slammed it against his head. Suddenly there was sweet air. I gasped, coughed, and choked. I sat lost for a moment. I was soaking wet, gagging, and coughing, clutching a large rock that was splattered red. I struggled to my feet and searched in the darkness for the old man. That's when I saw him floating facedown in the stream. A dark-red trail in the water followed his body as it moved downstream. What had I done?

I'd never learned to swim, so I ran, sloshing down the creek, chasing the body, but the creek ran faster than I could. Soon he disappeared. Exhausted, I sat on the bank, trying to make my brain work. I was a madman talking to the air. "I killed a man. I killed a man!" I stood and began pacing. "Not just any man. I killed her father. Her mother's already dead, and I killed the only parent she had left! She's going to hate me." I continued to pace. "What difference does it make? I'm going to jail for the rest of my life. I'm too young. I haven't even begun to live." Self-defense? I could never prove it. I panicked and did the only thing I could think of. I ran. I ran hard, and I ran long. I've been running ever since. Running from fear. Running from guilt. Running from regret. The faster I run, the harder they pursue me. I'm so tired of running.

* * *

Deena set the journal on the table and sighed. She closed her eyes and whispered, "Me too." The rumble of a car engine cut through the song of the crickets and frogs. She grabbed the handgun, rose, and cautiously parted the blinds. The car was gone. She sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Her body sagged in relief. She glanced a second time: no car, no dark passenger. As she looked up the street in the opposite direction, she spotted Blake's car parked in front of Mama Jo's house. Deena wasn't sure why, but she found it easier to breathe when she saw that. She smiled. _Too late for socializing. Something must be broken._

# Chapter 20  
Fish to Fry

Chum hummed along to the honky-tonk music as he swept the floor and bagged up the last of the trash. He liked these quiet moments after The Steamed Crab was closed. He didn't have to pretend to be understanding when some drunk idiot complained about his girlfriend's angry response to a birthday gift of beef jerky. He couldn't be emotionally drained by the story of the guy who had lost his job or lost his wife. He didn't have to pretend to care when an intoxicated customer sobbed over a lost bet he'd made on the Redskins. Seriously, the Redskins?

No, this was the quiet time of night when he could clean in peace. As he switched off the music and turned off the lights, he hummed quietly. Tonight was a good night. Tomorrow was the Blue Crab Fest, and most of his regulars would be there. For the past few years, he had just shut down the restaurant during the festival. The little business he got hardly made it worth the effort to open. He was looking forward to a day off and quiet time out on his boat. A couple of six-packs, the gentle motion of the water, and with luck, a few fish. Still humming, Chum locked the back door and almost skipped down the steps.

"Nice night, isn't it?"

Startled, he spun around to see Fry standing just feet away, aiming a strange-looking device at him. "Get the hell—" He felt the stab of two sharp darts, and then his muscles locked up in pain. As Chum crumpled to the ground, he heard a series of crackling clicks. He could hear. He could see. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't move. The clicks finally stopped, and for an instant, his muscles relaxed. Again, the clicking and again the muscle seizure. His whole body seized up in a painful spasm. A hand shoved a cloth over his mouth and nose, and he inhaled a sweet, dizzying chemical scent. Then the world went black.

As he came out of his stupor, he tried to move his arms and legs but couldn't. He shook his head to clear it. He saw trees and underbrush. The muscles in his shoulders were burning, and his arms were immobile above his head. He looked up. His shirt had been stripped from this body and was knotted around his wrists—he was dangling from a tree branch. He looked down to see his pants around his ankles, and his belt wrapped around the narrow tree trunk. He struggled to free himself. As he did, the knotted fabric cut into his wrists, and his fingers were going numb. Breathing was difficult. Some kind of cloth was stuffed in his mouth and something—maybe tape—held it tightly in place. He tried to scream, but little sound escaped.

"Well, look here. The fat boy with the shotgun is awake." Smiling, Fry moved into his line of sight. "We're gonna have some fun." He held up the strange device Chum had seen earlier. "Taser." Fry turned it in fascination. He removed the cartridge and held the stun gun for Chum to see. Then he pulled the trigger. Blue streaks jumped and crackled between the electrodes. "Fifty thousand volts of beauty." Fry slowly twisted the crackling weapon, mesmerized by the miniature lightning storm.

Chum thrashed again, trying to free his hands and legs.

Fry looked up and smiled. "Yes, we have some business." He held a photo inches from Chum's face. It was a picture of a teen dressed in a white collared blouse and a plaid jumper. Her hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail. Below the picture, the name Natalie was printed. "Have you seen this girl? She would be older now."

Chum shook his head.

"Are you sure? Maybe you need some help remembering." Fry held up the crackling device. Blue streaks of lightning leapt from side to side. He moved the device downward, close to Chum's body.

"A body like this?" Fry shook his head. "I bet you don't get much action." He looked up at Chum with a toothful grin. "Well, tonight you'll get the thrill of your life," he said, howling in laughter.

Chum's eyes followed the electric-blue streaks. In panicked realization, he struggled once more against his bonds. Muffled cries escaped his gagged mouth, and sweat poured down his face and chest. Then contact. His body seized up in a painful muscular spasm that seemed to last forever. When it stopped, Chum slumped, his head on his chest.

As Fry clicked the trigger, Chum's head snapped up at the crackling sound. "Good. Let's try again." He held up the picture a second time. "Have you seen her?"

Chum shook his head.

As Fry applied the fifty thousand volts again, streaks of pain shot through Chum's body. Then, the lightning and the spasms stopped. Somewhere in the fog of his brain, Chum thought he heard a cell phone ring. He shook his head to clear the haze.

Fry pulled a phone from his pocket. The glow of the screen cast a ghastly blue shadow across his face. "Yeah?" The toothful grin returned as he nodded. "Where?" He listened for a second. "That's great." He slipped the phone into his pocket. Speaking to an unseen figure behind Chum, he said, "That was one of my boys. He found her."

The unseen figure, whose voice was rough as sandpaper, growled, "Let's finish this."

Fry shrugged as he grinned at Chum. "Sorry, but we've got bigger fish to fry." He cackled at his clever play on words.

The moon glinted briefly from the blade of the knife in its swift arc.

# Chapter 21  
Red Bull

Blake pushed through the door at Morrison's, heading straight for the refrigerated drinks.

Skip called out, "'Morning, Blake."

Limping slightly, Blake responded with a halfhearted wave. He stopped at the glass doors and arched his back, stretching from side to side. A moment later, he pulled open the frosted glass and grabbed two cans of Red Bull.

As Skip rang him up, Blake pulled his shoulders back and rotated his neck.

"Two Red Bulls, huh? Must've been some night at the Crab." Skip flashed him a grin.

Blake massaged the back of his neck with his left hand. "I wish that was it." He continued working the knotted muscles. "Slept in my car last night. Do you know how uncomfortable that can be?"

"I wouldn't think it would be much worse than sleeping on that boat of yours."

Blake eyed Skip. "Well, it is. You just can't get comfortable in a car."

"Wouldn't know and don't plan on finding out." Skip handed him his change. "Too drunk to drive home?"

"Not exactly." Blake picked up the cans. "Thanks, Skip."

As Blake turned to leave, Skip said, "Hey, did you hear about Old Man Wyatt?"

Blake squinted. "Wyatt?"

"The old guy who runs that dump motel just south of Machipongo?"

"Yeah, I know who you're talking about. What about him?"

"He's dead. They think it was a heart attack."

Blake nodded. "Not surprised. Didn't he have heart problems?"

"Yeah, but that's not the strange part."

Blake's brows arched.

"Some guy staying there found him last night. Said he was duct-taped to a chair."

"What?"

"Yep, taped to a chair," Skip said. "You know Charlene? Works in the sheriff's office?"

Blake nodded.

"She says they suspect he was tortured. Probably caused the heart attack."

"Tortured? Who would do..." He trailed off.

"I know, right?" Skip shook his head. "The world's gone crazy."

"Yeah, crazy." Blake turned to go, paused, then turned back. "Skip, you got a minute?"

"Sure. What's up?"

# Chapter 22  
The Dress

Kat swung the door open. "What happened to you?"

"Don't ask," Blake muttered. "Long night."

From behind, Deena's voice was sharp. "Kat, I told you never to answer the door."

"But it's Blake. I saw him through the blinds."

"No, buts. I told you."

Deena looked closely. It could have been her own reflection, but the bleary blue eyes looking back weren't hers. They were Blake's. "You look as bad as I feel," she huffed.

There was an awkward silence.

"I'm here to finish painting," Blake finally said, gesturing to the two-tone room.

Deena stared and blinked. "Oh, right." She waved him in as she headed to the kitchen. "I'm making coffee," she called out. "Want some?"

"Nothing better to chase Red Bull."

"What?"

"Yes, I'd like some."

Blake moved slowly as he spread the drop cloth and opened the paint can. The aroma of the brewing coffee lifted his spirits. Soon Deena made her way back into the living room with two steaming cups. She handed one to Blake. As she lifted her cup to her lips, a banging on the door made her jump, and hot coffee splashed down her front. She danced and pulled at the soaked fabric, trying to cool the burning. The banging came again. As she looked at Blake with wide eyes, the color fled from her face.

He set his mug on the coffee table. "I'll get it."

Deena held her breath. Blake opened the door just inches and peered out.

"How's the painting?" Mama Jo stood there, a smile on her face and clothes draped over her arm.

"It's comin' along."

Mama Jo nodded. "I'm glad you're here. You can help us. Is Deena in?"

As Blake swung the door open, Deena took in a deep breath.

The old woman stepped in, looking around. "This is gonna look real good once you're finished." She nodded in approval before noticing the coffee stains splattered down Deena's loose-fitting shirt. "Child, what happened to you?"

Deena shrugged. "Coffee."

Mama Jo shook her head. "Well, never mind. I've got some things for you to try on. I wasn't sure what size—"

"Wait...what?"

"I just picked up a few things, different sizes."

Deena was silent.

"For the picnic."

Deena's face turned cold.

"They're nothin' fancy. Got 'em on sale."

Deena continued to stare at Mama Jo.

"Just humor an old woman. I don't have any children or grandchildren to dote on."

Still no response from Deena.

Mama Jo held out a bright collection of dresses in reds, blues, and floral prints. "Please?"

Deena hesitated. "OK, I'll try them on." Her eyes were sharp. "But that doesn't mean I'm wearing one of them."

"That's all I'm asking." Mama Jo smiled. As Deena disappeared into the bedroom, she heard Mama Jo's voice. "Deena and Kat are going to the Fest with me, Blake. Want to join us?"

Blake laughed softly. "Thanks, but that's not my thing."

"You gotta eat."

A long silence passed as Deena slipped into one of the dresses. She opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Mama Jo turned at the sound of the opening door.

"Child, no one can see anything with you all bunched up like that."

Deena stared at the floor, her shoulders hunched and arms folded.

"Stand up straight so we can see the dress."

At this, Blake turned from painting. Deena still stood wrapped up in her arms.

"Come on now," Mama Jo coaxed her. "I'm not gonna bite."

Deena lowered her arms and lifted her head. Several loose strands of dark hair fell in wisps over one eye. She swept them up and back with one hand and stood awkwardly in a red dress that accentuated her shapely figure. The neckline revealed just a hint of cleavage. The skirt spilled easily over her hips and cascaded to just above her knees. Her legs were lean and long.

"Much better." Mama Jo nodded her head in approval. "What do you think, Blake?"

"Wow." His eyes lingered on her in the following silence.

Mama Jo glanced from Blake to Deena, then back to Blake. "Well, Blake?"

Blake's voice was trance-like. "She's...beautiful."

Deena felt herself blush. She wanted to run, hide. Men had called her hot or sexy. Most of the time they just leered at her, making her feel dirty. She couldn't remember any man ever calling her beautiful. How could anyone think that? But here he was, this kind, handsome man...and he'd just called her beautiful. She hurried into the bedroom to hide her embarrassment and change into her figure-swallowing clothes.

Deena stood for a moment, considering the red dress as she held it at arm's length. Next, she picked up a blue dress and held it to her as she studied it in the full-length mirror on the wall. A faint smile crossed her face then evaporated. _He wouldn't think I was beautiful if he knew the truth._ She closed her eyes, attempting to hold back the coming tide. In the darkness, she could see her grandmother as if she were standing before her. She gently cupped a young Deena's chin in her hand and raised it to look into her eyes. "Deedee, you're a beautiful girl. You hear me? Don't ever doubt that."

Deena swiped at the tears that now ran freely. That was a long time ago, and that was a different Deena.

Moments later, she emerged from the bedroom, a load of garments draped over her arm. Noticing Blake watching, she turned to Mama Jo and held out the dresses. "You can take these back," she said.

Mama Jo frowned.

"I kept the red one, if it's OK."

The frown was swept away like debris in a strong current. Mama Jo smiled. "It's more than OK, child."

# Chapter 23  
The Answer

The sun hung low on the western horizon. Blake waited on the dock as his brother moored the family deadrise. "What's the news, Bubba? Did you win the race?"

His brother shook his head. "It's not about winning. It's about drinking beer."

"That's what all the losers say." The two men laughed.

Bubba grinned. "Well, here's your floating home. You changing for your nightly ride?"

Blake nodded.

"Gonna make it to the Fest afterward?"

Blake glanced toward town, where people were starting to gather in the open field beyond Morrison's. "Nope. That's not for me."

His brother nodded. "Hey, I don't think we'll be going out tomorrow mornin'. It's supposed to be blowing pretty hard. I 'spect the bay'll be full of nurses."

Blake chuckled at the old watermen's expression for whitecaps. "That's all right. I can probably use the extra sleep."

Bubba grinned. "Catch you tomorrow." He waved as he walked down the dock.

Blake boarded the boat and stooped into the small cabin that he called home. Minutes later, he stepped onto the deck, wearing his usual white dress shirt, tie, and dark dress slacks. The sun was slipping silently into the Chesapeake Bay. The day was winding down, and the party was cranking up. The Cobb Bay Boys, a local country band, were pounding out one of the crowd's favorite tunes on a makeshift stage.

As Blake approached Mama Jo's, he found her standing up the road at Deena's door, a bouquet of flowers in hand. As soon as he pulled up and climbed out of the car, Deena appeared in the doorway. Blake wasn't sure if it was the red dress, the sunset behind him, or Deena, but she seemed to glow. For a moment, he forgot to breathe.

"It's not too late to join us," Mama Jo said, winking, as Blake approached the house.

He smiled, but there was a sadness in it. "Sorry. I've got things to do." He took the flowers from her. "Thanks, Mama Jo." He turned and headed toward the car. Glancing back, he called out, "Y'all have fun." His eyes lingered on Deena as he walked. He stumbled and quickly recovered as his face grew red. Waving, he got back into the car. In the rearview mirror, he saw the two women watching as his car disappeared into the trees.

No stop at The Steamed Crab tonight. It was closed. Most of his friends would be at the Fest anyway. Instead he turned onto the highway. He had time for one stop on his way to Anna's grave. Blake rarely changed his nightly routine, but he knew Anna would approve. There was a little shop in Cape Charles where she had dreamed of the children they would have one day.

* * *

Darkness stole through the trees as he walked the familiar path and sat on the ground at the foot of the headstone. Unlike other nights, he just sat, his arms wrapped around his knees. Finally, he spoke. "I don't know what to do." He waited in the dark silence. There was no response. "Anna, tell me what to do." He waited. Still nothing. Blake sighed. The large, yellow moon quietly crept above the trees. He gave a faint smile, rose from the ground and ran his hands over the seat of his pants. Head hung, he made his way along the path to the car.

Stopping at the roadside memorial, he replaced yesterday's flowers and stood. "Mama Jo says you'd want me to move on." He waited. "Anna, tell me what to do." The only sound came from the crickets in the woods. Blake nodded, turned, and climbed into his car.

As he drove the highway, he passed the Machipongo Motel. Scattered letters of the neon sign flickered, barely holding on to life. He watched the bleak little building as he drove past. _Poor Old Man Wyatt, tortured and now dead. Who would have thought? Life's like that, though. One day it's there and the next it's not._ He thought of Anna.

As a blur of movement rushed from the shoulder of the road, Blake's eyes darted back to the highway. Two deer dashed into the path of the car. He slammed the brakes, sending the car skidding onto the shoulder just feet from the bounding deer.

Heart pounding. Rapid breathing. He closed his eyes and saw Anna lying crumpled on the hood of the car. He opened his eyes to see only dark trees in the headlights. Trembling and gasping for air, he sat transfixed as he glanced into the rearview mirror. The old neon sign flickered. How many times had he passed here? How many times had he seen without seeing? There in the darkness, reversed in the rearview mirror, the sporadic message of the few flickering letters flashed:

let g o

He sat mesmerized by the answer that struggled to be seen in the darkness.

# Chapter 24  
The Dance

Mama Jo, Deena, and Kat made their way from the buffet to an open table. The two women carried plates of fresh corn, tomatoes, cucumbers, clam fritters, deviled crab, crab cakes, and fried flounder. Kat carried a plate piled high with pecan pie, chocolate cake, pound cake, apple cobbler, and a hot dog. Deena had insisted on the hot dog.

Deena's eyes darted around the crowd; groups made her uncomfortable. She didn't know why, but something had put her even more on edge. Maybe it was the guy who sat across the way. He wore a ball cap and had a heavy, dark beard. She had an uncomfortable feeling that he was watching her. Actually, quite a few men seemed to notice her. She regretted letting Mama Jo talk her into wearing the dress. In fact, she was regretting even coming. From the corner of her eye, she saw the bearded man staring in her direction. Could he be the same guy who'd sat in the car outside her house last night? It had been too dark to tell. Her eyes scanned the crowd. There were plenty of men wearing ball caps and sporting beards. Maybe it was just her imagination. Still, she felt uneasy.

The Cobb Bay Boys were banging out an upbeat tune, and a few couples were dancing in the open area in front of the stage. Off to the side, Enos studied the guitarists intently, his head bobbing up and down in time with the music.

Deena glanced at Kat, who had chocolate smeared along her bottom lip. "Kat, eat the hot dog first."

Kat pouted.

"Mind if I sit here?"

Deena looked up to find Blake standing next to an empty chair at their table.

Mama Jo gave him a wide smile. "Not at all, child. Go get yourself somethin' to eat. We'll save your place."

Blake turned to Deena. "Well, there it is."

Deena gave him a quizzical look. "What?"

"A smile. I knew you had one in you."

Deena felt the heat of the June night air rise. She didn't realize she'd been so sour.

The Cobb Bay Boys wrapped up their number then launched into a popular line-dance tune. The lead singer stepped up to the mic. "Come on, folks. Get up on your feet." People streamed into the open area in front of the stage and fell into step as the fiddle chirped at a frantic pace with the thumping drums.

"Come on, Blake. Let's dance." Lisa from the Burger Barn had slipped up behind him. Her blouse, with its plunging neckline, seemed one or two sizes too small, and her swaying hips were packaged in shrink-wrap denim. Before he could answer, she grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the stage.

"Lisa, you know I don't dance," Blake protested.

She had a death grip on his hand and was dragging him along as she called over her shoulder, "I'll show you how."

Blake glanced back toward the table with something resembling fear in his eyes. _Help me_ , he mouthed.

Mama Jo and Kat laughed as they looked on. Deena's smile masked a deep ache that she couldn't explain.

The entertainment was just beginning. Blake tried following Lisa's lead. She'd move with her left foot, and he'd follow with his right. He turned right when he was supposed to turn left. His clapping and kicking were always one beat off. Halfway through the song, he threw up his hands and started to walk away. Lisa grabbed at his arm, but he shook his head and pulled free. Mama Jo and Kat were still laughing when he plopped into his chair and let out an audible groan.

Mama Jo placed her hand on his arm. "You did a great job."

Blake scowled.

"Why don't you go get yourself somethin' to eat now?"

He sighed. "I think I lost my appetite out there."

The music stopped, and the lead singer announced, "Before our break, we're going to slow things down a bit."

Blake looked on as the band rolled out the next number, his left hand keeping time with the music. Mama Jo and Deena sat behind him on the back side of the round table. Mama Jo nodded toward Blake. Deena cocked her head questioningly. The old woman moved her right hand close enough to tap the ring finger on her left hand. Deena looked. A deep furrow etched the flesh that Blake's wedding band had once encircled. The ring was gone but not forgotten.

The music soared in a slow, melodic tempo. Couples embraced in rhythmic movement to the notes.

Blake's hand paused in midbeat as he muttered, "No. Don't do it."

Deena followed his gaze. Lisa had Blake in her sights as she strolled toward the table.

"Not again," Blake groaned. He grasped Deena's hand. "Dance with me."

"What?" Deena tried to pull away, but he held on.

"Please?" Desperation tinged his voice. "Save me."

Deena looked beyond him to see Lisa closing in on their table. She stood and smirked. "Of course."

Blake led her past Lisa. Deena watched her smile turn sour as her eyes followed the couple.

Up near the stage, Blake took Deena in his arms. "Thank you. Is she still shooting daggers at us?"

Deena stole a glance over Blake's shoulder. Lisa stood with her arms folded. Her eyes were red embers burning in her dark expression. "Oh, yeah."

Blake chuckled. "Thanks again for saving me. I can probably handle a slow dance. I'll try not to step on your toes."

Deena smiled. "You're doing fine." As she spoke, her foot landed awkwardly on his. He caught her as she stumbled, and they broke into laughter. Still giggling, Deena laid her forehead on his chest, and he drew her closer. Her initial panic collapsed beneath the weight of wanting to be held. Their laughter evaporated in the heat of silent movement as their bodies melted into each other. The haunting melody, the slow measured movement of Blake's body next to hers, his tender but firm embrace—it was intoxicating. A tingling numbness overtook her as her heart pounded. In Blake's arms, Deena felt small but safe.

The song was over, the last note played, yet they clung to each other in the quiet interlude. It was just a whisper of a moment, and then it was gone. But as they made their way back to the table, Blake's hand found hers.

An awkward silence settled over them as they took their seats. Blake excused himself to find some food. Deena's eyes lingered on him as he moved through the crowd. As he passed where the bearded man once sat watching, Deena was jerked back into the moment. The watcher was no longer there. Her eyes darted around the crowd, but she couldn't find him. A second time, she searched the crowd. _He's gone_ , she told herself, exhaling.

Mama Jo touched Deena's hand and winked. "You two make a nice couple."

Deena shook her head as she continued to survey the crowd. "He's just running from Lisa."

"You're wrong. I see the way he looks at you."

Deena glanced toward Blake. "He wouldn't want me."

As Blake neared the table with a plate full of food, her words hung in the empty air.

"So quiet. Did someone die?" Blake looked from Deena to Mama Jo.

"Just girl talk." Mama Jo smiled.

The next few minutes were consumed by small talk about the food, the music, and the weather. As the Cobb Bay Boys took the stage again, Deena stood. "I need to get Kat to bed."

Kat complained and begged to stay, but Deena insisted.

Blake looked across the way to find Lisa watching him intently. "Think I'll call it a night too."

Deena glanced toward Lisa and smiled. "That's probably a good idea."

He and Mama Jo chuckled.

Blake walked with the two women and Kat as far as Mama Jo's. He looked up the road toward Deena's. All was quiet except for the faint music of the Cobb Bay Boys drifting through the trees.

"Well, I got something to do." Blake motioned over his shoulder with his thumb toward the water then waited.

"I think we'll visit with Jo for a few minutes." Deena cut her eyes toward Mama Jo.

"I'll see them home," Mama Jo told Blake.

"Right." His smile faded as he looked around. "Well, I'd better get going." He waved as he walked toward the water.

As he disappeared in the darkness, Deena turned to Mama Jo. "The other dress, the blue one?"

"Yes?"

"You think I could buy it from you?"

"No."

"Oh, you've already returned it?" Deena's voice dropped off in disappointment.

A wry twist of a smile crept across Mama Jo's face. "You're not buying it. I'm giving it to you."

Deena shook her head.

"I insist. That's what I bought it for."

"But I—"

"No buts about it. You take it for free or you don't take it at all."

Deena watched the old woman's determined expression for a moment then shrugged.

"Good. That's settled." Mama Jo disappeared into her house and reappeared moments later with the blue dress in hand.

# Chapter 25  
Questions

Deena tucked in the comforter, kissed Kat's forehead, and stroked her hair. "Good night, little one."

"Good night, Mommy." Kat closed her eyes and snuggled into her pillow.

Deena turned out the lights and started through the doorway.

"Mommy?"

She turned to find Kat sitting up. "What, baby?"

"Do you like Blake?"

The corners of Deena's mouth lifted slightly. "He's a very nice man."

"No, I don't mean that. Do you _like_ like him? You know."

"I hardly know him, Kat."

"But you were dancing with him."

Deena was quiet.

"Did you like dancing with him?"

"Yes, I did."

"Mommy?"

"Yes?"

"I like Blake."

Deena smiled and nodded. "So do I, baby."

Kat smiled.

"Now, off to sleep."

Kat snuggled into the pillow a second time. Deena thought she could make out a contented smile in the darkness.

Deena left the bedroom and crossed the living room, headed straight for the window. She held her breath as she cautiously parted the blinds. No car. No bearded man. She let out a deep breath, then looked around the room at the half-painted walls and smiled, thinking of Blake: small splatters on his face and arms as he rolled the paint in smooth strokes.

For some reason, she wasn't tired. She felt oddly light, as if floating. She wandered into the kitchen to get a beer then returned to the living room and peered through the blinds. Still no car. She flopped onto the sofa and drank slowly. As she closed her eyes, she could almost feel Blake's hands on her waist. Was he wearing cologne? The scent of citrus and spice still lingered in the air. She was surprised at how solid his arms and chest were and how safe she had felt in his embrace. This was so different for her. She never fantasized about men, but she found herself reliving that dance in slow motion. She opened her eyes and shook her head _. Fantasy, pure fantasy. Life isn't like that. Not for me._ Deena tilted the beer to her lips and swallowed. It was a nice moment, but that's all it would be.

She slid open the end table drawer: the gun sat reassuringly in its place. She then closed the drawer and took another slow swallow of beer. She wasn't convinced yet that the car and its dark driver wouldn't appear. Picking up the journal to pass the time, she flipped to her dog-eared page and began to read.

Journal: Pain

The pain is eternal. The pills do little to dull it. I know the time has come. Writing is difficult, but I must finish. A half-told story can only leave a half-freed soul.

I had thought when I finished high school, I would travel and see the world before settling on a career. I never imagined it would be as a fugitive. I feared that formal employment would leave a trail straight to me. After Old Man Barker's death, I found myself wandering from town to town, looking for struggling businesses. There was always someone willing to hire me for less than minimum wage and pay me cash under the table. I washed dishes, emptied trash, swept floors—anything to keep my body and soul together. I can't tell you how many towns I lived in or how many jobs I had. What I can tell you is that running makes you weary. The end result of hiding from the police is that you become invisible, nothing, no one.

The life I was trying to preserve was no longer worth living. I decided to go back home and face whatever consequences waited. Even a brief moment with her would be better than a lifetime without her.

I had brought so much pain to so many people. I had to put salve on the wounds and end all that pain. I wasn't sure where to start, but I knew that once I visited the sheriff, I wouldn't be free to do much else. I put him last on my list.

I didn't see it when I lived there, but looking back now, I realize my father loved me more than he loved life. After my mother passed, he'd always tell me I was the only thing that kept him going. I was sure that what I had done had hurt him deeply. His was the first heart to mend, the first pain to ease.

_After thanking the farmer who had picked me up on the side of the road and driven me into town, I jumped out in front of my father's barbershop. It was midday, but the sign on the window read,_ _closed_ _. I pressed my face against the glass. The place was empty: no chairs, no magazines, no clippers or scissors on the counters. I felt a chill. Maybe he had retired. I hurried to the house. The woman who answered the door delivered the news that I had feared. My knees buckled as she explained that the former owner had passed away._

I felt numb as I walked to the road. I paused. How could I tell him I loved him? How could I tell him how sorry I was that I had killed Old Man Barker and how sorry I was to leave him alone? I stood there, lost.

The woman called from the porch. "Are you OK?"

I shook my head. "No." I looked around; I was a ship with a broken compass. Then the needle stopped spinning and snapped into a path that pointed due north. I headed for the Barkers' farm just outside of town. She might hate me, but I had to tell her I was sorry.

The fields were crop-less. Tall weeds and wild brush choked the ground that once had been laid out in neat rows. The house was like a long-lost uncle who visits after an extended absence. It looked the same but older in a disturbing way. And it seemed to sag under the weight of heavy sadness. Shutters sat at odd angles, framing the jagged glass of the broken windows. My heart dropped as I hammered over and over on the door. The calling crows were the only answer I received. She was gone. I sat on the creaking porch and watched the crows in the trees. Were they mocking me? Their cawing seemed like ridicule.

I finally picked myself up and walked toward town. I had a date with the sheriff, and I was sure he would be there. As I passed the field where the Memorial Day picnic always took place, I smiled, and my feet took an unexpected path. Soon I was standing by the lake. For just a second, I caught a glimpse of a young girl slipping into the lake and calling back to a young man to join her. I felt the warmth of her body against mine in the chill of the lake. But memories are nothing more than smoke, only wisps of what was. Try to grasp them and they evaporate in your fingertips.

As I turned and started back, the picnic table caught me by surprise. I stopped. Worn and barely visible was a ragged heart. Carved in the center were the letters

A P

+

E B

Running my fingers over the faint recollection of that night together, I couldn't stop the tears that streamed down my face. I didn't try to stop them. Sometimes the only way to end the pain is to let it run its course—and this was a pain that would have a long course to run.

I didn't want to leave the lake, the table, the heart that cradled us both. But I had more to do to close the gaping wound. I trudged off to the sheriff's office.

When I arrived, the receptionist told me to have a seat and the sheriff would be with me in a few minutes. I sat in a chair, my elbows on my knees, my head in my hands.

The desk phone rang. The receptionist picked it up, listened nodding, and responded, "I'll send him in." She smiled at me. "Sheriff Stemple will see you now."

" _Sheriff Stemple?"_

" _Yes. Is something wrong?"_

" _What happened to Sheriff Tynes?"_

She smiled. "He retired about a year ago."

" _So, Barney is the new sheriff?"_

" _Who?" The receptionist looked puzzled._

Before I could say another word, Arnie "Barney" Stemple appeared at the door. He was a little thicker and a little balder than I remembered, but he was Barney all right. He studied me closely for a moment. "I know you. You're the Parsons boy."

" _A bit older, but yeah."_

He smiled broadly and ushered me into his office. "Where have you been? I haven't seen you in years." He motioned for me to sit as he moved behind the desk.

I fidgeted with my hands as I took a seat.

He watched me closely. "What can I do for you?"

I exhaled and looked up at the ceiling. "I...uh... I came to...uh..."

His eyes narrowed. "Hold on."

I looked into his dark eyes.

" _You were sweet on the Barker girl, weren't you?"_

I swallowed and nodded.

He leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. "Real shame about Old Man Barker. He got drunk one night, slipped, and hit his head on a rock. Drowned in the creek near his farm."

" _Well—"_

He sat upright and looked me up and down for a moment. "Some think he was killed, but the medical examiner's report called it an accident." Barney leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk and interlacing his fingers. His eyes bore into mine. "Personally, if someone killed that son of a bitch, I'd call him a hero. Yes, sir, a hero." He leaned back in his seat again. "He beat his wife so bad that she left him. And that poor girl of his? I couldn't prove it, but everyone knew it." He spread his hands out in midair. "Unfortunately, as the sheriff, I have a legal responsibility. My personal feelings don't matter." He watched me. "Got it?"

I nodded.

" _Well, that's enough about me. You came to see me about something." His face brightened. "I know—you're looking for the Barker girl, right? Sorry, but I can't help you there. After the accident, she had no family here. Went to live with a cousin in Philadelphia." He paused and then rose. "Sorry, but I've got a busy schedule. Hope you find her." He walked to the door and opened it._

I rose from the chair a bit disoriented. As I walked out, Barney took my hand.

" _Yes sir, a hero, but then, it was just an accident."_

I stood outside the building, feeling lost yet again. My father was gone; the Barker place was deserted; and my confession had been derailed by Barney's "accident." Suddenly my compass was spinning wildly again.

A gray pickup truck slowed to a stop at the curb next to me. The window slid down. In the passenger seat was a young woman I didn't recognize. The driver leaned forward to see past her. He studied me for a moment. "Parsons?"

" _Wallow!"_

" _Man, you're a sight for sore eyes. I thought you were dead."_

" _Me too."_

" _Huh?"_

" _Never mind. How have you been?"_

Wallow smiled. "Never better. I'm a branch manager at a bank now, and I just got engaged." He motioned toward the young woman. "This is my fiancée, Samantha. I met her in Smithfield, where I'm working now." Samantha beamed at the word "fiancée." "How about you? Where've you been?

I shrugged. "Here and there. Just kinda knocking around from place to place. I came back to see my dad. I didn't know he had passed."

Wallow frowned. "I'm sorry, man. When you disappeared, it worked on him. He was never quite the same."

I hung my head.

" _Hey, but that's history. Samantha and I are getting some lunch. Want to join us?"_

I shook my head. "Thanks, but I gotta be goin'."

" _Where are you headed? Can we give you a lift?"_

Honestly, I didn't know where I was headed. I'd expected to be in jail at this point, so I didn't have any plans beyond that. As Wallow and Samantha exchanged dreamy glances, it struck me that the only person who meant anything to me was in Philadelphia. "It's a bit of a drive."

" _How much of a bit?"_

" _Well, I'm headed to Philadelphia, but there's a bus station in Petersburg."_

" _Philadelphia? What's in Phila... Ah, the Barker girl."_

I smiled sheepishly.

" _You had it bad for her. Looks like you still do." Wallow repeated, "Petersburg." He grimaced. "That's over an hour from here. I promised Samantha—"_

His fiancée placed her hand on his. "Walter, he's trying to get to the woman he loves. Suppose you were trying to get to me and needed help."

Wallow nodded. "Hop in. Next stop Petersburg."

* * *

Searching for her in Philadelphia was like looking for a needle in a haystack, but that's what I did. I moved to the City of Brotherly Love and spent the next few years in the haystack, watching every face in the crowd. I bounced from job to job until I landed a spot in a secondhand store. The old man who ran it needed someone to do the heavy lifting, and I was up to the task. It paid a few bucks, and he let me sleep on a cot in the back storage room amid piles of unsorted clothes, books, toys, and mostly broken electronics. The job had plenty of slack times. After a while, I found myself picking up the used books and reading them. I read everything, from cheap novels to Shakespeare, UFO conspiracies to politics and history. One day I moved a threadbare recliner near the big storefront window, where I'd settle in with a book and read, glancing up to search the faces of occasional passersby.

When the old man passed away, I was the only family he had, and he left the business to me. Although it was more of a liability than an asset, it was more than I'd ever had. I fought hard to take the ledger from red to black, but it was a battle I wasn't winning. That all changed, along with my luck, the day an odd teen was swept into the store.

I remember the blustery day he blew through the door of the shop. He was a tall, lanky teen, his face awash in acne. His ball cap sat at an angle, with long stringy hair running in wild directions beneath it. His head bobbed up and down in time with the music in his ears. He popped the earbuds out and let them dangle. He stood his eyes wide and mouth open. Then he declared, "This is some cool, old stuff."

I watched him from my seat near the window. He nodded to me as he moved toward an ancient laptop. He flipped it open and hit the power button.

" _Are you interested in buying a laptop?" I said._

The boy glanced up at me. "Naw, I'm looking for a job."

" _Sorry. I don't need anyone right now."_

He nodded. The laptop screen lit up, and he scowled. "XP? What a dinosaur. Old's not cool with laptops." His eyes scanned the small shop. "Mind if I look around?"

" _Go ahead. That's what all this is here for."_

The boy closed the lid and wandered over to the vinyl albums. He rifled through the old recordings, occasionally lifting one out to examine it. The rifling stopped as he removed an album. "No waaay!" He brought it to the front of the shop to get a better view in the sunlight. Turning it and running his hand over the cover, he asked, "Do you know what this is?"

" _An old LP?"_

He continued to study the cover hypnotically. "Not just any LP. This is a Beatles butcher cover."

" _Looks kind of ugly to me. Baby doll parts and raw meat?"_

" _That's not the point. This cover's very rare. Capitol Records pulled it almost as soon as it was released because of the negative reaction it got." He held the album up and studied the corners and edges. "And this...this is in near-mint condition. Probably worth close to three grand."_

" _That old thing?"_

The boy nodded.

" _I'm not so sure," I said. "No one's ever offered me anything for it. I think you're making that up."_

" _Man, I wish I had some money. I'd buy this thing." A broad pimply grin spread across his face. "Hey, if I can get you at least fifteen hundred for it, will you hire me for two weeks?"_

" _Fifteen hundred dollars?"_

The boy nodded, still grinning.

I stared at him for a moment then chuckled. "Sure, I've got nothing to lose either way."

His grin broadened. "You got a phone?"

I pointed to a desk on the other side of the store. The conversation was brief. Fifteen minutes later, an older gentleman came through the door and with little ceremony asked, "Where is it?"

The boy held up the album. The older gentleman studied it carefully for a couple of minutes. He looked over at me. "This yours?"

I nodded.

" _I'll give you a thousand for it."_

In amazement, I repeated, "A thousand dollars?"

The boy interrupted, "two thousand."

The older man laughed and pointed to me. I'm talking to the guy who owns it. "Look, it's in pretty good condition. I'll give you twelve, but that's it."

The boy grinned. "It's in near-mint condition." He motioned toward me. "And I work for him. It's two thousand or nothing." He held out his hand for the album. "You'll turn around and sell it for three. If you don't want to make a thousand-dollar profit, we'll find someone else who does." He waited expectantly, his hand extended.

The man hesitated for a moment. "OK, fifteen hundred, but that's my final offer."

The boy snapped his fingers and reached again for the album.

The man frowned. "OK, two thousand."

" _Cash."_

" _Yep, cash."_

Slack-jawed, I stood up as the older man pulled out a roll of bills and counted out hundreds on the counter. As he left the shop with his new treasure, the boy picked up the money and handed it to me. "Here you go, boss." As I took it, still in shock, he said, "Can I get an advance on my first week's pay? I haven't eaten much in the past two days."

I handed over a hundred. "What's your name?"

" _Name?"_

" _Yeah, if you're going to work for me, I need to know what to call you."_

The boy smiled as he took the bill. "You can call me Geezer."

" _Geezer? That's a strange name."_

" _Before I dropped out, people at school called me that 'cause I like old stuff." He shrugged. "I just got used to it."_

" _OK, Geezer it is." I looked around. "What should we have you do first?"_

" _If you don't mind, I'd kinda like to look around. See if there's more interesting stuff."_

After his two-thousand-dollar find, I thought that was a great suggestion. I spent the next few days smiling every time I heard him exclaim, "Woohoohoo," or "No waaaay," or "Hello, what's this?" We never hit anything as big as the album, but I made more money in the next few weeks than I'd made in months. Geezer earned his keep and then some.

Several weeks later, on a very slow day, I sat watching the scant foot traffic along the street.

Geezer commented, "You spend a lot of time daydreaming, boss man."

" _I'm not daydreaming. I'm looking for someone."_

" _Anyone in particular?"_

" _An old girlfriend."_

" _Ah."_

" _Last I heard, she was here in Philly, but it's a big place."_

" _Have you looked online?"_

I guess my expression told him I was lost.

" _You know...Facebook, Instagram. That kind of stuff."_

I gave him the same expression.

" _Look, I'll help you. Do you have Internet here?"_

I shook my head.

He flipped open the XP laptop. "That's OK. Maybe we can find an unsecured hotspot."

I was still lost.

" _Nope, nope, nope, yes! We'll jump on 6YRH7."_

Soon Geezer began asking questions: name, school, hometown. As I answered, his fingers tapped away at the keyboard.

" _OK, we have a few possible hits on Facebook. Any of these chicks look familiar?"_

Expectantly, I looked at the pictures. A few moments later, crestfallen, I said, "She would be my age. Old girlfriend, remember?"

" _Ah, yeah, yeah."_

I wandered off to do my own style of searching at the front window. Occasionally, Geezer had me look at a picture, and I'd shake my head, my hope evaporating.

Then came the exclamation, "Oh, yeah! Who's the man?" He walked toward me, laptop in hand and a broad grin on his face.

There it was, an old wedding announcement from a newspaper. She was posed at an angle and looking back over her shoulder. My mind flashed back to that first Sunday—the flip of her hair in the stained-glass sunlight as she glanced back with a smile. The miracle in the seventh pew. My heart raced as I followed the curve of her neck along the gentle slope of her bare shoulders above the strapless lace gown. I saw a darkening lake, a young girl's bare torso slipping into the water, and a glance over her shoulder beckoning me to join her. I read the first line of the article, and then the world collapsed around me as I realized I'd found her too late. She was married to another man. For days, I read and reread the article. Each time I sat in despair, consumed by the photo of the woman who smiled over her shoulder, calling to me.

I dragged through the next few weeks. My reason for living had been snatched from under me. In one instant, I had found her and lost her. Then one Sunday, I went to the closed shop and pulled up the article. She was no longer in Philadelphia. Geezer had bookmarked a map showing the town where she now lived. It was hours away, but I had nothing but time, so I drove.

After hours of driving and stopping to ask for directions, I found her house. I'm not sure what I thought I'd do. I just sat at a distance and watched, hoping I might catch a glimpse of her. But I didn't. Excited and depressed all at once, I drove home that night. That was the first of many Sunday drives.

* * *

Deena's eyelids grew heavy, and she fought to finish the last few sentences. She lifted the beer and finished off the last swallow. Rising, she wandered to the window. She parted the blinds and peered down the road. Still no car. Relieved, she glanced toward the water. Blake's car was parked in front of Mama Jo's. This was the second night in a row. What was going on? Maybe the old woman had worked her sultry magic on Blake. Deena shook her head and rolled her eyes at the thought. She was drowsy, but the image now in her mind might be too disturbing to allow her to fall sleep. Still, she would try. She shuffled down the hall to join Kat. Before slipping into bed, she looked in the corners and under the bed. She wasn't sure what she feared more: a nightmare about spiders or one about Mama Jo and Blake.

# Chapter 26  
Too Close for Comfort

The black sedan traveled the highway in the morning light.

"What did I tell you?" the spider growled. "Ding's worthless."

"I thought—"

"You _thought_. That's the problem, you _thought_."

"Well—"

"And Ding didn't think. Ding _can't_ think. Drug-addled idiot."

Fry drove in silence.

"Did you tell him the picture is eight years old?"

Fry nodded. "I told him."

"That girl he called you about? She's what? Sixteen, maybe seventeen?" The spider's growing anger was palpable.

As Fry turned onto a narrow road, he said, "Carolina says he might have something."

"Yeah?" The spider glared at Fry. "Where?"

"Some backwater town with some screwed-up Indian name."

The spider sighed. "Half these towns have screwed-up Indian names."

Fry managed a faint smile. "I know. Chincoteague is the only one I can pronounce. And then there's Nassa...Nassa..." He snapped his fingers. "Nassa...aargh." He banged his hand on the steering wheel. "You see?"

The spider scowled. "I thought this was America. Someone should teach these people to speak English." He jabbed his forefinger at Fry. "Tell that hillbilly he'd better be damn sure!" His eyes bore into Fry. "Ding was your one mistake. You don't get two."

Fry winced. "I already told him—no mistakes." He glanced over at his glowering passenger. Neither noticed the green road sign that flickered past the speeding car: Opechancano 2.

The car passed through open fields before entering the little town. As it did, Fry slowed, and the two men peered through the tinted windows, searching for their prey. As they reached the bay, Fry turned onto the road that ran parallel to it. Passing a small marina, he swung the sedan into the empty parking lot in front of Morrison's.

Fry stepped into the sunlight and glanced around. It seemed like a quiet little town. As he entered the small store, he found an older man at the counter stocking a candy display. "'Morning," he called out.

Skip looked up. "'Mornin'. Can I help you?"

Fry smiled. "I hope so. My younger sister went missing years ago, head injury. I hear she might be in the area." He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out the photo with "Natalie" printed on it, and handed it to Skip.

Skip looked around the counter. "Let me get my glasses." He searched his pockets and the countertop. "I tell you, I should staple them to my face." He laughed and Fry laughed along with him. "Well, let me try without them." Skip moved the photo closer to his face then farther away as he squinted. Finally, he handed the photo back. "Sorry. Without my glasses, it's hard to say, but she doesn't look familiar."

Fry took the picture and sighed. "OK, thanks."

As he pushed out the door, Skip called out, "I hope you find your sister."

Fry slid into the driver's seat. "No luck." He pulled out of the lot and ran the car in a crawl back toward the houses. An old woman was in her yard, tending to her flowers. He turned up the street and parked in front of her house.

Mama Jo watched as the good-looking young man walked toward her.

"Excuse me, Ma'am. Maybe you can help me." He continued as he drew closer. "My sister was in a car accident years ago. She suffered a head injury that left her with amnesia." He handed the Natalie photo to the old woman. "My mother's dying from liver disease and just wants to see her daughter before she passes. I got word that my sister is in this area. Have you seen her?"

Mama Jo studied the photo. "That's so sad. I'd love to help." She glanced up the street to see Kat and Sarah running between the houses into the backyard. She looked at the young man. "As a matter of fact, I do know where she is."

Fry smiled. "Really? My mother will be so grateful. Where can I find her?"

Mama Jo pointed down the road. I talked with her just this morning at the Walmart up in Onley. She seemed like a really nice young woman. Asked if I could spare some money for a bus ticket to Baltimore." Mama Jo smiled. "I gave her ten dollars."

"Onley?"

"If you drive out to the highway and turn left, it's just up the road a piece. You can't miss the Walmart. It'll be on your left."

"Thanks." Fry hurried back to the car.

Mama Jo called out, "I hope you find her."

As the sedan pulled off, Fry grinned. "The old lady saw her at Walmart this morning. She's begging for bus fare."

Mama Jo looked on as the car raced toward the highway. "So sorry about your poor dying mother." Her smile deflated in one long breath as she grabbed the fence to steady herself.

# Chapter 27  
So Close, Yet So Far

Blake pushed through the door at Morrison's. His hair stood up at odd angles in the back and raced in strange directions across his head. His eyes were slits in an ashen face.

As he started toward the refrigerated drinks section, Skip called out, "Another night in the car?"

Blake's head hung from his shoulders and barely moved as he nodded. "Yeah, I moved to the boat at dawn. Ugh!"

"Is your phone dead? 'Cause it goes straight to voicemail."

Blake fished his phone from his pocket and tried to turn it on. "Yep, dead. What's up?"

"Those boys you warned me about?" Skip said.

"Yeah?"

"One of them was here."

Blake's head snapped up. "When?"

"A few minutes ago."

"Damn." Blake slammed the drink case door and sprinted to the parking lot. His car fishtailed as he spun the wheel, rounding the corner. Mama Jo turned toward the sound of the screeching tires. Smiling, she waved him down.

As the passenger window slid down, she chided, "Slow down, child. You're no NASCAR driver."

Blake glanced nervously toward Deena's. "They're here."

"Not anymore."

"How do you know?"

"Because I sent them on a wild goose chase."

"What do you mean?" Blake asked.

"I told them I saw her in Onley this morning."

Blake's face relaxed as his anxiety escaped in one long breath.

"They took off out of here like the Devil himself was chasing them."

"The Devil himself is probably riding with them." His head dropped into his hands on the wheel. A second later, he raised his head. "Thanks, Mama Jo, but you be careful. These are some pretty bad guys."

"Well, then, don't you think you should tell her?"

Blake ran the palms of his hands over his face. "Why? She'd run."

"And that's bad?"

"That's exactly what they're looking for."

Mama Jo shook her head.

"They just searched here and didn't find her," Blake said. "They won't be back."

The old woman crossed her arms, her pursed lips revealing her skepticism.

"You sent them north. A couple of days from now, they'll be in Maryland. She's safer here."

"You've got to tell her."

Blake nodded. "Soon, just not now."

"Soon?"

"Promise."

"OK." Her eyes followed the lines in Blake's face. "You look awful."

"Thanks."

"I didn't mean it that way. Come on in and get some coffee."

Blake shook his head. "That was a close call. I need to keep an eye on Deena for a while."

"I thought you said they won't be back."

"Just being cautious."

Mama Jo nodded. "OK, I'll bring it to you."

A couple of minutes later, she handed him a thermos through the open window. Blake poured the steaming brew into the cap and drank it slowly. Occasionally, he'd blink, as if trying to shed the heaviness in his eyelids.

Mama Jo watched him quietly. When he was on his second cup, she asked, "What happened to your ring?"

Blake turned toward her with a blank expression. Then, in realization, he held up his left hand and stared at it. Absently, he ran his thumb across the bottom of his finger, adjusting the ring that was no longer there. "I think Anna's ready for me to let go."

"Child, Anna's not the one who hasn't been ready."

Blake gave her a sheepish grin. "Maybe you're right."

"Have I ever been wrong?"

Blake laughed.

"You like her, don't you?"

"What?"

Mama Jo nodded toward Deena's. "Seems to me you've taken quite an interest in her."

"Deena? She's headstrong and obstinate...and sometimes plain aggravating."

"Kinda like Anna."

The corners of his mouth curled as he nodded. "Yeah."

"Are you ready to quit beating yourself up?"

Blake shrugged.

"You can't give Deena what she needs if you're constantly focused on yourself."

"Myself?"

"If you're in the ring, trading punches with your mirror image, where's she?"

Blake's face was blank.

"She's on the outside looking in."

Blake glanced away. "Well, it's time to get to work." He turned the key. Without looking at her, he said, "Thanks for the coffee."

As the car pulled away, Mama Jo shook her head. "So close, yet so far away."

# Chapter 28  
The Doll

When Deena heard the knock at the door, she slipped into the bathroom and checked her reflection in the mirror. She fussed with her hair and turned her head from side to side to check her makeup. Morrison's had limited options, and she didn't usually wear makeup. She just wanted a light touch but feared she had applied too much. As the knocking came again, she smoothed the fabric on the blue dress she had taken from Mama Jo. She glanced at herself once more and took a deep breath for courage.

When the door opened, Blake looked up. The weariness drained from his face. He stood there without speaking.

Deena opened the door wider and smiled. "Come on in."

Blake stood there a moment longer, smiling as he shook his head. "You look amazing. What's the occasion?"

"No occasion. Just tired of looking like a sack of potatoes."

Blake smiled as he shook his head. "No chance of that." His eyes stayed with her as he walked past to where the paint and brushes waited.

Deena watched as he laid out the drop cloth, opened the paint, and poured it into the pan. "You're getting kind of a late start this morning."

"Yeah, I didn't sleep well last night."

"Really?" she muttered.

"What?" he said over his shoulder.

"Nothing." She smiled. "Hey, you want to join us for lunch? Nothing special, just sandwiches."

Blake stopped rolling paint and turned to her. "Yeah, I'd like that."

"Great, I'll go put something together." She started toward the kitchen.

"Hey, Deena."

She turned.

"Does Kat have a doll?"

Deena blinked. "A doll?"

"Yeah."

She shook her head. "Why?"

"Well, I've got one in my car, but I wanted to make sure you were OK with me giving it to her."

"You just _happened_ to have a doll in your car?"

As Blake shrugged with a sheepish grin, she felt a rising tide in her eyes. _Is that mascara waterproof? Why didn't I check?_ Her face flushed as she wiped below each eye with a finger. She gave a little smile. "That's very kind of you, Blake. I know she'll love it." She continued to wipe at her eyes _. Why are these people so nice to me?_

Blake laid the roller aside. "I'll go get it."

As soon as he was out the door, Deena was in front of the mirror, tissue in hand. Cleaned up and under control, she stepped outside as he returned from the car with a box.

At that moment, Sarah and Kat ran around the corner of the house.

"Were you in the backyard?" Deena asked.

Kat shook her head. "We were playing on the boat."

Deena's face was stern.

Sarah piped in, "It's true." It was true, at least for the last fifteen minutes. Anything before that was history.

Deena looked back and forth between the girls' sincere faces. "Kat, Blake has something for you."

Blake held up the box. Behind the clear cellophane was a doll in a sparkling white gown. She wore a silver tiara in her long, flowing blond hair. The bright banner across the corner of the box declared that accessories were included. Kat shouted as she grabbed the box and consumed it with her hungry eyes.

Deena smiled. "What do—"

Kat threw her arms around Blake and squeezed as she jumped up and down. "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."

Blake took a step back to keep himself from losing his balance. "OK, OK," he said, laughing. "You're welcome."

Sarah ran off to get her dolls as the adults stepped back into the house. Blake and Deena watched from the window as Kat tore into the packaging. She quickly freed the doll from the twist ties that held her bound.

Deena lightly touched Blake's arm. "Thanks."

Blake smiled as Kat pulled a pair of shoes from the tattered box and slipped them onto the doll's feet. "You know, I always thought I'd have children..." His expression grew somber as he turned away. "OK, gotta get back to work." He returned to the roller and the wall. Deena watched as he became absorbed in the hypnotic motion of the roller. Although he stood right in front of her, he was in some other place and time. Deena stepped away sadly, knowing it was a place where she didn't exist.

# Chapter 29  
Choices

Blake walked the dock toward his little floating home. The wind was still blowing hard and the bay was whitecapping. Dark clouds hung heavy on the horizon. There would be no sunset tonight. Light flickered in the far-off clouds. A storm was rolling in.

Blake jumped onto the deck of his father's old deadrise then stood watching the occasional streaks of lightning as they etched the sky. Arching his back and stretching, he tried to recover from his day of painting. On his way home, he had stopped by his brother's house for an hour or so to help him replace some rotted boards on the back deck. Now, he had some time to rest. He ducked into the small cabin, opened the dorm-style refrigerator, and grabbed a bottle of beer. The boat danced wildly on the wind-driven water, but he was used to it. Since Anna's death, he had lived here through many storms. He had sold their place in Hanover County, quit his job, and crashed on the boat. His father had been a waterman until he passed away ten years ago, and his brother had followed in their father's footsteps. Blake had gone to college and become a paper pusher in Richmond. Now, he was back where he belonged. Some mornings he helped his brother as he worked the water. Then he'd grab his tools and handyman the rest of the day.

Blake sat on the edge of his small bunk and sipped his beer. It was growing dark. Something gnawed at his soul. He wandered onto the deck and watched the distant fractures of light as he nursed his beer. He looked down at his ring finger and absently massaged the years-old groove in his flesh. Stepping back into the cabin, he glanced at the makeshift closet where, several white shirts and pairs of dress slacks hung. Then he pulled off his T-shirt.

# Chapter 30  
Hell Hath No Fury

The black sedan eased to a stop in the parking lot. Fry turned the key. "That was a bust. No one remembered seeing her."

"She's here. We'll find her."

Fry shook his head. "If she raised the bus fare, she could be in Baltimore by now."

The spider slammed his fist on the dash. "She's not in Baltimore!"

Fry held up his hands in surrender.

"Didn't you say the guy at the bus stop hadn't seen her?"

"Yeah, but he's not there all the—"

"She's here!" The spider's eyes bore into Fry. He threw open the car door, stepped out, and slammed the door as he strode toward the restaurant. Fry shook his head and slipped out to follow him.

The two men sat at the table. Fry studied the menu. The spider drummed his fingers on the table and scanned the crowd. A waitress approached. Seeing Fry, she smiled and pulled back a maverick strand of hair, patting it in place. As she passed his companion from the back, her smile disappeared. The tattooed spider glared at her.

She forced a smile. "My name's Lisa. I'll be your server. Have you boys been to the Burger Barn before?"

"No, it's our first time." Fry smiled, "But I'm thinking I'll make this a regular stop."

"You haven't even tried the food yet."

Fry cocked his head, continuing to gaze into her eyes. "It's not the food that'll bring me back." His smile broadened.

Lisa blushed. "Well, can I start you off with something to drink?"

Fry didn't break eye contact. "We'll both take a beer. You pick something for us."

Lisa flashed him a flirty smile. "I'll be right back with your drinks."

As she walked away, the spider croaked, "Hey."

She turned back.

He slapped a photo on the table. "Have you seen this girl? She'd be older now."

Fry glanced at the photo and winced. This was going to scare the waitress. He gave her a buttery smile. "It would help my friend and me so much."

Lisa's look of disgust melted as her gaze moved from the tattooed man to Fry, who continued to smile warmly. She returned the smile. "Let me see."

She turned the photo to see it more clearly. It was a picture of a teenage girl dressed in black leather. She wore a bustier that barely covered half her breasts and was cut in a V below her navel. Leather lacing crisscrossed the V. The bustier was cut up high above her hips, making her legs seem even longer. A wide choker with silver pointed studs, high-heeled knee-high boots, and a silver studded whip completed the outfit. At the bottom of the photo, "Domina" was printed. Even through the dark eye shadow and lipstick, something was very familiar about her.

Lisa stood there, trying to work it out. As she did, a tattooed hand slid a hundred-dollar bill under the picture. She picked up the photo.

"She might have a child with her," Fry said. "About eight years old."

A crooked smile crept across Lisa's face. She laid the photo on the table and picked up the hundred-dollar bill.

In the car, Fry played with the Taser, watching the blue arcing light. "The old lady lied to me."

"The girl first. If there's time, you can have the old lady."

Fry looked out through the car's heavily tinted windows. The clouds on the horizon flickered with the approaching storm. Grinning broadly, he twisted the key. "Tonight's going to be a good night."

# Chapter 31  
Baking up a Mess

Looking up, Deena caught her faint reflection in the microwave door. Her face wore white splotches of flour. She laughed. The only baking she'd ever done was when she was a girl, helping her grandmother. Yet, here she was: borrowed recipe, cake in the oven, and an explosion of flour in the kitchen. She could almost hear her grandmother's voice: _It ain't baking, Deedee, if you don't have a little flour to show for it._ Deena looked at the counter and smiled _._ There was more than a little flour.

The painting was almost completed, and she wanted to do something for Blake. He wouldn't take any money for his work—which was good, because she didn't have much left. Blake told her he could probably get her a job at Jimmie's, the seafood-processing place in town. She shuddered at the thought, but you do what you've got to do.

She smiled as she peered into the oven. Blake had done so much for her. This might be a small gift, but it felt good. Her smile suddenly faded. The painting was nearly done. Blake would be on to another job at another house. She looked out the window. It was growing dark, and thunder rumbled in the distance. She'd need to get Kat inside soon. She wiped the flour from the kitchen counter and considered the coming days without Blake. He had become a fixture in this little house. Her sad smile brightened as she thought back to the night before. She closed her eyes and swayed rhythmically to a song she could almost hear, wrapped in the arms of a man she could almost feel.

"Hello, Simone," a voice growled from behind her. The color fled from Deena's face as she spun around. There he was, the monster. The spider tattoo glared hungrily at her from his forehead.

She gasped, "Shank!"

His grin was evil. "Was that dance for me?"

Deena was silent, stunned.

"No? Well, that's OK." His tongue slithered over his lower lip. "We've got unfinished business."

Deena's voice came in a weak tremor. "The money's all gone."

With a low, guttural laugh, he said, "Money?" He drew closer. "This is about much more than money."

Deena's eyes darted around the kitchen.

"But you'll pay, little mouse. No one steals from me." He took a step toward her. "No one runs and lives to tell about it." Shank moved even closer to her, baring his teeth.

She lunged for the knife drawer.

As she did, Shank's hand crashed into her face, sending her stumbling back. "You little bitch!" he roared, then grabbed her and threw her across the kitchen. Glassware shattered and pans flew, clanging as she slammed into the counter.

# Chapter 32  
Turning Point

Blake, dressed in his white shirt, black slacks, and tie, drove south along the highway. His cell phone rang.

"Yeah?" He listened. "What?" The voice came again. "Shit! I'm on my way!"

He spun the wheel and floored the accelerator. The car fishtailed wildly across the grassy median. The tires squealed onto the asphalt now headed north toward home. Blake pushed the car to speeds it had never seen before, only slowing long enough to make the turn toward Opechancano. The engine whined as the car raced through the flickering trees. As he skidded to a stop behind the black sedan, he didn't notice the whitecapping water, the lightning in the distance, or Enos passing on his bike.

He leaned over and popped the glove box. It was empty. "Damn!" He slammed it shut and glanced at the nail gun on the passenger seat from the carpentry work he'd done earlier in the day. It was worthless at a distance, but up close it could be nasty. Blake grabbed it and sprinted for the front door. Entering the house, he heard Deena screaming and a raspy voice cursing. He raced toward the kitchen, where he found Deena pinned to the floor and Shank, his back toward Blake, on top of her. As she struggled to free herself, Shank raised his arm to strike her.

Blake shoved the nail gun into the man's back, triggering a searing two-inch nail. Shank growled and clawed frantically at the sharp pain, the tattooed serpent's head snapping wildly. Again, Blake jabbed the gun into his back, and again a searing pain followed. Thrashing with both arms, Shank struggled to his feet and turned around. Blake stood before him, nail gun in hand.

Shank spewed a stream of profanities.

Deena scrambled to her feet behind him, desperately searching the counter top. Shank slid a handgun from his waistband just as she brought a mixing bowl crashing into the back of his head. Glass shattered in a cloud of flour. The gun clattered to the floor as Shank fell forward, his head striking the tabletop. He fell, motionless, to the linoleum. Blake scooped up the gun from the floor and trained it on the prone body. With his other hand, he passed a cell phone to Deena. "Call 911."

The phone hung in the still air.

"Deena?" Blake's quick glance found her. Her hands were at her mouth, and she was shaking her head. "Deena, make the call."

"No police. You've gotta get Kat and me out of here now."

Another glance back and Blake found her pale and trembling.

"Now!"

A low groan escaped from the still body. Blake began backing away, the gun still aimed at Shank. "OK. Grab Kat. Let's go."

Deena sprinted into the living room, screaming Kat's name. She threw open the end table drawer and fumbled for the gun. As Blake followed her out, Deena repeatedly called for Kat.

"Kat! Where's Kat?" Deena's eyes were wild. She gasped. "Fry! Fry's got her!" Blake and Deena ran into the backyard, yelling Kat's name. Then, from the depths of the trees, came a small girl's voice screaming for help. Blake went crashing into the tangle of the underbrush. He called back, "Take the trail." Deena ran for the path they'd taken for target practice. Soon she was racing down the narrow path toward the clearing in the woods. Limbs lashed at her face, and clumps of wild vines clutched at her ankles as she stumbled down the disappearing trail. In the distance, she heard Blake yell Kat's name. Deena was hoarse from screaming but continued to call out as well.

As she reached the clearing, two dark figures emerged from the trees on the other side. Despite the distant thunder and light rain, the moon was visible above. In its light, she made out Kat. Behind her stood a bearded man in a ball cap. He held the girl's heaving shoulders as she sobbed in fitful gasps. It was the same man who'd been watching Deena at the Blue Crab Fest, and she was sure it was the same man who'd been watching her house from the car.

Deena swung the gun up. "Let her go," she screamed. She tried sighting the gun as Blake had taught her, but her hands were shaking, making the sights jump uncontrollably.

"Be careful there, missy. You might shoot your little girl."

Between ragged catches of air, Kat wailed, "No, Mommy! No!"

Deena shouted again. "Let her go or I'll kill you!"

The man drew up his hands in surrender.

"Move, Kat! Move over so I can shoot without hitting you!"

Kat's trembling cries continued. "No, Mommy! No. Don't."

" _Kat, get over here!_ "

Still sobbing, Kat took slow, unsteady steps toward her mother.

Deena slid to the side to get a clear shot. Her hands steadied as she sighted the gun dead on the bearded man's chest, but Kat was still too close to him. A crashing sound came from the underbrush to her right as Blake burst into the clearing.

"Deena, stop! Put the gun down!"

"This son of a bitch had Kat."

"Deena, put the gun down. He's my brother!"

Deena glanced at Blake then back at the man in the ball cap.

"I asked him to help."

"What?"

"It's a long story. Just put the gun down."

Suddenly a cry like that of a wounded animal cut through the night air. The four turned toward the anguished wail. A momentary silence was followed by a sound like that of stampeding bulls through the brush. As Deena jerked the gun up, the underbrush shook violently. Enos stumbled into the clearing and slumped to the ground. His shirt was splattered with blood and his breathing came in heavy gasps. The four rushed toward him.

Tears streaked his face as he sobbed. "They were hurting Kitty Cat."

Deena knelt next to the big man. It's OK, Enos." She motioned for Kat to come closer. "Kitty Cat is fine. See?"

Enos continued to sob. "But they're not."

Deena and Blake exchanged glances. "Who's not OK?" she asked.

Enos wiped his tears, his hands smearing blood and mud across his face. "The bad men. They're not OK." He sobbed harder, sending dark streams running down his face.

Deena gently touched his shoulder. "What do you mean?"

Enos's tear-filled eyes widened. "Do you think he'll forgive me?"

"Who?" Deena said softly. "The bad man?"

Enos hung his head and shook it slowly. "No, Jesus." He looked up at her. "I put them on the bus. They ain't comin' back."

Deena glanced at Blake as if searching for an answer, but Blake merely shrugged. She placed her hand on Enos's large, trembling hand. "You saved Kitty Cat. Is that a good thing?" Enos nodded. "That's right. You did a good thing. There's nothing to forgive." Enos forced a weak smile.

Blake's brother pointed to the big man's back. "He's been cut pretty bad."

Blake looked. The bloodstains consumed every bit of the slashed fabric, from his shoulder blades to his waist.

Blake stood and grabbed one arm; his brother grabbed the other. "Enos, we need to get you to the hospital." They pulled up as Enos struggled to stand. He stumbled along with the two men, who were straining to hold him, his arms draped over their shoulders. Enos shook his head. "Not the bus. Not the bus."

Blake laughed. "No, buddy. We'll take my car." The corners of Enos's mouth lifted slightly.

Kat and Deena followed behind.

"Mommy, I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

Kat hung her head. "Sarah and I were in the backyard." She paused. "He seemed like a nice man. He told us he lost his puppy in the woods and asked if we'd help him find it."

"Fry!" Deena pulled Kat to her and held her tightly. "Honey, you're not the first person to be fooled by that weasel." She reached up and wiped at the tears that ran down Kat's face. "Sarah! Where's Sarah?'

Kat laughed quietly. "She bit and scratched the man's arm. He let go and she ran off yelling for help."

"She must've been the one who told Enos you were in trouble," Deena pulled the young girl closer. "Sarah's a good friend." Deena wiped away an escaping tear. "Where would we be without good friends?"

# Chapter 33  
Lightning, Spiders, and Snakes...Oh, My

Deena, Kat, Blake, and Bubba sat in the small emergency-room waiting area, speaking in hushed tones. Blake ran his hands through his hair as he leaned back in his chair. "We gotta call the sheriff—"

"No, no police." Deena glared at Blake, who stole a look at his brother.

Bubba shook his head. "What for? The bad guys are dead. Justice served."

"But—" Blake started.

"Let it go." Bubba glanced around and dropped his voice again. "Nothin' good can come from it." He motioned with his head toward Deena. "Think of her. Think of Enos."

Blake sighed and slumped into the chair.

The droning of the waiting-room TV barely touched the silence in the room.

Deena rose and began to pace. "I'm worried about Enos."

"He'll be OK," Blake said. "He's a strong man."

She wiped at her glistening cheeks. "I hope so. This wasn't his fight."

"No, but he chose it. He cares for you and Kat."

Deena nodded as she stood before Blake and Bubba. "And you guys. Where would I be if you hadn't been there?" She stared at Blake for a moment. "Those are your driving clothes." She stared at him a bit longer. "I don't understand. What made you show up at my house?"

The color rose in Blake's face.

"And your brother. You said you asked him to help. Help with what?"

Blake was silent.

Deena's voice rose. "He was watching me, wasn't he? Why was he watching me?"

Blake gestured toward Kat, who was sitting at a small yellow table across the way, doodling on the back of a magazine. "Let's talk about this later."

Deena glanced at her daughter. After a moment, she nodded but shot Blake a look that made him wilt. He sat, elbows on knees, hands folded, looking at the floor.

A sheriff's deputy emerged from a doorway and made his way toward the huddled group. Blake glanced at Deena, whose face went white as she joined Kat. "Are you the folks who brought..." The deputy glanced at his pad. "...Mr. Enos Adams here?"

Blake nodded.

"The hospital contacted the sheriff's office because his injuries are consistent with knife wounds. I've talked with Mr. Adams, but I can't make heads or tails of his story. Maybe it's the drugs they've given him, but all I get is spiders, snakes, kitty cats, lightning, and buses. Do y'all know what happened to him?"

Blake glanced at Deena, whose expression pled for silence. "We found him on the side of the road," he said. "Not sure what happened."

The deputy nodded and flipped his pad closed. "Well, if you hear anything, give me a call." He handed Blake his card. "Y'all have a good night." Slipping on his hat, he headed for the door.

Deena called out, "Is Enos going to be OK?"

The deputy turned and smiled. "I ain't no doctor, but he seemed to be doin' all right."

She smiled as the deputy turned and strode out into the night. She watched the empty doorway for a moment then took a seat near Blake and Bubba.

Blake turned to his brother. "So, what exactly happened out there, Bubba?"

His brother straightened up and took in a deep breath. "Well, after I called you, I took off after pretty boy. He was already in the woods with the girls. When I caught up to them, the Johnson girl laid into his arm with her teeth and nails." He chuckled. "She drew blood too. Then she took off running. Pretty boy started cussin' and was about to shoot her with a Taser. When he saw me running toward him, he turned it on me and fired. That was it for me. I couldn't do nothin'. The thing kept clicking, and my muscles felt like they were all locked up. The most painful charley horse I ever had." He shook his head. "When I'd try to get up, the clicking would start again and I'd fall flat on my face." Bubba groaned. "That thing left me with these damn welts." He pulled his T-shirt up near his shoulders. It looked like the world's biggest wasp on steroids had laid into him twice: once on his chest and once on his stomach.

Deena went cold. On the left side of Bubba's chest, partially hidden by the shirt, a large spider's red eyes peered out at her. Soon the shirt was back in place, but Deena kept a wary eye on the spider's hiding place.

Without noticing, Blake asked, "So how'd you get away with Kat?"

"Enos saved us," Kat piped up.

Bubba jumped in. "Yep, he came crashing through the underbrush like a charging bull. Pretty boy held the Taser in his hand. Enos picked him up like he was nothin'. Pretty boy was digging that thing into Enos, but it didn't stop him. He tossed that boy like he was a ragdoll right into a tree trunk. I heard a loud crack. Pretty boy never got up." Bubba shook his head. "I grabbed the girl and we started off when the other guy came out of the trees with a knife. He stuck Enos a handful of times, but it was like nothin'. Enos grabbed his arm and twisted it until it snapped. When I left, Enos had him on the ground and was beating him with a broken tree limb. I never knew that boy had it in him."

Blake let out a low whistle.

Lightning flashed and thunder roared outside the hospital. Across the dark parking lot, trees danced wildly in the gusting wind. Rain clattered against the windows. Blake smiled and turned to Deena. "This is kinda like the night when I picked up you and Kat on the side of the road."

A wry smile crept over Deena's face. "Yeah, kinda." She remembered not trusting him that night. Here, with another storm just outside the window, she looked at the man who'd just saved her. _So many unanswered questions_ , she thought. Just as she was beginning to think she could trust him, she was in the middle of a storm again, with more doubts.

# Chapter 34  
A Little Cleanup

It was very early morning when they pulled up to Deena's. The rain fell in a fine mist in the dark as Blake walked Deena and Kat to the door. "Bubba and I are going to pick up Enos's bike and get him home. Then we've got a little cleanup to do in the woods." He watched as they disappeared through the doorway. Then, he turned and left.

Deena tucked Kat in and snuggled up beside her, wrapping her up in the cocoon of her embrace. Song after song, she spun the silken threads of sleep. At the sound of car doors slamming out front, Deena rose and peered through the blinds to see Blake and Bubba with a flashlight and two shovels heading toward the woods in the back.

Deena had questions and wanted answers. She knew it would be a while before she got them, but she didn't care. She would wait. Leaving Kat to her slumber, she slipped into the living room. Through the open blinds, she would watch for the returning men. As the minutes ticked by, she settled into the sofa with the journal.

Journal: The Last Days

Now that I had found her, I began making weekly trips to sit outside her house, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Some days she'd drive to the grocery store. I'd follow and sit in the parking lot. I never ventured inside; I didn't want her to see me. Other days I'd sit for hours without any sight of her. Those were the days when I traveled home with the heaviest heart. Was I obsessed? Maybe, but I needed to feel some connection to her, the love of my life, the woman who had married another man.

Then, on one of those empty days, as I was about to start my lonely drive home, I heard her husband's voice roaring. Next, I heard her screaming and crying. Her husband's profanity-laced rant continued over her sobbing shouts of pain.

I had my hand on the car door handle when he stormed out the front door and jumped into his business's delivery truck. His name was splashed in large letters along its side. In the descending darkness, I followed. My anger raged. She deserved better.

After a few miles, he turned onto a treelined dirt lane. I drove past and pulled off behind a stand of trees. On foot, I worked my way back to the lane and cautiously crept along the treeline. I rounded a turn to find two identical trucks, engines running, headlights casting jagged shadows into the woods.

Another man stood at the back of one truck, closing the lid on one of several wooden crates inside. "They're all here." He tossed the husband a small backpack. The husband unzipped the bag, pulled out bundles of money, and riffled them. The other man said, "It's all there."

The husband glanced up from the cash. "You count the guns. I count the money."

The other man shrugged. "Suit yourself."

The counting complete, he zipped up the backpack. "It's all here." He pulled a handgun from his waistband and slipped it into the front pocket of the bag. Then he held out a set of keys. "Keys?"

The other man exchanged his truck keys, rolled down the door of the truck containing the crates, and jumped into the driver's seat. I scrambled into the trees and made my way through the woods toward my car. As I reached the edge of the treeline, the two trucks rolled by, the husband driving the second one. I hurried to my car and followed at a distance.

Several miles down the road, the other truck continued on, but the husband pulled into the parking lot of a bar. I drove past then circled back. A few moments later, I parked next to his truck and wandered into the bar. The lights were low and the music was loud. He sat at the bar with the backpack by his side. I took a seat at an open table, ordered a beer, and watched.

Soon he slid over two seats next to a younger woman. I couldn't hear them above the music but he motioned for a drink for her and paid. She was laughing and flirting, touching his arm, giggling, and resting her head on his shoulder. He placed his hand on her knee and caressed her thigh. She smiled. I stood, almost sending my chair to the floor. Crossing the room, I sat on the other side of him at the bar.

He glanced at me then turned back to the woman. "This bar's too crowded. Too loud. Let's find a quieter place to party."

The woman looked up through long lashes as she sipped her margarita. She giggled again. "I don't know. Can I trust you to be a gentleman?"

I looked past him to the woman. Above the music and conversation, I called out, "His wife can't trust him, so, why should you?"

Her eyes shifted to me as she set down her drink. "What was that?"

He spun to see who she was speaking to.

" _His wife. She can't trust him. You think you can?"_

His eyes were cold and dark. "Get lost, buddy."

The woman rose from her seat. "I think I'll take a rain check," she huffed, then walked off.

He turned toward her. "Come on, baby. Don't listen to this jackass."

She continued walking.

He turned back and grabbed my collar. "What the hell are you doing?"

The bartender towered over us. "Take it outside, gents!"

As I struggled to free myself from the man's left hand, he punched me with his right. The bartender brought up a revolver and stuck it in the husband's face. "Turn him loose."

He released me with a shove.

" _Now, out! Both of you!"_

I strode out the door with him on my heels. He shoved me from behind. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

I turned. "I'm the guy who's calling you out. Your wife deserves better, you cheatin' son of a bitch."

His whiskey-glazed eyes struggled to focus. "Do I know you?"

" _You do now."_

He stared at me for a moment then laughed, waving me off. "You're nobody." Continuing to laugh, he headed toward his truck. As he passed, I grabbed the backpack and jerked it from his hand.

His face turned red. "Give me that!" He grabbed at the backpack as I snatched it away. Then he rushed at me. As I stepped aside, he stumbled into the side of his truck and fell to the ground. His breathing was heavy as he pushed himself up. He ran at me again. This time he caught me as I tried to dodge him. We tumbled to the ground and wrestled in the gravel next to the truck. He managed to pin me down, the sharp edges of rocks jabbing my skin. As he drew back his fist, his eyes shot open, and he sucked in short gasps of air. His hand went to his chest as he collapsed on top of me. I squirmed out from beneath him and scrambled to my feet, then stood watching as he clutched at his shirt. Picking up the bag, I looked on as he struggled to breathe. I could have called for help. I didn't. Moments later, his body lay limp, his eyes fixed on the accusatory stars above. Was their contempt for him or for me? I walked to my car and drove off.

What's the expression? "Older but wiser"? I can't say that I was. Once again, I had let my rage cloud my judgment. Once again, I had made a mess of things. Once again, I had left her without the only man in her life. Distressed, I fled to Philadelphia.

Some might say it was obsession, but the thin line between love and obsession is the point where her welfare outweighs your wanting. She was better off without me. I let her go. That was the last of my Sunday drives.

The bag was heavy with bundles of hundred-dollar bills. The money was hers—illegal but hers. I spent days trying to figure out how to return the money that her cheating husband owed her. There were times when I thought I should just show up, tell her the truth, and give her the money. The truth—ah, that was the sticking point. How would I tell her I had killed her father, stood and watched her husband die, and had been stalking her for months? I rehearsed it time and again, but any way I said it, I sounded like a monster. No, I had to find another way.

It was during that time that I discovered my mortality. Without health insurance, I had let nagging problems go unchecked for too long. I had become one of the walking dead.

My world flipped upside down, and I had no family to turn to. I did the only thing I could think of. I called my old friend Wallow. I made arrangements to return her money to her, handed Geezer the keys to the shop, and moved to this tiny town to enjoy the sunsets and what little beauty God would allow me.

In these few pages is the sum of my life. Dirty money, rage, killing, secrets, and lies. In these pages is the truth. I hate to tell Pastor Tompkins, but it hasn't set me free. A gnawing pain dwells inside me—a pain that is more than cancer. The truth? I've been one of the walking dead since the night when an eighteen-year-old boy left behind the only love he would ever know. What I wouldn't give for one more night tangled up in her embrace. One more night beneath streaking fallen stars, our dreams vaster than the sky beyond. Just one more night.

And what is this little story on these pages?

Words dipped in watercolors,

One swift stroke and then another,

Hands first steady, begin to quiver,

Forming waves on the water,

A smear of pink on the horizon.

Last light lingers as if frozen.

Then,

Colors run awash where

Sky meets water,

Night meets day.

Where once was color, only gray,

Only gray.

The pain is all consuming. This will be my last entry. I will find a secluded place to quietly leave the world that never knew me. But a poem that an eighteen-year-old boy once wrote to a sixteen-year-old girl is just as true today.

I have loved with a love

As fervent as desperate fingers in feverish embrace,

As warm as breathless whispers in the dark,

As constant as the course of the setting sun,

As gentle as the gliding gull above the bay,

And yet

I have loved with a love

So fierce

That it will stare down death's dark gaze.

* * *

Deena ran her fingers over the page. The ink was smeared and ran in places. Maybe tearstains. She wiped her eyes and closed the book. How sad to live without truly living. Deena knew something about that. And love? At least he had known love. Deena wasn't sure she ever would. Would her story end like his?

She set the little journal on the coffee table and stared at it. A sad smile came, followed by the weight of weary eyelids.

Some time later, she was startled by the muffled sound of clanging shovels and the thud of a closing car trunk. She stepped to the door and eased it open. The two men turned to see her standing in the light that spilled from the doorway.

Blake waved to his brother. "Thanks, Bubba."

His brother called back in a hushed voice, "You're taking care of the car, right?"

"Yeah, I've got it."

Bubba nodded, climbed into his car, and drove away.

Blake walked toward Deena. "Can't sleep?"

She nodded.

"Yeah, I get it. How's Kat?"

She glanced toward the bedroom window. "Sleeping."

"Good."

In this lull in the rain, the night air was cool. Deena wrapped her arms around her tightly, then cocked her head. "Why didn't you tell me your brother was in prison?"

"What makes you think..." Blake trailed off. "Oh, the tattoo?"

Deena nodded. "I've only seen one other like it. Shank liked to brag that he got it in prison." Her eyes were as cold as the air.

Blake shrugged. "It didn't seem important."

"Not important?"

"Yeah. And what was I supposed to say anyway? 'Hey, Deena, here's my brother. He's been in prison.'" He folded his arms. "Come on, give me a break."

"Oh, and here's another bit of information you forgot to tell me: he's been watching me for the past few days. What's up with that?" Deena's volume was rising.

Blake glanced at the nearby houses to see if any lights were coming on.

"Well?"

Blake looked up at the sky. The dark clouds moved in a silent dance. Exhaling, he reached into his shirt pocket, removed the photo, and handed it to Deena. Even in the darkness, he saw her face go as pale as the moon that swirled between the clouds. "Those two came looking for you at The Steamed Crab a few days ago. I asked Bubba to watch after you when I wasn't able to. He called me earlier tonight when they showed up."

Deena's lips moved, but there were no words. She held up the photo. "Blake, this—"

"Needs no explanation."

She waved the photo in the air. "This...this..." A flash of distant lightning reflected in her eyes. The tenor of her voice shifted. "Several days ago? And you didn't tell me?"

"I wasn't sure what I should do."

"I have maniacs searching for me, and you didn't know what to do?" The pitch and volume of her voice rose even higher. "I can't... I...I can't believe this!" She threw the photo at Blake and stepped through the doorway, slumping against the door as it slammed behind her. It was all that held her up. She closed her eyes and exhaled what felt like her last breath. She'd been running for years. Tonight, she should celebrate. Tonight, her pursuers were no more. Tonight, she should feel free. But tonight, the truth of her secret tottered on the precipice and threatened to drag her over the edge with it. Tonight, she knew she would continue running—running from the truth.

Still slumping against the door, Deena opened her eyes. She took in the freshly painted room, and then her gaze fell on the journal. Her smile was like one that passes between friends when they both know the end is near. She spoke as if the author could hear her. "You were right. The truth only brings pain, not freedom." Inside the little house, Deena's tears ran as she mourned the loss of something that she wasn't sure she'd ever had.

* * *

Outside, a bright flash ripped the sky, followed by a booming clap of thunder. Wind-driven rain pelted down like sharp shards of glass. Blake stood in the stinging rain and glared at the closed door. After a long moment, he picked up the photo, wiped it off, and slipped it back into his pocket. Glancing back at the closed door, he muttered, "You're welcome." He shook his head as he disappeared in the torrent.

# Chapter 35  
Mistakes

Mama Jo carried the small basket with bread, cold cuts, and mayonnaise to the register. As Skip removed each item and rang it up, he commented, "Too much excitement last night."

Mama Jo shook her head. "Hard to believe I slept through it all. I hear Enos was the real hero."

Skip smiled. "Yeah, hard to believe." He handed Mama Jo her change. "He's got some nasty cuts. I told him to stay home and rest." He placed the items in a paper bag and looked up. "Not sure if it's true, but I hear they found Chum tied to a tree with his throat slit."

Mama Jo gasped. "No!"

Skip nodded.

"I'd heard he went missing." She blinked, trying to grasp this latest bit of news.

The bell on the door jangled as Deena and Kat entered. Skip smiled in their direction. "Hey, Deena. How are you making out this morning?"

Mama Jo waved.

Deena's smile barely broke horizontal, and her hand made a weak attempt at a wave. Her hair was disheveled, and deep, dark caverns lined her eyes. She grabbed a six-pack of beer and a can of coffee and shuffled to the register. As she laid a twenty on the counter, she said, "Hey, Skip, where did you say I could catch that bus?"

Skip's head jerked up. "I hope you're not thinking of leaving."

"Yeah, my week's rental is about up, and I'm almost out of money."

Mama Jo smiled. "No need to leave. You're safe here now, and Blake told me he'd got you a job at Jimmie's."

"Blake? I don't need anything from him."

Mama Jo's brows arched in a question.

The tinkling of the bell from the door drew their attention to Enos, who winced from the effort of pushing through.

Skip called out, "Well, here's the town hero." Enos drew closer, his eyes cast on the floor and a slight grin creasing his reddening cheeks. "Enos, I told you to stay home today and rest."

"I tried, Skip, but there ain't nothin' to do there."

"That's the point."

Enos cocked his head with a mournful frown.

"Oh, all right, but you take it easy."

Enos beamed.

"Go in the back and count up how many cases of lemonade we've got."

"Count?"

"Sure, you can do it."

A cloud crossed Enos's face. "OK, Skip." He struggled to kneel to Kat's level. "Are you OK, Kitty Cat?"

She nodded.

"Those bad men are gone," he said. "They ain't comin' back."

Deena smiled. "Enos, I know I've already said it, but I can't thank you enough for saving Kat."

Enos grimaced in pain as he stood up. "Wasn't just me. It was Blake and Bubba too."

Deena's smiled evaporated.

"OK, Enos," Skip chided him, "it's time to get to counting."

The big man nodded and took a step toward the back room. Then he turned. "Tina?"

Deena started to correct him but smiled instead. "Yes?"

"Are you and Blake gonna get married?"

Once again, her smile vanished.

"What would give you that idea?"

Enos grinned. "'Cause that's what people do when they're in love."

"Love? I hardly know him."

"Maybe, but I can tell."

"Really? Because I can't."

Still smiling, Enos tapped his head. "Maybe I ain't smart up here." Then he tapped his chest. "But I'm smart here."

Deena chuckled. "Yes, you are, but even smart people get it wrong sometimes."

Enos nodded. "You wait and see. I'm right." He turned and disappeared into the back room.

Skip lowered his voice and winked. "He can't count past five, but it'll keep him from lifting anything."

Deena picked up her bag. Glancing at the back-room doorway, she whispered, "The bus?"

"Right. Exmore. Just up the highway." Skip handed her change to her. "I hope you don't leave. We'll miss you."

Kat piped in, "Mama, I don't want—"

"Kat, we've already talked about this. I don't want to hear it again." As Kat's head dropped, Deena pushed her along, and the two left.

Mama Jo stared after the woman and girl as they disappeared.

"Jo, are you OK?"

The furrows near the corners of her mouth grew deeper. "She's making a mistake."

"People do sometimes."

The corners of the old woman's mouth rose slightly. "Yeah, I know." She picked up her bag. "And then they regret it the rest of their lives."

Skip shrugged. "Well, what can you do, right?"

"Somethin'," Mama Jo muttered. "Somethin'."

# Chapter 36  
The Truth

Deena jumped at the knocking on the front door. She stormed into the living room from the kitchen. _Blake's got a lot of nerve showing up here!_ She swung the door open ready to blast him. Like a pinpricked balloon, she was deflated to find Mama Jo. She was surprised to feel an aching disappointment in the wake of her rage.

The old woman smiled and held out a brown loaf. "Banana bread? I just baked it."

Deena blinked.

"I thought maybe we could sit and talk a bit."

"If this is about us leaving—"

"Child, this room looks beautiful." Mama Jo squeezed past Deena into the living room and admired the freshly painted walls. "Blake did a wonderful job, didn't he?"

"I don't want to talk about him."

Mama Jo smiled and started toward the kitchen. "Let's sit and have some of this while it's still warm."

Deena shook her head. Just then, Kat and Sarah came running from the backyard. "Kat, stay out front..." Deena caught herself. The reality that her pursuers were gone still hadn't sunk in. The girls ran past without acknowledgment. She shook her head as she watched the girls playing in the front yard. _No one ever listens to me._

Walking into the kitchen, she found the bread on the table, along with butter, knives, and two plates with slices all set out. Mama Jo sat in a chair, smiling sweetly. "Do you have any coffee?"

As Deena poured some and set the steaming cups on the table, Mama Jo said, "So, what's the problem with Blake?"

Deena didn't need this. She almost walked out. Instead she snapped, "He didn't tell me! He knew those psychopaths were looking for me and he didn't tell me!"

Mama Jo took a sip. "You didn't already know?"

Deena opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

"Because it looked like you were running from the first night you got here."

"I didn't know they were so close."

Mama Jo absently stirred her coffee and spoke to the dark whirlpool. "Well, I don't know, because I wasn't there for all of it, but I hear he saved you from one of them. And I hear he was sleeping in his car in front of my house so he could keep an eye out for them." She looked up from her cup. "Oh, yeah, and he asked his brother to keep an eye on you when he couldn't be there." She chuckled. "And that living room?" She motioned toward the front of the house. "It probably has one or two extra coats of paint because he wanted to stay close by during the day." She shook her head. "Sounds to me like what he did was a good thing."

Deena remembered her words to Enos the night before. _You did a good thing. There's nothing to forgive._ She let out a long sigh.

Mama Jo continued. "There's no reason to leave. Stay for Kat. Stay for Blake. Stay for yourself."

Deena shook her head. "It's not that simple."

"What's not?"

"I can't... You wouldn't... Blake wouldn't understand."

"Child, I suspect he and I already have a pretty good idea. We've both seen the pictures."

The air went out of Deena as she shrank into her chair.

"But as you see, I'm still sitting here, sharing a loaf of banana bread with my good friend."

Deena shook her head.

"And Blake kept coming back to paint and watch over you." She reached across the table and gently took Deena's hand. "And he came running when he knew you were in trouble."

Deena's eyes filled with tears. "I've screwed up everything, haven't I?"

Mama Jo patted her hand. "No, child."

"Yes, everything. A teenage girl who caused her parents' raging arguments. A hurting girl who ran away when her boyfriend left her for someone else. An idiot who, starving and cold, trusted the man who said he wanted to help. A girl held captive...locked up and dressed up to make men's fantasies come true, her own dreams crushed." Deena buried her face in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably.

"Oh, Deena, that's horrible...but you escaped."

Deena swept the tears from her face and caught her breath in gasps. "A week or two after running away from home, I was on the street, cold and hungry. Fry found me digging for food in a dumpster. He bought me a meal and told me I could crash at his place for the night. Winter on the streets is miserable. I thought he was a nice guy, but I was wrong. Instead of taking me in, he took me to Shank. That night I was raped, locked up with two other girls, and forced to watch Fry torture one of them for not doing what she was told. The next day was 'picture day.' I had stopped being a person. I was just fresh meat for their rich, respectable clients who were willing to pay big to live out their sick fantasies discreetly."

Deena wiped the tears that streamed from the corners of her eyes. She smiled weakly. "I didn't know it when I left home, but I was pregnant. When Shank found out, he went berserk and wanted me to have an abortion so he could keep working me. Fry, that sick scum, came up with a new plan: sell the baby. He said they could keep working me. He could find guys who fantasized about pregnant schoolgirls...or girlfriends or wives. They found a rich, childless couple who wanted to help 'Natalie,' the poor, unwed honor student." Deena let out a deep sigh. "A few days later, we were headed back from satisfying some twisted jerk's fantasy. We stopped to collect cash from Shank's other illegal businesses. Gambling, drugs, prostitution—if it made money, he was into it. A leather bag full of money sat on the front seat. Some drunk in a big truck raced through a stoplight and T-boned our car. The whole driver's side was crushed. Shank and Fry were bleeding and unconscious. I was on the passenger side. I was groggy and disoriented, but I managed to squeeze through the broken window. Once I was out, I grabbed the bag. I've been running ever since—for years—just getting by, trying to stretch out the money I stole." Deena stared at the table. "One bad decision after another. I've screwed up everything."

Mama Jo sighed and wiped the moisture from her own cheeks. She smiled reassuringly. "No, child. That's all behind you now."

Deena's laughter was dark with sadness. She shook her head. "No, I've gotta go."

"The girl I saw in those pictures isn't the woman I see sitting at this table. As far as I can tell, you're running from shadows."

Deena smiled faintly. She heard Enos saying, _Ain't nothin' but_ where you been _tryin' to keep you from_ where you goin' _._

"No man will ever love me," she said. "I can't even love myself."

Mama Jo grasped her hand. "Blake will."

Once again, Deena wiped at the streams that trickled down her cheeks and shook her head.

"Listen, child, he didn't take that ring off for no good reason."

Deena slumped onto the table, her head hidden in her arms. Her body heaved as she sobbed.

"Look at me." Mama Jo pulled at her arm. "Look at me!"

Deena raised her head. Wet streaks ran down her face, and her breath came in gasps.

"Some women go their entire lives and never have a man love them. Others know love that burns like a fire only to end in cold embers. But a few, a very lucky few, know a love that's more than love. It has no boundaries. It knows no fear. Every woman wants that, and you've got it."

Deena's feeble smile betrayed her skepticism.

"That man has worshiped his wife. For two years, rain or shine, he has honored and remembered her. He's been completely consumed by her, but now, here he is." Mama Jo spread her hands on the table. "I loved Buster, but he never treasured me like Blake treasured Anna...and like he wants to treasure you." She paused. "I'm telling you, girl, if you don't go after him, I'm gonna take a run at him." She smiled and winked.

Deena laughed despite her tears.

Mama Jo took Deena's hands in hers. "What woman wouldn't want to be loved with a love so fierce that it could stare down death's dark gaze?" Mama Jo's eyes grew misty. "There was a time in my life when I thought I might..." She stopped.

Deena's eyes were wide, an expression of shock settled over her face.

"What?" the old woman said.

"What did you say?"

Mama Jo smiled nervously. "I'll take a run at Blake if you don't?"

"No, after that. Something about a love so fierce?"

"Oh, that?" Her expression grew wistful, and she looked off into the distance. "Just a line from a poem a boy wrote for me when I was a teenager." She sighed. "But that was long ago. I thought I would be his forever love." She shook her head. "I was young and foolish. One day he up and disappeared, and I...I just let him go." Her smile vanished as she became lost in the past. "A love so fierce that it will stare down death's dark gaze."

Deena managed a smile. "You _were_ his forever love." She patted Mama Jo's hand. "Wait here."

Mama Jo's eyes flashed with suspicion as Deena rose and left the kitchen. She returned with the small leather-bound journal. When she placed it on the table in front of Mama Jo, the old woman glanced at the book then up at Deena with a look of dread.

"You need to read this."

Mama Jo warily studied the book on the table, as if it might lunge at her.

"It won't bite," Deena quietly urged her. "Go ahead, read it."

Mama Jo cautiously opened the cover and read out loud. "I am one of the walking dead. Not as lucky as those flesh-eating monsters that roam the earth eternally." She looked up at Deena. "What is this?"

"Keep reading. You'll see."

The old woman's eyes returned to the page. Her lips moved faintly as she read silently. Deena watched her face carefully. Only moments passed before Mama Jo brought a trembling hand to her lips. As she continued to read, her eyes grew moist. She looked up. "Where did you get this?"

"Blake found it hidden in the fireplace brickwork."

"Here?"

Deena nodded.

Mama Jo cast her eyes around the kitchen. "This house?"

Again, Deena nodded.

Mama Jo exhaled, and it was as if all the air went out of the room. Eventually she continued reading. Deena picked up the coffeepot and began filling the old woman's cup. Mama Jo held up her hand. "Sorry, child. I'm gonna need somethin' stronger." Her face was drawn and pale.

"No problem." Deena pulled a beer from the refrigerator and reached for a glass.

"Skip the glass. Just hand me the bottle." Mama Jo tipped the bottle, took several long swallows, and then continued reading.

The time passed with Deena watching Mama Jo's changing facial expressions. Then the old woman stopped reading and smiled. "I forgot about the initials in the table. I can't believe I did that."

"Wait." Deena moved behind her and looked over her shoulder so she could see the page. "The initials. Shouldn't they be JB and not EB?"

Mama Jo chuckled. "Jo is short for Joella. My mother called me Ella. When I started dating Buster, he said the name was too fairy-tale-ish. He called me Jo. I've been Jo ever since." She shook her head and returned to reading. Then she stopped and looked up. "Deputy Barney. I remember him." She chuckled as her eyes twinkled. "I was a bit of a wild spirit."

Deena laughed. "Was?"

Mama Jo smiled and shrugged.

The rest of the afternoon passed in spells of tears, interrupted by occasional smiles and laughter. As each bottle of beer went empty, Deena brought another. Finally, Mama Jo looked up, exhaled deeply, and closed the book. She looked across the kitchen but was seeing something in the distant past. "Buster was a seafood distributor. He'd pick up a load at Jimmie's and deliver to restaurants and markets. Toward the end, I suspected he was into other things—bad things—and other women." She sighed. "But he was my husband." She thought for a moment. "Just before he passed, a couple of local watermen were arrested for smuggling guns. I think it all would have come apart anyway." Mama Jo picked up her beer and stared at the empty bottle.

Deena asked, "Was Blake's brother one of the men who was arrested?"

Mama Jo nodded. "Blake's car accident came just months later. He quit his job, sold his house, and moved back here to take care of his brother's family."

Deena exhaled and shook her head.

Mama Jo ran her fingers over the cover of the journal, caressing it lightly. Deena wasn't sure if it was the alcohol or the whirling ghosts of the past, but Mama Jo sat as if hypnotized.

"The miracle in the seventh pew." Tears streamed over the creases in the old woman's face. "He was here. Why didn't he tell me?"

"I guess he was ashamed of what he'd done and thought you'd never forgive him."

Mama Jo nodded slowly. "There was nothing to forgive. I would've loved him. I think I've always loved him." As if coming out of a trance, she turned to Deena. "Do you hear that? I would have just loved him." She pointed a trembling finger at the younger woman. "Don't you let Blake get away." She tapped her finger on the little journal as she held Deena's gaze. "Don't end up like this."

Deena nodded.

Mama Jo took in a deep breath. "Do you mind if I keep this?' She held up the journal.

"Not at all. It's your story, not mine."

Mama Jo smiled and stood. Then the smile was consumed by concern. "Something's not right." She looked thoughtful as she held up the little book. "This says he arranged for me to have Buster's money, but..." She gasped. "No!"

"What?"

"Buster's nephew. I didn't even know he had a nephew until after he passed. Then I started getting these letters. He said Buster had helped him get his business started, and he wanted to return the favor. He started sending me money with the letters, and then one day he asked for my bank account information so he could deposit money each month."

"You didn't give it to him, did you?"

Mama Jo shrugged. "He'd been sending me money for months and seemed so nice in his letters...the letters. They were from _him._ Always concerned about how I was doing. Always asking if I needed anything." The tears started anew.

"Did you write him back?"

Mama Jo nodded and wiped away the tears. "Quite a few times. He would tell me about his business, and I'd write about happenings here in town."

"And the money?"

"He told me he'd be doing a lot of traveling and wanted to set it up for direct deposit for a while. Now, the money's transferred on the first of every month from another bank account."

Deena shook her head.

Mama Jo stared at her for a second. "I'm exhausted and, I'm afraid, a bit drunk. I'm going home to lay down." She started for the door then turned. "You've got some business to take care of, young lady."

Deena returned a grim smile.

The old woman tottered into the living room. Seconds later, there was a scream followed by a loud crash and shattering glass.

"Mama Jo!" Deena sprinted toward the living room.

# Chapter 37  
Things That Are Broken

Gasping for air, Blake pounded on Deena's door. It swung open to a smiling Mama Jo. "Good, you're here."

Blake struggled to catch his breath. "You said...an accident...hurry." His eyes darted from Mama Jo to Deena, who sat on the sofa, then back to the old woman.

She nodded.

"Are you OK?"

"Sakes, child, yes."

Blake's head tilted to one side

"But the wall isn't." She pointed to the freshly painted wall behind her. The metal base of a lamp jutted precariously from a crater in the drywall. Shards of the glass globe protruded into the room.

Blake's face fell. "How the—"

"I had an accident." Mama Jo shrugged and gave a faint smile.

"That's it? That's what I rushed over here for?" Blake crossed his arms. "This tops the time you sabotaged your heater."

The old woman's smile melted. "You knew about that?"

Blake rolled his eyes. "I'm not stupid."

Mama Jo looked away and muttered, "Of course you're not."

"Sorry. You'll have to get someone else to fix that. I've got paint left over that they can use." He turned to leave.

"Wait! That's not what needs fixin'." Mama Jo wrapped her hands around his arm. "Come inside for a minute." She tugged, but her frail hands couldn't budge him. "Stop being a stubborn mule and get in here!" Blake had never heard her so angry before. This time when she pulled, he followed reluctantly.

He sighed. "OK, what needs to be fixed?"

Mama Jo motioned toward Deena, who sat in a heap on the sofa. Blake looked closely. Her face was drawn and empty like a dry riverbed. Mama Jo patted his shoulder. "I'll leave you two to sort things out." Her voice wavered. Blake looked back at the old woman, who stood with tear-filled eyes, clutching the leather journal to her breast. "I'm headed home to spend some time with an old friend." She paused. "Oh, and Blake?"

He gave a strained grin.

She motioned toward the walls, her mouth forming a weak smile. "This time let Deena pick the color, something nice and bright. I figure it'll take two, maybe three days." The wisp of a smile disappeared as she turned and left.

Blake laughed despite his anger. He glanced at Deena. She looked defeated as she took in a deep breath, raised her hands palms up, then dropped them into her lap. "Blake, I'm so sorry. You did nothing but try to keep me safe. And your brother? He saved Kat. He deserves better. I was spooked by the prison tattoo."

"Trust me. He's a good man."

Deena nodded.

"He's just a guy who found himself in a bad spot. You don't get rich working the water. If you're lucky, you break even. Unfortunately, he had a long stretch of _not lucky_. The bank was going to foreclose on his house. He couldn't feed his wife and kids. He was going to lose the car and the boat. He was desperate, and Buster took advantage of it." Blake frowned. "I hated Buster for that." He shook his head. "But when he died...well, I needed someone to blame."

"Mama Jo?"

Blake shrugged. "Guilt by association. I'm not proud of it. I've been trying to make things right ever since."

Deena looked up. "I'm sorry I said anything about Bubba. We're just strangers to him, and he risked his life to save Kat." The tears fell down her cheeks. "Go ahead and say it."

"Say what?"

"That I'm an ungrateful witch."

"No, you were right. I should have told you they were looking for you. It's just..."

"Just what?"

A wry smile crept across Blake's face. "I was afraid."

"Afraid? Of what?"

"That you'd run." His eyes met hers. "I was afraid of losing you."

Deena sighed. "If you knew the truth about me, you'd be glad to see me go. In fact, you'd probably hate me."

" _Hate you_? After I've spent the last few days trying to protect you? That would be like taking a perfectly good lamp and throwing it through a freshly painted wall. Just stupid."

Deena chuckled weakly.

Blake slipped several photos from his pocket and sat down beside her. "I picked these up when I ditched the car." He fanned the photos across the coffee table. "The truth?" He tapped a finger on the table. "Which of these girls are you?"

Deena ran her hands through her hair, closed her eyes, and in a barely audible voice said, "All of them."

"Wrong." Blake swept up the photos and held them up for her to see. "I don't know these girls and I suspect you don't either." He ripped up the stack and stuffed the pieces in his pocket. "I've spent a fair amount of time with you over the past few days. I think I know you. The Deena I know is quiet and private. And she's kind to meddling old women and pushy handymen."

A faint smile crossed Deena's face.

"The Deena I know loves her daughter and would face the Devil himself to protect her."

Deena's smile broadened.

"Oh, and she looks mighty fine in a red dress."

Deena's eyes grew misty.

Blake smiled. "And she was killing that blue dress."

Deena laughed.

Blake took her hand. "You want the truth? There it is. The Good Book says the truth will set you free."

Deena laughed halfheartedly. "So I've heard."

"But you've got to let it."

Her face turned ashen. "I'm afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"I'm afraid I'm too broken."

Blake laughed softly. "In case you haven't noticed, I have a few issues of my own. I know a thing or two about being broken."

She hesitated. "But what if I can't be unbroken?"

He smiled broadly. "Don't even believe it." He tapped his chest. "After all, I'm the fix-it man."

Deena shook her head. "I don't know." A light smile crossed her face. "How much is it going to cost?"

Blake ran his hand over his stubbly chin. "Well, if I can't fix it, there's no charge."

"And if you can?"

"Then it's going to cost you big time. There'll be no more free ride."

Deena's brows arched.

Blake glanced away nervously, his gaze settling on the horizon beyond the window. "The sun's going down."

Deena watched Blake as he gazed at the darkening sky. Her body slumped, and her voice went flat. "Yeah, sunset. I guess you've got business to take care of."

He sighed, nodded, and rose. "Do you know why sunsets blaze in reds and yellows?"

Staring at the floor, Deena shrugged.

"It's where day and night collide. The explosion where one thing ends and something new begins." He held out his hand. "Let's watch this new beginning together."

# Chapter 38  
The Smart One

Kat stood at the end of the dock, scratching the wooden railing with the jagged edge of a broken clamshell. Blake and Deena stood facing the shimmering bay as bright neon hues of yellow and orange streaked across the horizon. Deena moved behind Kat and placed her hands on the girl's shoulders. Kat looked up at her mother's touch and beamed. "Do you like it?"

Deena examined her daughter's artwork. There, in the wood grain of the railing, was a large, roughly drawn heart. In the center, she had scrawled:

Deena

Blake

Deena smiled and sighed. She longed to be more than a story in a journal or a name etched in a heart. She wanted to be more than a grotesque fantasy caricature in a photo. She craved life, real life...and she ached for real love.

Blake slid up next to her and glanced at Kat's artwork. He smiled and wrapped his arm around Deena's waist, pulling her toward him, as he said. "I like it, Kat."

The little girl threw her arms around the two adults, completing the embrace.

A booming voice from the road called out, "Well, well, well. Look here."

Startled, the three spun toward the voice.

Enos straddled his bike at the foot of the dock with a broad smile splashed across his face. He nodded enthusiastically. "Hey, Tina, remember what I told you? Who's the smart one now?"

Blake turned and whispered, "Tina?"

She shook her head. "Just go with it."

Deena looked up at Blake. His eyes were deeper than the bay and bluer than the sky. Her heart, suspended between the two, was a fluttering sail in the shifting wind. Blake leaned in and kissed her, his lips lingering lightly on hers. In that moment, the world stood still and spun wildly out of control. Blake rested his forehead on Deena's and gazed into her eyes.

In that dizzying instant, Enos called out, "Yes, sir. Who's the smart one now?"

Smiling, Deena whispered, "I am."

* * * * * * * * *

**Did you enjoy** _Set You Free_ **? Don't want it to end? Click** HERE **to get information on how to access FREE bonus chapters.**

# Afterword

The Fiction and the Stark Reality

_Set You Free_ is a fictional story about a woman running from the brutality of sex trafficking. The novel's focus goes beyond the physical ravages and tackles the social and emotional trauma that these victims endure. Even if they're lucky enough to escape physical bondage, they're devastated by this second level of brutality long afterward. They also face a legal system that all too often views them as criminals rather than victims. They reenter a society that tends to judge rather than show compassion. (Unfortunately, not everyone is as accepting as the residents of Opechancano.) _Set You Free_ is about Deena's attempt to free herself from these unseen shackles.

The National Human Trafficking Resource Center indicates that they received 5,551 reports of sex trafficking in 2016 in the United States. Yes, the United States. And who knows how many cases went unreported? We like to think this is a problem that exists only in other parts of the world, but it isn't. The National Center for Missing and Exploited Children estimates that one in every six of the 18,500 endangered runaways reported to their organization in 2016 are victims of sex trafficking.

A number of organizations are dedicated to helping individuals escape the brutalities of human trafficking. One of these is the Polaris Project (https://polarisproject.org), which offers a broad range of resources and services to combat human trafficking. Numerous local faith-based groups also provide shelter and assistance to victims. But organizations such as these need support to continue to serve the needs of individuals. I hope that, if nothing else, this novel will prompt readers to seek out organizations such as Polaris or local faith-based groups and provide support so their important work can continue.

_Set You Free_ is a story of hope. Like my other novels, it is not a story of happily ever after. It is the story of a turning point. As Pastor Tompkins might say, this is the story of an "everyday miracle." One of those "chance encounters" that God quietly uses to work a miracle in individuals' lives. In the end, Deena isn't healed, but she has finally begun that journey...with a man who has finally found his own way by letting go of the past.

Inspiration

First, I would like to thank my wife, Mitzi. Without her encouragement and support, I never would have been able to write this novel. She is my first reader, my critic, and my cheerleader. When she tells me not to kill off a particular character, I listen. It has been good advice each time. (Yes, there are characters alive today due to her promptings.)

I would like to thank Meagan Taylor-Booth and Jane James for agreeing to be beta readers. My thanks also go out to Cate Hogan and Angela Brown for their insightful editing. I appreciate all of their thoughtful suggestions. The book is better as a result of modifications based on their observations.

Before I acknowledge the following sources of inspiration, I need to reemphasize that the characters and events in _Set You Free_ are completely fictional. However, sometimes a small spark led to the creation of these characters or events.

The character of Blake was inspired by my friend Jimmie Topping. Blake, like Jimmie, can do just about anything and would give you the shirt off his back. Beyond that, it's all fiction (including Blake's age—sorry, Jimmie; he's much younger). I did give a nod to Jimmie by naming the seafood-processing place Jimmie's.

Another individual who provided a spark for a character is my mother-in-law. I needed a name for the woman who would befriend Deena and welcome her in. The name also needed to lend itself to the twist at the end of the story. My mother-in-law's name is Josephine, and my wife sometimes affectionately refers to her as Mama Jo. I liked the sound of it. With a slight modification from Josephine to Joella, it was perfect, so I used it. Everything else about Mama Jo is fictional. (Although I have heard that my mother-in-law was a bit of a free spirit in her younger days.)

While _Set You Free_ obviously isn't a Christian novel, I drew a number of themes from the eighth chapter of The Gospel of John. Throughout the novel, I play on the idea of light and darkness. I also focus on truth: the inability of Deena and Blake to see the truth about themselves, as well as the emotional bondage this failure creates. Their inability to see the truth leads to misguided self-guilt and an inability to forgive themselves. Light, truth, and forgiveness are all central concepts in John, Chapter 8. In a very general sense, the truth will set you free. Finding the truth, however, is the difficult part.

This novel is for all those who are pursued by the shadows of their past. As Enos says, "It ain't nothin' but _where you been_ tryin' to keep you from _where you goin'_. Don't look down and don't look back."

Thank you for reading _Set You Free_. If you enjoyed this story, you can access free bonus chapters of the novel by signing up to receive my author newsletter. By receiving my newsletters, you can stay informed regarding future special deals and upcoming novels.

Thanks again and happy reading,

Elmer

# Connect with Elmer

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# Other Novels by Elmer Seward

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Hearts in the Storm

_The most destructive storm rages within the heart._

A woman haunted by loss, a man shattered by failure, a wave-battered boat in the clutches of a monster storm, a love that reaches beyond the grave — _Hearts in the Storm._

Dreams of the Sleepless

_In the twilight between the heart's dark secrets and reality's harsh light, lie the dreams of the sleepless._

_A woman who has lost her future, a man who would erase his past, a stranger whose nightmares could threaten them all —_ _Dreams of the Sleepless_

_On the following pages are excerpts from each of these novels._

# Excerpt from _Hearts in the Storm_

# Chapter 1

He dragged himself out of the seaside door onto the long, wooden deck. Standing for a moment, he watched the waves whipping up foam as they battered the beleaguered sand. The surging water spewed shells and rocks along the shoreline only to snatch them up, like secrets dredged from the deep, in its frantic retreat. The sea was in constant motion. There was a storm off shore, and the beach was catching the brunt of its fury.

He took a long, slow sip of coffee, hoping to clear the cluttered remnants of last night's bender. Wearing only a tattered pair of shorts, he stood watching the eastern sky. It was gray and ominous, but the thickly filtered daylight still hurt, and he watched the waves through squinted eyes at first.

Laying his cup on the railing, he leaned forward, straining to glimpse the pelicans riding the rolling waves just beyond the break. They would appear as they crested the top of the swells and then disappear as they slid down into the troughs. Occasionally, one would take flight, circle for a moment and then dive, disappearing beneath the water for a brief moment.

As he watched, something odd caught his attention. Just beyond the birds, another dark object in the water appeared and disappeared. At first, he thought it was one of the sea birds, but there was something unusual about the shape. Maybe it was a fin. It was common to see dolphins just off shore. It could be a shark fin. They prowled the shoreline more often than the local tourist companies or city officials wanted to announce. It crested into view again. No, it was too far out and in the sunless water, too dark to identify . . . but not a fin. It disappeared again. He watched closely, waiting for it to crest. There it was, but it was taller. It was moving. It was . . . an arm. A head and a waving arm being tossed in the tumultuous water.

The sound of the waves, roaring and crashing, was all consuming, but faintly, he heard another sound, almost imperceptible. He strained and was sure he heard a voice in the intermittent roar and crash, a voice crying for help.

He searched frantically up and down the beach. There was no one. He had to act quickly. He grabbed an old cork safety ring that hung as a decorative prop on the deck of the cottage and jumped down the steps to the beach. As he ran, his feet sank into the loose, shifting sand. It felt like he was lifting leaden legs as he struggled forward. Finally reaching the firmer wet sand, he sped up only to hit the water. Again, each step was like dragging an anvil. He pressed forward into the waves, diving into each one to avoid being knocked backward. As he wrestled in the rush and the roar, he tried desperately to find the person who would rise and then vanish in the rolling action of the ocean.

Swimming now, fighting against the current determined to rush him back to shore, he was becoming exhausted. The water was battering and pulling him, but he pressed on, trailing the safety ring in his wake. .

He was close now. He could see the figure. It was a girl, maybe in her mid-teens. She was flailing her arms, desperately trying to keep her head above water. She wasn't being successful. Alternately, she was choking, gasping, and screaming as her head broke the water. Then she was sucked down again.

As he swam to within feet of the struggling figure, the girl disappeared. He searched frantically as waves crashed over him. He dove hoping to find her. The dark, churning water was murky and obscured his vision. Then he saw a hand just below him. He swam deeper, his lungs burning. Now, her face emerged from the darkness. Her eyes were wide with panic as she clawed desperately with outstretched arms. One more stroke propelled him downward. He stretched out to grasp her flailing hands. His fingers were inches away. In the next instant, she was swept away in the shifting current. He peered through the darkness, his lungs about to burst. She was gone.

# Excerpt from _Dreams of the Sleepless_

# Now

I punctuate the sentence, period at the end. I lift the pen and look up. Outside in the parking lot, the car at the pumps. Did I see it at our last stop? Black Ford. How many black Fords are there in the world? Millions. I watch a moment longer. Nothing unusual. I look down, reread my last sentence and then continue, _Sometimes, I'm better now. Really, I am._ I want to write, _Sometimes, I see monsters at night_ , but I leave it unsaid. I choose the glass half-full. He would like that. I sign the card using some other man's name, not my own. A quick look to the parking lot. The black Ford is gone. The muscles in my neck uncoil as I release one long breath. Looking down again, I flip the card over and study the sepia image. It's a reprint of a vintage post card depicting International Bridge in Fort Kent, Maine. I smile at the symmetry of it all. I slip the card in the mail slot and marvel at how different life is now. Now? Now, my life is measured in postcards with quickly jotted lines. Then? Well, _then_ . . . there wasn't much to measure.

# About the Author

Elmer Seward was born and raised along the Chesapeake Bay in southeast Virginia. Growing up, the cemetery behind his house was his playground. The metaphorical theme of death and rebirth that figures prominently in his novels is probably influenced in some way by the time that his mother heard, through the screened window, a small voice crying for help. Rushing from the house and through the yard, she discovered her all-too-curious six-year-old son at the bottom of a freshly dug grave. In that moment, he discovered that trouble is much easier to get into than it is to get out of. Sometimes we need help getting out of the hole that we jump into willingly.

He is blessed to have a large blended family. He is also the reluctant servant of three crazy dogs, a Maltese, a Japanese Chin, and a BruMaltChiYorkie. All of these strongly influence the characters and events in his novels; however, his beautiful wife, Mitzi, is the true inspiration for the tender hearted but determined women in his stories.

He is the author of two previous novels, _Hearts in the Storm_ and _Dreams of the Sleepless._

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