The Safe Place

by L.A. Larkin

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

Eagle Falls is a sleepy town in Washington State. Surrounded by forests and a national park, it's threatened by huge wildfires. But when a family dies in a house blaze, it's suspected to be the work of an arsonist . . .
Jessie Lewis, a former firefighter and survivor of domestic abuse, sleeps with a gun on her bedside table. Ruth Sullivan has retired from the FBI in Seattle after a terrorist attack killed her partner. Both women find themselves on the trail of the arsonist - and tangled up in the web of lies that runs through Eagle Falls.

Release date: November 9, 2021

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

The night sky burned a livid orange.

The intruder stood on the back deck that doubled as a toddler’s play area and gazed down the mountain, beyond the small town of Eagle Falls, beyond the lake that slithered between the mountain range and the national park, and watched the wildfire wreak a magnificent destruction. The winds fanned the wall of crimson flames that felled Bear Creek National Park’s mighty forest, leaving nothing but a blackened wasteland in its wake. Bordering the park, the popular vacation town of Waterford glowed white, as if scorched by a giant blowtorch. In the darkness, the headlights of fleeing vehicles were like a line of white-hot ants, scurrying one way and then the next, navigating the hairpin bends to reach safety.

Why flee from something so beautiful, so cleansing? They should embrace fire’s power, something the arsonist had learned to do, and to do well. Of course, the wildfire was inevitable. The hottest summer and longest drought on record had made the forests tinderbox dry. Everyone prayed for rain, even those without a religion, but no rain was forecast for September. People were calling it the heatwave from hell.

The arsonist saw it as an opportunity.

All manner of crimes could be concealed by fire, and house fires were the arsonist’s specialty. They were more personal, more targeted, and more gratifying, even if it took detailed planning and the risk of being caught was higher. The result was worth it.

The intruder turned to face the four-bedroom bungalow. At one in the morning, the residents were fast asleep, immune to the smoky night air or any outside noise because of the thrum from the air conditioning units. Most folks around those parts relied on open windows and fans to keep them cool in summer. However, installing air conditioning units was what the house owner did for a living, and he had equipped every room with them. What’s more, dense forest hid the bungalow from the road. The family of four would be dead long before anyone had a chance to report the incident to the already overstretched fire service.

The prowler swallowed back a cough. The face mask, which felt like a cardboard igloo over sweaty skin, kept nose and mouth concealed. It was supposed to also seal out smoky air and was failing to do so. Over a black beanie, a headlamp produced a focused point of light, enabling the intruder to see without waking the sleeping occupants. A gust of hot wind whistled through the tall cedars and Douglas fir trees. It shook the stalks of the shriveled camelia bushes that lined the deck, the waxy leaves curled and crisp, the dying pink flowers scattered on the soil beneath. The arsonist spun around, staring one way and then the next, convinced somebody was laughing. It sounded like Naomi, a screechy laugh, like nails down a blackboard. Or was it Paul, a nasal, mocking, ha ha ha! The killer’s blood boiled.

Don’t mock me!

The wind died down and the sound faded.

Stay focused on the job. The pleasure comes later.

In one hand, a small mallet with a rubber head. In the other, a wooden wedge-shaped doorstop, so small it looked as if it might belong to a doll’s house. A couple of taps with the mallet and the wedge was jammed tight into the gap between the sash window and its casing. First, the top panel of glass and then the bottom panel was rendered inoperable. That was the last of the windows jammed, bar one, and that one would be the killer’s escape route. The little wooden wedges were perfect for the job: they ensured the windows couldn’t be opened from the inside and they would also disintegrate in the fire, therefore leaving no evidence behind. Because this was going to be a tragic accident. The gas stove left on, a candle burning. How very sad, they would say.

Now to lock the doors and start the fire.

Carefully coating a square cotton handkerchief with honey, the arsonist stuck the handkerchief to the sash windowpane, just above the latch. One punch and the panel of glass fell into the living room, landing on carpet, the crack muffled by the sticky handkerchief. A moment’s pause. Had anyone heard? Then sliding a gloved hand through the hole, the sash lock was unfastened, and the lower window lifted. By now the killer’s latex-covered palms were slick with sweat. Once inside the house, the killer momentarily enjoyed the cool air conditioning before creeping along the corridor toward the kitchen.

Bedroom doors were closed. Snoring came from the parents’ room. Stepping softly to avoid making squeaking noises on the kitchen’s hardwood floor, the arsonist headed straight for the wooden rack on the wall where they kept their house keys. The rack had a family of owls carved into the top of it. Distracted by the rack’s tasteless quaintness, the arsonist accidentally kicked the leg of a baby’s highchair. It scraped across the floor and hit the wall with a thud. The killer’s hand slid into the belt’s holster and touched the reassuring solidity of the pistol, which was an insurance policy.

Nobody stirred.

A big exhalation.

Tugging the mask down, the intruder opened the fridge and took out a carton of milk and drank from it, relishing its cool creaminess. There was no need to worry about leaving behind DNA or fingerprints. There would be nothing left. However, being a careful type, the empty carton was returned to the fridge and the face mask pulled back into position.

There were two sets of house keys on the rack and a spare set in a kitchen drawer. The arsonist took all three sets, locked all exterior doors, then switched on the gas stove’s four burners. There was a satisfying hiss. Knowing that gas sinks, a candle was placed on the hardwood floor and lit. No need for accelerant this time. The explosion would blow the kitchen apart. The killer crept back along the hallway, careful to avoid a toddler’s blue tricycle.

Running into the nearest tree cover, the arsonist fumbled for a cigarette and used a brushed chrome Zippo to light it, then threw it into the paper-dry leaf litter. The yellow flames grew quickly. Two more cigarettes were lit and flicked away at different points around the bungalow. Lighting up the forest around the home was a precautionary measure: it would make it more difficult for firefighters to reach the house to save the occupants.

The executioner kept a safe distance but was near enough to watch the performance. Ribbons of red flames in the trees. A boom from the kitchen. Black smoke. Screams. Ah, the screams. Music to the ears. Eyes shut, right hand raised as if holding a baton to conduct an invisible orchestra, the killer waved a hand back and forth. A shudder of exquisite ecstasy. More screams, their final wails consumed by the jet-engine roar of the conflagration.

A cold wet nose on her cheek and a good deal of panting woke twenty-six-year-old Jessie Lewis from a fitful night’s sleep. She kept her eyes shut, hoping her dog would let her sleep a little longer. It had been an uncomfortably hot night and from the warmth of the breeze blowing through her bedroom window, she guessed it was going to be another searingly hot day. Long dark strands of hair stuck to her temples as if they had been glued there as someone’s idea of a joke, and her nightie clung to her sweaty body. Her one and only desk fan, a cheapie from a company she’d never heard of, had died during the night. The single cotton sheet lay in a bundled mess on the speckled brown carpet that still smelled of the previous occupant’s feet.

Her one-bedroom wood cabin on a tree-covered slope had been a run-down vacation home when she bought it six months ago. She had needed to move out of the town quickly and the seller was looking for a fast sale. The best thing about the house was its isolation. And even though the land adjacent to the lake was owned by her reclusive neighbor, he never complained about her crossing his property to swim each day. The worst thing about the house was its lack of insulation: the dated pine paneling on the interior walls and vaulted ceiling seemed to absorb the day’s heat, then slowly release it at night. One of many reasons, she now realized, why the house was going cheap.

The dog nudged her arm.

Jessie opened one eye. The other was squished shut by the pillow. Her golden retriever’s furry face was close to hers. She loved the way the creases on each side of his jowl gave the impression that the two-year-old rescue dog was smiling. She reached out a hand and stroked his head.

“Morning, Bartie.”

The dog’s feathery plume of a tail thumped enthusiastically against the wall. Jessie remembered a time when Bartie cowered if she tried to touch him. He’d been chained up for the first year of his life by his previous owner and badly beaten if he barked. It took a year for her to win the dog’s trust and now they were inseparable.

Jessie reached for her iPhone on the nightstand to check the time, and her fingers brushed her Glock 43 in its concealed-carry holster. Jessie knew she should keep the pistol unloaded and safely stashed in a drawer or a gun safe. But it was at night that she felt the most vulnerable and she wanted it close to hand. Not that she was a good shot. Quite the opposite. But Jessie figured that if she fired enough bullets, one of them would hit the mark. Bartie slept on the floor at the foot of her bed, which she found reassuring. But the man she most feared had a gun and he wouldn’t hesitate to kill her dog.

Stretching her arm out a little farther, Jessie found her cell phone and squinted at the time: 6:30 a.m. She smiled. Of course, it was. How did her dog know the time? He was better than an alarm clock. Jessie swung her legs to the floor and sat up, yawning. She squinted at the daylight pouring through her open window. It was an odd color. Gray. Murky. Were they finally going to get some rain? Then she noticed the bitter taste on her tongue, like she’d licked charcoal. Her eyes felt gritty. It was smoke. And not just any smoke. Wildfire smoke with the distinctive scent of pine and sticky sap. The wind must have shifted direction and blown smoke toward Devil Mountain, where she lived. Tiny particles of ash lay on the floor and furniture.

Enjoying the sensation of the living room’s cool tiles beneath her feet, she passed her mom’s favorite wingback armchair and her dad’s solid-oak desk, which he had used at his family medical clinic. She wished now that she had kept more of her parents’ furniture, but the cabin was too small to accommodate anything else. When she had sold the family home, she kept the things that meant the most to her: photo albums, her sports awards, the board games they had played as a family, in particular her dad’s chess set. On the desk was her dad’s stethoscope, which had its own leather-bound case and also his antique Colt Model 1877 Lightning revolver, mounted in a glass display case.

Her mom’s landscape paintings were hung on the living room walls. Jessie’s college graduation certificate wasn’t. It was stashed in a drawer, a relic from another life, of no use to her now. Her mom’s diaries were neatly arranged on a bookshelf in chronological order. Sometimes, when Jessie was feeling down, she would take out one of the diaries and read it, imagining her mother’s world: Cynthia, a child of the 1960s, a teenager in bell-bottom corduroy pants, a mother at the age of twenty-two, living in a small country town. It had been Cynthia’s greatest wish to see Jessie, her only child, settled down with a nice guy and to give her grandchildren who she could dote on. Yet here Jessie was, single, and determined to stay that way.

Jessie opened the front door. Bartie shot outside and chased after a squirrel. The dog would be back: he never left her side for long. Sometimes she wondered if she had rescued Bartie, or whether Bartie had rescued her. There was no doubt that he eased her loneliness and she loved him dearly. She watched him from the makeshift porch, which was little more than a few planks covering the ground and two pillars supporting a sloping roof. Her cabin was surrounded by pine forest on all sides, which meant that even though the lake was only thirty-five yards away, she couldn’t see it. She looked up. The sky was a sickly brownish orange, like a bruised peach.

“This looks real bad.”

The three years Jessie had spent as a volunteer firefighter had been some of the best years of her life. She itched to throw her firefighting gear in the back of her pickup and help fight the fire raging in Bear Creek National Park, some sixty miles away. But she wouldn’t be welcome. Marcus had seen to that.

Jessie ducked into the kitchen and switched on her mom’s 1960s-style radio with big round dials and a varnished pine casing. She found the local news station.

“Twenty square miles of national park have been lost since yesterday,” the newsreader said. “Gusty winds are hampering efforts to contain what is rapidly turning into a mega fire. The towns of Waterford and Bear Creek have been evacuated.”

“Oh no,” Jessie said to herself.

Bartie raced into the kitchen and sniffed his empty food bowl, then looked at her.

The newsreader continued, “Yesterday, Eagle Falls recorded the hottest September day on record—a whopping 94.8 degrees Fahrenheit. The heatwave is forecast to continue. This time last year, the average temperature for the month of September was just 58 degrees.”

Could the fire jump the lake, Jessie wondered, and take out the town? Maybe even reach Devil Mountain, so named because it had two peaks, much like horns. It was really unlikely the park fire would cross the water, although the lake was narrow and long like a snake and embers could be blown across it.

I’ve done all I can to protect my home.

She had cleaned the gutters of leaves and maintained a wide firebreak around the cabin. Her hose was primed and ready, although, like most people in the area, her rainwater tank was two-thirds empty. The drought had created huge water shortages.

Her dog nudged her thigh and gave her a big-eyed pleading look.

“Want to go for a swim?” Bartie’s head shot up and he spun around, chasing his tail in excitement. “Yeah, I know, buddy. I need a swim too. It’s way too hot already. Coffee first, okay?”

Filling the glass percolator with water, she popped a tablespoonful of coarsely ground coffee into the basket, added the lid and switched on the gas stovetop. While the coffee brewed, she opened a can of wet dog food, scooped it into a large steel bowl, then told Bartie to sit. He sat, chest out.

“Eat!”

While Bartie wolfed down his meal, Jessie sipped her coffee, thinking about her plan for the day. She had a gardening job at Pat and Rob’s place at nine, as she did every Monday. They lived a half-mile down the road, on a sought-after lakeside lot. Jessie was then due to do a quick job in town for an elderly couple who needed help cleaning leaf litter from their gutters. On Monday afternoons, Jessie usually drove to Prairie Ridge to see her friend Georgia Amarillas—her last remaining friend. Georgia had canceled because of a doctor’s appointment, which left Jessie with some free time.

Stuck to the fridge door was a flyer announcing a new women’s self-defense class starting today. It had been stuck on there for a few weeks now and every time she opened the fridge door she considered enrolling. Self-defense skills would come in useful if she could just muster enough courage to learn them. Each time she was about to sign up, she stopped. It was the thought of the other women attending the class that put her off. These days, she avoided visiting her hometown if she could.

Except it wasn’t her home anymore.

She put down her coffee mug and closed her eyes. How had her life gone so off the rails?

Just then, she heard the rumble of tires on her unpaved driveway. She peered out the kitchen window. Jessie didn’t have visitors, especially not at seven in the morning. A squall of dust preceded the vehicle. A sheriff’s black-and-white Chevy Suburban came to a halt outside her house and a deputy she had never met before got out. He paused and surveyed the house’s exterior.

Jessie ducked down, hoping she hadn’t been seen. She gripped her dog’s snout, willing him not to bark.

Ruth Sullivan was preparing her sons’ lunchboxes with military precision, as she did with most things in her life. Not that she had been in the military. She had served her country another way: as an FBI agent. At forty years old she retired for medical reasons and became a full-time mom. But old habits die hard. Such as getting up at five thirty. She had already been for her daily forty-minute run, despite the pain in her left thigh muscles, which she was determined to conquer. She had taken the same route along the lake’s western shore every weekday morning since she and her family had arrived in Eagle Falls eight weeks ago. She had greeted Martha walking her dog and said hi to Drew, her neighbor, who was training for a half marathon.

The ache in Ruth’s thigh was fading with time passing, but her lungs were still sensitive to anything other than clean air. Clean air was one of the many reasons Ruth and her husband, Victor, had decided to uproot themselves from the city and move to the sleepy town of Eagle Falls. Ironically, this morning she had had to use her asthma inhaler and walk the last mile home because of the smoke. She had tried not to look across the lake at the park’s 1,442 square miles of forests, beaches, and mountain peaks because she didn’t want to see the ominous amber glow or the thick dark smoke just above the treeline. It would send her into a panic attack.

While nine-year-old Noah and six-year-old David ate their scrambled eggs at the dining table, Ruth gulped down a banana and almond milk smoothie. Then she continued to neatly fill the compartments of the kids’ new lunchboxes with healthy food.

Don’t look out the window, Ruth thought. We’re safe. It can’t reach us.

Regardless, there was a nervous flutter in her chest, and she felt hot and claustrophobic, even though the kitchen was spacious and air-conditioned.

Get a grip!

Today was the second day of the new school year and Ruth dearly hoped it would go better than the first day. Starting at a new school was always scary, especially when the kids were new to the area. Ruth was particularly nervous for David. On Friday, the first day of school, David was shoved to the ground and his favorite Spider-Man backpack was kicked around the changing rooms. When the teacher had found David alone and crying, hugging his school bag, she had taken him to the principal’s office and both sets of parents were asked to come to the school.

Ruth ground her teeth. Her grip on the carving knife tightened and she pushed down too hard. The knife sliced through the rotisserie chicken and into the wooden chopping board with a loud thwack that caused both boys to jerk their heads up.

“Knives are dangerous, Mommy,” said Noah, repeating a line Ruth had used when he had showed an unnerving interest in the kitchen knife block.

Ruth saw herself in Noah. He had her thick strawberry-blond hair, her small build, and her more serious approach to life. David, on the other hand, had inherited the looks and personality of his easygoing father.

“You’re right. I should be more careful,” Ruth said, smiling.

Noah’s eyes followed her as she took two kids-sized pouches of juice from the fridge. “Why can’t we have berry muffins? Daddy always gives us muffins.”

“Daddy doesn’t do your lunchboxes anymore. He’s busy looking for a job.”

Victor was indeed job-hunting, but right now he was asleep in bed. Theoretically, they had swapped roles. The day she first started working for the FBI, Victor became the house husband who cared for the kids. When Ruth was forced to retire from the FBI, she became the stay-at-home parent and Victor was free to kick-start his career. Except, so far, the role reversal wasn’t quite working out. Before the kids were born, Victor had been a big shot realtor. But that was eleven years ago. Even before they left Seattle, Victor had applied for numerous real estate jobs. All his applications were rejected.

Ruth had thrown herself into her role as full-time mom and soon had the family running like a well-oiled machine. She had everything programmed as alerts in her phone. At 7:45 a.m. Ruth would drive David to Gatewood Elementary, chat to a few moms, then head back home, shower, change. She then would drive Noah to middle school at 8:45 a.m. The problem was that she had seven long hours before the afternoon pickup: once the house was clean and the grocery shopping done, she was searching for something else to do. Which was why she had approached the local gym about running a series of women’s self-defense classes. And today, she was due to teach the first class.

“Pleeeeease, Mommy,” pleaded David, seemingly unaware he had managed to spit tiny bits of scrambled egg over the table. “Muffins are yummy.”

David gave her the kind of smile that melted her heart and would undoubtedly melt girls’ hearts in future. It was the same smile that had won Ruth over on her very first date with Victor. David had his dad’s wispy brown hair. Like his dad, he was always grinning, always happy-go-lucky. Kids and teachers loved him. Another reason why the bullying had been such a huge shock.

Ruth thought back to the meeting in the principal’s office. Eric, a heavyset boy and tall for his age, claimed they were messing about and David slipped and fell. His father had dismissed the whole incident with the flick of a tattooed hand.

“Kids their age like to rumble. It’s good for them. How was Eric to know that your boy’s a wimp?”

David had started to cry, head bowed, hands clasped in his lap.

“Shoving my son to the ground isn’t play. It’s bullying.” Ruth had said, furious. “Principal Dalglish, I need to know that this school does not tolerate bullying.”

Dalglish had squirmed in his seat and mumbled about a “misunderstanding” between the two boys. Eric wasn’t reprimanded, simply told to stay away from David. Eric and his father, Paul, had left the office with smug looks on their faces. When Ruth told Victor what had happened, he advised Ruth not to make a fuss.

“It’s a small town. We don’t want to make enemies.”

But she could tell that he was as upset by it as she was.

“Mom?”

David’s voice brought her back to the present. He’d asked her a question. Ah, yes. About muffins.

“You’ve got yummy chocolate raisins instead. And a banana each,” Ruth said, closing the lids and making a conscious effort to stop frowning at the boxes as if they had committed a crime. She habitually frowned when concentrating, which was why she had such ugly frown lines between her fair eyebrows.

“And potato chips,” said Noah, his blond brows meeting in the middle, just like hers. Ruth wondered if Noah had learned to frown that way by watching her. “Daddy always gives us potato chips.”

“On Fridays you get potato chips as a special end-of-week treat. What day is it today, Noah?”

“Mon-day!” David shouted gleefully, before his brother could answer.

Noah rolled his eyes. “I was going to say that.”

“I said it first,” David giggled. If he was nervous about returning to Gatewood Elementary, he certainly wasn’t showing it.

“Can I leave the table?” asked Noah. He had hardly touched his food. He usually cleared his plate and asked for more. Ruth pulled out a chair and sat next to him. “What’s up, buddy? Don’t like your eggs.”

“Not hungry.”

Ruth knew she was being overprotective, but she couldn’t stop herself. “Everything okay at school?”

“I guess.” Noah swung his feet so the back of his sneakers hit the chair legs. He didn’t look at her. Okay, something was definitely wrong. “I like my old school.” There was a whine in his voice. “I like Mrs. Brown. I like Sam and Emma.” His best friends in Redmond, a Seattle suburb where they used to live.

Ruth took him in her arms and inhaled the sweet apple scent of his shampoo. “I know you do. It’s natural to miss them. But you’re making new friends, right? What about Aiden? He seems nice.”

Aiden lived on their street.

“He’s okay.” Noah sighed. “Why did we come here?”

Ruth felt something lurch in her gut. How many times had she thought that their decision to move to Eagle Falls was made too hastily? But Victor had been adamant. After all, it was the town he had grown up in. And the kids would have a better childhood in the mountains.

“Good morning!” said Victor, a wide smile on his face as he entered the kitchen wearing his bedtime boxer shorts and sleeveless tee. He was in the middle of wiping the lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses with the hem of his tee, then he popped the glasses on. His wispy brown hair stuck up on one side: the side he’d been sleeping on. He opened his arms wide. “Daddy needs a hug.”

Both boys ran into his arms. “Love you.” He kissed Noah. “Love you.” He kissed David. He released them from his embrace and walked up to Ruth. “Ah there’s the most beautiful woman in the world.” He kissed her.

How is it that he doesn’t notice the hideous scar on my face? “Coffee?” she asked.

“You’re an angel.”

She poured him a mugful and added cream. As she handed it to her husband she couldn’t help noticing that his daily workouts at the gym were paying off. He had never looked so fit.

“Big day for you,” Ruth said.

“Yep, and I’m ready, all guns blazing.” He mimed firing two pistols, which had Noah and David giggling.

Why can’t I be playful like that? Ruth thought.

“What time is the interview?” she asked.

“Two. I just need to pick up a reference, then I’m ready. Oh, and I’d like your advice on what to wear. Suit or smart casual?”

Ruth glanced at her Apple watch. “Sure. When I get back, okay?” Then she looked at David. “Ready?”

“I need to pee.” David launched himself off the chair and ran to the bathroom.

“Close the bathroom door,” Ruth called after him. A few seconds later she heard the click of the latch. She turned to her other son. “Noah, please finish your math homework. Go collect your tablet from your room. Daddy will help you with the sums.”

“Sure I will,” Victor said. Then he held up his hand to cover his mouth and whispered, “You know I’m bad at math, right?”

Noah frowned.

“Daddy’s joking. He’s great at math.”

Noah headed for his room at a leisurely stroll. When they were gone, Ruth spoke, keeping her voice hushed.

“I’m worried about David. I can’t believe the principal didn’t punish the boy.”

Victor tilted his head to one side. “Oh Ruthie. Things are a bit more relaxed here. And Davy seems okay to me. Why don’t we see how today goes?”

Victor always called their youngest Davy, but Ruth liked to stick with the name they had given him.

Ruth washed out her mug and left it on the drainer. “If you don’t stand up to bullies, they keep doing it.”

Victor took her hand and drew her to him so he could wrap his arms around her waist. “Eric’s dad is a jerk. Always has been. But even he knows that his son picked on the wrong kid. You’re ex-FBI. Our kids get special status. The teachers won’t allow anything bad to happen.”

Ruth pulled free of his embrace. “But they already did!”

He stroked her cheek. “My love, we need to get along with people.”

Noah and David reappeared, gripping their toothbrushes. Their mouths dripped with toothpaste foam.

“Daddy, can we go see the big waterfall after school?” Noah said, spitting foam down his T-shirt.

“Yeah!” David said. “It roars like a lion.” He then roared, spraying toothpaste far and wide.

“Maybe on the weekend,” Victor said, herding them back into the bathroom.

Jessie had no idea why a deputy would come calling this early in the morning, but it couldn’t be good. Crouched down low so that she wouldn’t be seen through the kitchen window, she clung to her dog’s collar with one hand and gently clasped his muzzle with the other. The last thing Jessie wanted was for Bartie to charge outside and bark at the unwanted visitor. Everybody knew that wherever Jessie went, her dog went too. If she remained hidden, perhaps the man would go away.

The problem was that her front door was wide open. It was a bit too late to slam it shut. Bartie struggled to be free of her grip. His ears were pricked and the fur along his spine was raised. He wanted to protect her and see off the new arrival.

“Hello, there! Anyone home?” the deputy called.

His voice sounded distant, as if he had decided to wait by his vehicle. Sensible man, given she had a big dog. Distracted, Jessie lost her hold on her dog’s collar. Bartie ran to the doorway and growled, teeth bared.

This left Jessie with no choice but to show herself.

“He won’t hurt you,” she shouted.

She got up and stood in the doorway. She was embarrassed to be seen in her goofy nightdress with a cute puppy face on it and the line i wuv you! beneath.

“Bartie! Heel!” she commanded.

The dog stopped growling and sat next to her. However, his eyes never left the stranger.

“Who are you?” she said to the tall African American with a shaved head.

The deputy’s olive and beige uniform looked fresh out of the packaging, but he stood with a relaxed confidence that only came with experience. He might be new to the area, but he was no rookie.

“Sorry to disturb you, ma’am. I’m Deputy Benj