The Next Victim: Kali O'Brien legal suspense, #7

Chapter 1

The call came a little after two in the morning and pulled Erling from a particularly pleasant dream. As a homicide detective with the Pima County Sheriff’s Department, he was used to being awakened at odd hours, but engaging his brain was always a struggle. He remained blurry eyed, clinging to the remnants of sleep, until the dispatcher read off the address of the crime scene—one that was painfully etched in Erling’s memory.

Instantly, he was fully alert.

His pulse quickened and an involuntary cry escaped from his lips, waking Deena, who had long ago learned to sleep through the intrusion of middle-of-the-night calls. She shot him an inquiring look, which he pretended not to see.

Sorry, honey, he said. I’ve got to go.

What is it?

Just work.

Figures. Deena sighed and rolled over, turning her back to him.

A shaft of moonlight illuminated her form and Erling took a moment to study the familiar curves of her body, the splash of auburn hair streaked with gray. There were times he could still see in her the playful and sexy woman he’d married twenty years earlier. What he saw more often, though, or rather felt, was an aloofness tinged with reproach. It had been that way for four years—since their eleven-year-old son, Danny, had died in a skateboarding accident. Erling could never decide whether the tragedy had caused the problems in their marriage or simply exacerbated existing ones he’d been blind to at the time.

Erling headed for the bathroom, where he showered quickly before pulling on slacks and a collared knit shirt. Before leaving the house he gently shook Deena.

Don’t forget, Mindy needs to be up by seven in order to study for her sociology test. At eighteen, their daughter still had trouble getting out of bed on her own.

I’ll make sure she’s up.

He kissed Deena on the cheek. Have a good day.

I’d tell you the same but I guess a dead body kind of precludes that.

Especially given the address, Erling thought, with an ache in his gut.

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There was no mistaking that the large, tile-roofed house on Canyon View Drive was a crime scene. Half a dozen patrol cars were parked in front. The coroner’s van and mobile crime tech unit sat in the driveway. Yellow police tape cordoned off the house entrance and part of the yard. Already, a news helicopter was circling overhead.

As he passed under the tape and through the front door, Erling felt a tremor of longing and sadness. Please, he whispered silently, don’t let it be her.

Inside, the evidence of carnage was everywhere. A blue hand- blown glass vase had been knocked from the library table, one of the floor lamps had been overturned, and the rocking chair lay on its side. Bits of flesh and brain matter were splattered against the cherry cabinets. Dark, sticky blood pooled on the terra-cotta tile floor. Erling had trouble breathing.

Across the room, he could see a female form crumpled against the wall. Olive-toned skin. Wavy black hair, long enough to fall below the shoulders. Erling felt a surge of relief. Definitely not Sloane.

Other one’s over there, the uniformed officer told him, pointing in the direction of the fieldstone fireplace. An image flashed in Erling’s mind: Sloane standing in front of a blazing fire, facing him and slowly unbuttoning her blue silk blouse. Don’t think about it, he told himself. Stay cool and don’t think.

It’s pretty awful, the uniform warned. I couldn’t do more than take a peek myself.

Erling glanced over and saw a woman’s leg and sandaled foot protruding from behind the sofa. Female also, but fair. He didn’t recognize the shoes but that didn’t mean anything. He hadn’t seen Sloane in five months.

He said a silent prayer as he moved closer. The body was sprawled on the floor, arms and legs akimbo, the face largely blown away. Erling’s gut rumbled and churned.

It might not be her. No way to know for sure without a formal ID.

But in his heart, he knew. The curve of the neck, the mole on her shoulder, the jade and silver ring on her right hand. Swallowing hard against the bile that threatened to rise in his throat, he crammed his shaking hands into his jacket pockets, hoping no one would notice, and closed his mind to the memories.

Erling experienced a familiar tug of anger and sadness at the senseless loss of life. The feelings came with the job, he supposed. Only this time the mantle of professional distance failed him. This wasn’t just another victim; this was a woman he’d held and kissed, and laughed and loved with. This was Sloane.

Michelle Parker, his partner of six months—a younger detective with the tenacity of a bulldog—had been talking to the responding officers when he had arrived. Now, notebook still in hand, she crossed from the wall of windows in the living room to join Erling by the kitchen archway.

Michelle brushed a wisp of chestnut brown hair from her forehead. What a way to start the day, huh?

It’s what we do, he snapped. His chest was so tight he could barely breathe.

Michelle’s face registered surprise at the curt response. A moment of hollow silence followed while she regarded him thoughtfully. Some of us do it in better humor than others, she said finally.

The sudden, if subtle, hint of tension in the air jolted him like the snap of a rubber band against his skin. Get a grip, Shafer. You want the whole damn world to know?

So, what’ve we got? he asked, more hospitably.

Michelle glanced at her notebook. Call came in just after midnight. A neighbor noticed the lights had been on all day and the morning paper hadn’t been picked up. She called the house and when no one answered came over and rang the bell. Then she went around the side and peeked in the window. She saw a body on the floor and called nine-one-one.

Do we have an ID on the victims?

Nothing positive. Best guess is that the older one is Sloane Winslow. This is her home.

Older one. Erling cringed. Sloane was only forty-one, two years younger than himself, and much too lovely to be called older.

Her maiden name was Logan. Michelle paused. As in Logan Foods.

When he didn’t respond right away, she added, The grocery chain.

Erling whistled softly. It bought him a moment’s time. You know anything about the family?

I didn’t even know it was a family business until the neighbor filled me in. Do you?

The moment of truth.

Or not.

Erling knew he should remove himself from the investigation. He had personal connections to one of the victims. Emotional connections. Big-time emotional connections. Department policy dictated he step aside and let someone else handle it.

But he couldn’t do that. Not without explaining. Word would get around. Eventually it would get back to Deena. His stomach clenched. He couldn’t. He simply couldn’t take that chance. Not after Danny.

Besides, he wanted to personally nail the creep who’d done this. He needed to do it—for Sloane even more than for himself.

Michelle gave him that curious look again. She was still waiting for an answer.

Only what I read in the papers, Erling said. The lie burned his tongue. Maybe, just maybe, they’d find the killer and wrap this up quickly.

So, fill me in.

The grandfather started the business right here in Tucson. Sloane Winslow and her brother, Reed Logan, have controlling interest, though it’s Reed who actually runs the company. Winslow lived in L.A. with her husband. It wasn’t until she divorced and returned to Tucson a few years ago that she got involved in the business at all.

Local gentry, local money Michelle frowned. I guess this one’s going to be in the headlines.

Afraid so. They looked at one another and Erling voiced what they were both thinking. The lieutenant will put our feet to the fire if we don’t hand him a suspect in short order.

Can we do that?

You tell me. How’s it look?

Michelle flipped to a different page in her notebook. Crawford’s here from the medical examiner’s office. His initial estimate is that they’ve been dead twenty-four to thirty-six hours. Both were shot at close range. The older woman in the head. The younger one in the chest and right leg. Weapon appears to be a shotgun.

Again Erling felt the tightness in his chest. Sloane moved with grace. A woman completely comfortable in her own skin. He couldn’t imagine the terror she must have felt when she saw the gun in the killer’s hands. His mind flashed to a vision of Sloane trying frantically to fend off the inevitable. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. Then he shook his thoughts clear.

We have the weapon? he asked.

No. Michelle paused and glanced around the room. Looks like they put up a fight, doesn’t it? But even with two of them, they’d be no match for a sleazeball with a gun.

Erling grunted agreement. Any ID on the second victim? he asked, moving in to take a closer look. She appeared to be in her late teens or early twenties. The older woman comment made sense to him now.

The neighbor who called it in is a regular verbal fountain. Says there was a young woman living here with Winslow. Olivia Perez is the name. She was a student at the university.

A relative? Last Erling knew, Sloane had been living alone.

A boarder, I think.

A boarder?

I know, it doesn’t make a lot of sense. The Logans must be loaded.

She certainly wouldn’t have needed to take in boarders. What do we have in the way of trace evidence? Erling sent a silent prayer to the heavens for a dumb perp. One who’d left fingerprints and fibers, maybe even his driver’s license.

We won’t know until the techs have finished going over the place. But there’s an old guy a couple of houses down who gave us the description of a car he saw out front Tuesday night. A silver Porsche with a broken taillight. If Crawford’s right about the time of death, that would put the car here near the time of the murders.

An eyewitness wasn’t as good as a dumb perp, but Erling would take it. At least a Porsche wasn’t your average, run-of-the- mill kind of car. Did the old guy see anyone?

He thinks the driver was male but can’t say for sure.

What about other neighbors?

Nothing so far. The houses are pretty far apart and private.

That was one of the things Sloane had liked about living in this part of Tucson. It wasn’t as affluent as some of the newer gated communities, but the houses were all set on large lots, many of them an acre or more, and the neighborhood landscaping had matured to the point where plantings provided a screen. They’d made love one night out in the yard under the black, star-speckled sky. Erling remembered the soft breeze that grazed their skin, the lilac scent of Sloane’s hair, and the rough texture of the nubby blanket beneath them.

The crime scene photographer reached into his equipment bag. I’m about done here unless there’s something in particular you want.

You get both stills and movies? Erling asked. His voice was gruff with the invasion of memories.

Right. And I checked with Crawford about shots of the vics.

When do you think you’ll be able to get us prints?

Later today good enough?

That the best you can do? Erling asked.

The photographer capped his camera. Afraid so.

I guess it’s good enough, then. He turned to Michelle. Anyone notified next of kin yet?

Boskin and Dutton are on their way to the brother’s. Maybe he can give us more on the girl.

Let’s hope so.

Independently, Michelle and Erling walked the crime scene, taking their own measurements, making their own sketches. Erling pulled out his palm-sized digital camera and shot the room from a dozen angles. The crime scene photographers did a terrific job, but he liked to have his own pictures, too, because they sometimes jogged his memory and filled in the details of his sketches.

What’s your take? Erling asked as they worked. First impression.

Michelle rocked back on her heels and frowned. She was wearing dark, form-fitting slacks and a cream-colored silk shirt that draped softly over the swell of her breasts—her standard uniform for the job, even when she was called out in the middle of the night.

He’d initially resisted being partnered with her because he’d considered her a lightweight, or worse. But Erling had come to see that despite the eye-catching body and head of soft, brown curls, she was as earnest and intense as anyone he’d worked with before. A little too intense sometimes.

I’d say there’s a good chance the killer was someone Winslow was familiar with, Michelle replied. Either that or she was comfortable enough with what she saw that she had no qualms about letting him in. There’s no sign of forced entry, and both victims were dressed in street clothes, so it’s not like they were rousted from bed in the middle of the night. The lights are on, and there’s an open bottle of brandy on the counter.

Had she been entertaining a new lover? Erling wondered. But the girl, Olivia, was in the house. He doubted Sloane would bring a man home under that circumstance.

Michelle gestured toward Sloane’s body. Looks like the killer went for her first, and while she was trying to fend him off, the younger woman surprised them. He got Mrs. Winslow in the head, probably standing close to her. The girl . . . my guess is that the autopsy will show she was hit from farther away.

Not bad for someone who’s only worked a couple of homicides, Erling said. Michelle had worked vice in Phoenix before moving to Tucson and signing on as a detective with the sheriff’s department.

She acknowledged the compliment with a slight twist of her head. Doesn’t mean it’s right.

No, it doesn’t, and it’s good to remember that.

You get locked into a mind-set too soon, she said, parroting one of Erling’s favorite adages, and you’ll miss the important stuff.

Guess I’ve hammered that one home.

You might say that. This time there was the faintest hint of a smile. Shall we check the rest of the house?

Erling took a deep breath to still the pounding in his chest. Sloane’s house. Sloane’s things. Rooms charged with bittersweet memories. He wasn’t sure he could manage it.

Finally he nodded. Now’s as good a time as any.

A canvass of the home was standard procedure for detectives in instances like this. The techs processed the actual crime scene, but careful inspection of a victim’s personal possessions revealed a lot about his or her life. Some of it interesting, most of it dull and irrelevant to the murder. Sometimes, though, they got lucky. A receipt, a phone number, a photo, some small tidbit that would eventually lead them to the killer.

But normally the detective and the victim were strangers.

Erling and Michelle spent the next forty minutes going through dressers, files, desk drawers, wastebaskets, and medicine cabinets. He was half afraid he’d find something that marked his own previous presence in the house, and equally fearful of discovering that Sloane had obliterated his memory. He almost smiled when he found the copper and bronze pendant he’d bought her for Christmas last year laid out on the velvet lining of her jewelry drawer.

Looks like she was a stylish woman, Michelle said at one point.

Erling shrugged. I wouldn’t know about that.

He paused at a familiar sight on Sloane’s bureau: a framed picture of Sloane and her brother, Reed, taken during a family barbecue. Her fair skin was virtually unlined, her blue-green eyes sparkling with humor. And often, Erling recalled, with mischief. He felt an ache in his gut, a longing somewhere deep inside him that was less about her death than his own loss.

It had been a brief affair, six months and fourteen days, to be exact. Over since early May. Him like a panting mongrel around a pedigreed bitch in heat. Her words, but they resonated as much as they stung. His behavior was nothing to be proud of. Erling had known that even then. Still, he’d wanted to hate her for ending it. There were times he’d come close. But he’d certainly never wished her dead.

By the time he and Michelle finished their canvass of the house, the sun was just rising over the hills near Sabino Canyon. Morning was Erling’s favorite time of day. Blue, cloudless sky, wide and open, the air soft, just beginning to build to the blinding heat of day.

Leaving the house, he saw that the media were already out in force. A cameraman from one of the local news channels shoved a camera in Erling’s face. His cohort held a microphone.

Detective Shafer, the reporter shouted, what can you tell us? We understand there’s been a homicide inside. Two victims. Was one of them Sloane Logan Winslow?

We’re not prepared to make a statement at this time, Erling barked.

He could only hope Boskin and his partner would be able to notify Sloane’s family before they learned about her death live on television. Erling figured the murders would be the lead story on the morning news.

Chapter 2

John O’Brien pulled his Porsche GT3 into the Logan Foods garage and parked in his reserved space, nosing the bumper up to the sign that read executive vice president. The left side of his jaw was still numb from his morning visit to the dentist. He checked in the rearview mirror for drool, then brushed an errant speck of amalgam from his cheek before pulling his briefcase and jacket from the passenger seat.

With a flicker of irritation, he noted that Reed Logan’s slot was empty. John had raced from the dentist’s to be in time for their one o’clock conference call with Goldman Sachs, and Reed wasn’t even back from lunch. Not surprising really, given Reed’s propensity for being late, but irksome all the same. At least A. J. Nash, their chief counsel, would be on hand for the call and probably better prepped than anyone else there.

Skirting the main entrance to the building, John took the private, side doorway that led directly to the executive offices, thus saving himself a pro forma smile and cheery good morning to the layers of receptionists and clerical staff stationed along the public approaches. As he neared his office, he saw his secretary, Alicia, of the long scarlet nails, huddled at her desk with Reed’s secretary, whose knockout body made the state of her nails irrelevant. The two women were clutching wads of tissue and dabbing at their eyes. The latest boyfriend fiasco, John decided. There was at least one a month.

Oh, Mr. O’Brien, Alicia wailed. I’m so glad you’re here.

Perhaps not a boyfriend problem, after all. A mishap at one of the stores maybe? That would explain Reed’s absence. John felt a knot of tension form in his chest. Things were dicey enough for him already with the board of directors.

I told you I’d be late, John offered, in case Reed or A.J. had been ranting about his absence.

You haven’t heard?

Heard what?

About Mrs. Winslow. It’s been on the news.

Sloane? What about her?

Alicia choked back a sob. She’s dead.

John’s mind reeled. It took a moment for the words to register.

Murdered, Alicia explained.

Reed’s secretary chimed in but John heard none of what she said. Heard nothing but the pounding of his own pulse in his ears. He gripped the edge of the desk to steady himself.

Sloane, dead. Jesus.

Suddenly, he realized that the women had stopped talking and were looking at him strangely. Are you okay, Mr. O’Brien? Alicia asked. Maybe you should sit down.

I’m fine. He swallowed. Just in shock, is all.

We all are.

How did it happen? he asked.

She was at home. They think it happened sometime Tuesday night. Mr. Logan had to identify her—Alicia’s eyes welled with tears—her remains. She was shot in the head.

Tuesday night?

Reed’s secretary nodded. Mr. Logan called from home to tell us. He won’t be coming in today.

No, of course not. John felt as though the floor at his feet had given way. Mumbling something about canceling the conference call, he bolted for his private office, where he tumbled into his chair, then stared blankly at the wall in front of him.

Sloane was dead.

She’d been so alive when he’d left her that night—hotheaded and impatient as usual. A veritable tornado of edicts and complaints. How could she be dead?

His mind flashed on an image of Sloane at fifteen. His freshman year at USC, John had gone home with Reed for Thanksgiving. Fraternity brothers, roommates, both so full of themselves their heads were the size of weather balloons.

And Sloane hadn’t been the least impressed. Strut and show, she’d told her brother. You’re a moron and so’s your friend.

She’d been a beauty in the making even then, despite the thick glasses, a mouthful of braces, and the perpetual scowl. John could see her, hip jutted to the side, arms crossed, railing against the evils of capitalism and narrow-minded people, which in Sloane’s adolescent mind encompassed ninety-nine percent of the country.

By eighteen she’d shed the glasses and the braces, and much of the attitude. And John had learned she never scowled in bed.

She’d more than scowled at him Tuesday, however. He cringed at the memory of their angry exchange. Their last exchange, he realized with horror.

Go rot in hell, Sloane.

She’d regarded him with her ocean-green eyes and lifted her chin ever so slightly. Easy for you to say now. But that doesn’t change what is. The real question is, just how much of a bastard are you?

John pressed his palms against his eyes and tried not to think about the bombshell that had precipitated their argument. She’d been wrong about him. He wasn’t going to run away this time.

He sat up straight and glanced at the time. Top of the hour. He flipped on the radio and waited through an excruciating five minutes of national news and weather before the newscaster got to the local headlines.

Police are confirming the murder of Sloane Logan Winslow and a second woman at the Winslow home in the Tucson foothills sometime Tuesday night. Mrs. Winslow was the vice-chairman of Logan Foods, a family-owned grocery chain with stores throughout the Southwest, and along with her brother, Reed Logan, held a controlling interest in the company. The identity of the second victim has not yet been released. The police have several leads but have named no suspects to date. With neighbors understandably nervous, police are cautioning vigilance, though they believe the attack may not have been random.

That was it. The newscaster moved on to other matters.

John was numb. He knew he should go to Reed and offer condolences, but first he needed to get a handle on his own emotions. Shock, disbelief, sorrow—they roiled and churned inside him.

And in the corner of his mind, something else. At first it was just a spark, come and gone before it really registered. Then, like a wildfire fueled by high winds, it consumed him.

His name was bound to come up.

He experienced a flutter of uneasiness in his stomach.

Should he call Kali? His hotshot younger sister was a lawyer in California now. They could hardly be called close, but she wouldn’t turn her back on him. Still, he hated for her to think he’d gotten in touch only because he needed help.

And he didn’t need help. Not yet.

Finally, he buzzed Alicia and told her he was going to see Reed.

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Reed’s wife, Linette, answered John’s knock on the door of their sprawling Mediterranean-style home.

Am I intruding? John asked. I just heard about Sloane.

No. I think it would do Reed good to see you. Linette Logan stepped back, inviting John into the cool interior. She was in her early thirties, a dozen years younger than her husband, with a delicate face and a sleek cap of coal-black hair. Despite what must have been a difficult morning, she looked as though she’d taken time with her appearance. Her cotton shirt and khaki capris were fresh and crisp, the navy belt, earrings, and sandals well coordinated. Her lipstick was fresh, pink and glossy.

How’s he holding up? John asked. He supposed he should offer Linette some sort of condolence, but truth was, he doubted she really cared that Sloane was dead. She’d never struck him as caring about anyone but herself.

She made a so-so gesture with her hands. I don’t think it’s really sunk in yet. Come on, she said, leading the way. He’s out back. Staining the gazebo.

Staining the gazebo?

Don’t ask. I think it’s his way of coping.

They stepped into the yard and John was taken, as he always was, by the sweeping vistas and the lushness of the landscaping. An English country garden transported to the Arizona desert.

Reed was on his knees furiously slopping stain on the floorboards with a wide paintbrush. His thinning blond hair was plastered against his forehead and the back of his shirt was wet with perspiration.

Honey, Linette said, John’s here. She paused uncertainly. I’ll leave you two alone. Holler if you need anything. Then she retreated to the house.

Reed rocked back on his heels, wiping his brow with his freckled forearm. His long face showed streaks of the pigmented stain that never made it onto the deck. It’s too damn hot to be working outside.

Yeah, it is. John cleared his throat. I just heard the news. I was at the dentist’s this morning. I still can’t believe it.

You and me both, Reed replied gruffly. It’s fucking incomprehensible. Despite his protests about the heat, Reed dipped his brush into the can and continued working.

John felt helpless. I don’t know what to say.

You’re here. That says a lot in itself. I mean that.

Do you know what happened?

All I know is some cop showed up here at the crack of dawn this morning. Told me Sloane had been murdered. Her and another woman, whom I suspect was Olivia Perez, the girl who cleaned for Sloane. I had to go down and identify Sloane’s body. Reed tossed the brush angrily against the corner post and stood up. His tall, angular frame seemed suddenly frail. It was awful, he said. Worse than you can imagine.

What John imagined was bad enough. He felt a tremor. Why did it happen? Do they have any idea? The radio made it sound like it wasn’t part of a burglary.

Reed shook his head and shrugged at the same time. They haven’t shared much with me. A Detective Shafer came by a little bit ago and asked more questions. Was she romantically involved with anyone? Who might have reason to want her dead? Did she do drugs? Was she into anything kinky? That kind of crap. Wouldn’t tell me a damn thing except to say he was sorry for my loss. Like that’s supposed to make me feel better.

I imagine at this point they don’t know a whole lot themselves.

Reed sighed, wiping his hands on his pants. No, I suppose not. Although there was apparently a neighbor who saw a car he didn’t recognize parked at the house that evening.

That’s something, I guess. John felt a disquieting flutter in his gut.

They asked about the business, too, Reed said hesitantly. He was silent a moment. I had to tell them Sloane wanted you gone. They were bound to hear about it sooner or later.

It’s hardly a secret that we had different visions for the company’s growth, John said. Sloane had been outspoken in her lobbying to get him removed, and he knew the cops would see motive written in neon letters. That only fueled the uneasiness churning inside him.

Still, I didn’t like having to tell them.

John nodded. We may have been like oil and water, but deep down I loved her like a sister.

Not always like a sister, Reed pointed out with what, under other circumstances, would have been a laugh. Come on, let’s move inside, where it’s cool.

They settled in the rear-facing family room, and Reed pulled two icy bottles of beer from the wet bar. Sometimes I wish things had worked out between you two, he said. You’d have made a hell of a better brother-in-law than the smartass she married.

We were young, John offered lamely. Although it was more complicated than that, of course. More complicated than either of them had understood at the time.

Ha. You were stupid. Screwing her best friend behind her back. Geez, I still can’t believe you did that.

John held up his hands in mock surrender. I was a cad. I admit it. Sloane deserved better. And she sure as hell didn’t deserve to be murdered.

Remember how she used to go off on tangents? Reed chuckled. There was that vegan period, and then the phase where she wouldn’t buy anything that wasn’t used, recycled, or day old.

Don’t forget her crusade to save some damn endangered mouse. John started to laugh, then caught himself. God, I can’t believe it.

Reed nodded glumly, staring at his beer. She could be a pain in the butt sometimes. Especially after she moved back to Tucson and decided to get involved in the company. But she was still family. Siblings are funny like that. You can argue till you’re blue in the face, but there’s always a bond.

Maybe in your case. John and his sisters didn’t fight. They hardly even talked. Well, he and Sabrina talked or, rather, she talked and he listened, getting a word in edgewise when he could. But he and Kali might as well live on different planets. Kali was a lot like Sloane, now that he thought about it. Both of them controlling and critical. Smart and attractive women, good women really, as long as your paths didn’t cross too often. Or maybe the fault was within him. They’d both pointed that out often enough.

It didn’t used to bother him, but as he’d gotten older he’d come to regret not having closer family ties. He just didn’t know how to bridge the distance, or if, at this point, it was even possible.

With you, too, Reed insisted. If you needed them, they’d be there.

John hoped Reed was right. He might just be approaching an honest-to-God test of the theory.

Sloane told me the two of you were going to have dinner Tuesday night, Reed said.

So the cops would know about that, too. It wasn’t a big deal, John said. We went out after work. I was home by ten. After he’d stormed out of the restaurant in anger. John felt that flutter in his belly again. There was sure to be someone who’d witnessed their argument.

Funny, you guys having dinner. Reed started to grin; then his face crumpled. Ah, shit, John. All the times I wished she’d just go away, and now she has. Forever.

Reed leaned forward, forearms on his knees. His shoulders trembled. I appreciate your coming by but I need to be alone right now.

Sure. John was never comfortable with physical displays but he felt like something was called for, so he gripped Reed’s upper arm briefly. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.

In the car, John closed his eyes and sighed. Then he pulled out his cell phone and called his sister Kali. It had been much too long since he’d talked to her. Besides, he knew it was only a matter of time before he’d need her help.

Chapter 3

Kali O’Brien awoke to sunlight so bright and intense it was blinding, even with her eyes shut. She rolled onto her side, used the top of her sleeping bag as a shield, and gingerly opened one eye. Then she smiled at the beauty of the morning. The sun was just rising over the mountain peaks, illuminating the dew on the meadow and transforming the muted grays of dawn into full color. The crisp morning air was fresh and scented with pine. All around her, the birds welcomed the day with song.

She leaned over and shook Bryce’s shoulder.

Huh? What? He opened his eyes, then quickly squeezed them shut. Geez, turn off the light.

It’s the sun, silly. It’s morning.

Bryce grunted and