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SEPTEMBER FROZE, TERRIFIED. Once the front door latched behind Lizzie, she scrambled to her feet, stumbled to the door and threw the deadbolt. The back door was still unlocked. Didn’t matter, though, too late for do-overs.
Bits of bone, blood and brain created a Pollock pattern on the wall behind Wilma’s shattered head. September gagged. Chris had died from a head shot, too.
If she had just played along, Wilma would still be alive.
Her tears wouldn’t stop. She hazarded a peek through the frosted glass. April waved cheerily from the black Hummer’s passenger window. The sound of the gunshot must have been muffled by the house, distance and being cocooned inside the car.
Lizzie climbed into the driver’s seat, scowled at September and cocked a finger-mime gun at April—implication clear. She’d kill April unless September followed directions. The car left with a flash of taillights. Snow packed over the rear by accident or design obscured the license plate.
The cell phone clutched in September’s hand rang, and she nearly dropped it. Mom. Again. She cancelled the call, and stared at the phone for a long hungry moment yearning for the police.
Wilma’s body slumped next to the ruined sofa. September looked away. She buried the phone deep in her pocket. If she called the cops, April would die.
She looked at her watch, considering the impossible 24-hour deadline. Not nearly enough time to find a needle in a snowstorm—two needles, counting Steven.
Wilma’s dead, open eyes stared, and a bloody tear rolled down one cheek as if in sympathy.
No choice, she had to do something.
Start at the beginning. That was Dr. Pottinger. The flash drive belonged to him; he’d been here to show April. Lizzie searched the house and didn’t find it, maybe because April took it with her to work. September dropped her head in her hands. Think. She had to think.
April trusted Lizzie. She hadn’t seen the gun or Wilma’s murder, and hadn’t a clue her life was in danger. The deadline had something to do with Steven’s medication. But that made no sense either.
Ice peppered the window. She felt a draft. The back door, she had to make sure it was locked. She couldn’t think clearly, not if someone could sneak up on her, they’d never caught her stalker. Wait, no—that was in Chicago before she’d moved to South Bend. Now she’d moved to Texas to get away from him and the memory of Chris’s murder.
Lizzie could come back. April paid no attention to locks. Without Dakota or Chris around for protection, September had to be extra careful. But Wilma was already dead. Locking doors now wouldn’t protect April. Locks wouldn’t save Steven from the blizzard.
September flinched, and checked the time again. Wilma had said her son would pick her up at 2:30. She wouldn’t have to call for help, but she didn’t want to be here and face him finding his mother. Once the cops came they’d ask questions for hours. And Steven would freeze. She had no choice. And she had to make the minutes count because once she left, she couldn’t get back into the house.
She skirted the bloodstains and hurried down the hall to Steven’s room. The yellow tulip quilt made by September’s mom jumbled at the foot of the twin bed. Buttercup sheets stripped from the mattress tangled in a mess on the floor. Dresser drawers had been dumped across the carpet. The shelf over his bed hadn’t been touched. Steven’s collection of small polished stones sat with military precision in a double row.
A mobile with gold foil dragonflies floated above the bed. Three bright yellow toy trucks rested on their sides to make the wheels easier to spin. His cache of treasures, contained in a yellow plastic soap dish on the bedside table, included a shiny gold wristwatch with a broken plastic strap, several copper-bright pennies, and three yellow M&Ms. No flash drive.
She’d have to check with Doug Childress. Maybe Steven was safe and sound with his father. If not, she’d get help to find Steven in the snow. Screw Lizzie’s threats.
No dust bunnies nested under the bed. April inherited their mother’s clean gene, while September got their dad’s haphazard style. She reached under the bed and pulled out a small, dark stuffed bear, a surprise since Steven didn’t like soft toys. The ears had been chewed off. Huh. So Shadow spends time in the bedroom with Steven—good deal, she thought. She’d worried Steven kept the dog at arm’s length. A bond better predicted the pup would protect the boy.
The bear’s lopsided head showed evidence of sucking. After all, the pup wasn’t much more than a baby himself. Shadow’s breeder said all the littermates used toys as pacifiers.
September tucked the teddy beneath one arm, and rushed to the bathroom’s dirty laundry hamper to pull out a pair of Steven’s socks and stuff them into her pocket. She hurried back to the kitchen, located a fresh plastic bag in the mess on the floor, and filled it with the soft dog treats. Next to Shadow’s “Service Dog In Training” vest and leash hung April’s keys. September grabbed them all.
Her foot hit a hard object that spun off her boot and hit the wall. The pill bottle came to rest beneath the table. Steven’s medication. He needed his evening dose, and according to Lizzie, he needed it within that 24-hour deadline. “Please, I’m due some better luck.” The whispered plea was the closest she ever came to a prayer anymore. If Steven was still out in the cold, it might be too late for him anyway, but she had to try. Steven had to be her priority. “Forgive me, April.” Her sister would agree. “Once he’s safe, it’s your turn. I promise.”
She hurried to the front door. If the bad luck fairies spread it around, Wilma’s son would be delayed by the weather long enough for her to get a head start. She dashed out the front door and left it unlocked. Security no longer mattered. She plowed through the snow to reach her car.
It started on the first try. “God bless Volvo.” September shoved it into drive, resisting the urge to speed away. The roads doubled as ice rinks. She lifted her foot off the gas and coasted toward the four-way stop at the corner, and let the car’s momentum carry her into the turn. She caught her breath at the view in the car’s mirror when a police cruiser slowed to a stop outside April’s house.
Adrenalin jerked September’s hands on the wheel. Her foot stomped the accelerator before she managed to regain some semblance of control. Years of Indiana winter travel prompted the instinctive twist of the wheel into the skid, and she managed to keep the Volvo on the pavement. She white-knuckled the wheel and the car slid to a stop.
“Chris, what do I do?” God, she missed him. Mom would say go back, talk to the police. She wanted to. She had seconds to decide. But it would take time to explain the bizarre story, and Steven had little time to spare. She caught a flash of her reflection and grimaced. The police would never believe her. She wouldn’t even believe her.
Decision made, September babied the gas and the tires spun, the rear end crabbed sideways a foot and finally caught. She cranked the heater as high as it would go and flexed her hands to warm them. At a steady 25 miles per hour, she rolled through deserted streets without a problem. Sane folks stayed home and off the roads today. That spoke to her own state of mind.
Once she reached a main thoroughfare into town, her speed crept up to 45. September watched for potential pursuit. She needed to check April’s office before the police beat her to the punch. After that she would see Doug Childress.
No stone unturned, Chris used to say. She just didn’t want anyone she loved to get buried when she started to dig. Not again, not ever again. Not like what happened with Chris. He’d wanted to protect her, and instead she had gotten him killed.
