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Officer Holder rises from his desk, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Hi, Mrs. Summers. Can I help you?" The audacity. "I'm just meeting Gray here. He had something he needed to talk to me about." I try to act nonchalant, but if he could read my emotions, he'd sense the nerves and anxiety. His demeanor shifts, a hint of annoyance and even anxiety creeps in. "I see. Well, go ahead and wait in his office." I nod, swiftly walking to the office without daring to look behind me. True to his word, Gray appears about 15 minutes later. He strides into the office, shutting the door behind him. He sits down, leaning back in his chair. "Okay, Trice, this theory of yours is razor-thin, but I'm going to hear you out because you've been right about most everything." I want to acknowledge his correctness but don't want to rub it in. "Think about it, Gray. When did Holder show up here?" I say, trying not to talk too loudly. "And, he's had access to our home this whole time. I know it wasn't Officer Lopez who planted a camera in my vase." "Yeah, I know. Holder did get transferred here, about a month after Troy was found. It could be why he volunteered to patrol your home while you were gone, to gain access, plant the camera. He knew when you were here and gone. The only problem is proving it." I fold my arms, anger evident in my voice. "He stood there and greeted me with a smile out there," I say, turning to the window. "We, you, trusted him with your city and everything that has happened on my street." A newfound rage takes over, and I have to ask, "Gray, did he kill Goldie?" Gray closes his eyes, contemplating this very real possibility. "I don't want to admit it, but it makes sense. He had access to a gun, and who knows, he could have bugged her home as well, knew she was leaving and then followed her to Home Depot. He also could have known about the text messages you were sent. Maybe he even knew you met her at the park. She was collateral damage." I feel my fist balling up. "That –" and before I'm able to finish my words, we hear a knock. Gray puts his finger to his lips to hush me. "What is it?" "Chief, sorry to bother you, but I need to speak to you. We just got a call from the prison." Officer Holder's gruff voice comes through the door, and I want to open the door and punch him. Gray backs up his chair. "Stay here. I'll be back." I do as instructed. My knees are shaking, and anxiety rises to my throat. I suddenly feel nauseous. I take some deep breaths and chant, "Inhale, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, hold 1, 2, 3, 4, exhale, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7." After doing this for a minute, I start to calm down. I get up, walk to the window, and stare out. I need some air. After opening the window, getting some fresh air, and closing it again, I hear the doorknob rattle, and I hurry back to my seat. Gray comes in and closes the door. He doesn't return to his seat, just stands at the door. "Well, an inmate murdered Jeff a while ago. They were out in the yard, and someone came up to him and stabbed him in the back. It was quick. No one came to his aid until it was too late." "What?" I jump out of my seat. "And why?" But I already knew. Melanie is picking them off one by one, and we're next. "This isn't just a coincidence…" "Now don't assume something you have no proof of, Trice," he interjects. He knows me all too well. "Come on, Gray. You know it's true. First Troy, then Goldie, Dimitri, and now Jeff. You need to remove the drugs from our property. They won't stop until they get what they want, and I'm tired of being a target." The tears bubble up, and Gray comes over and hugs me. "I'm sorry, Trice, you're right. Tomorrow, first thing, we'll get the drug unit to seize the drugs. We have a secure location to store them while everything gets sorted out. We'll issue a press release, diverting attention away from you. And I'm going to question Holder. Go back home and stay there. I'll text you in the morning. Oh, and there may be more cameras around the house, so be careful. Don't discuss the case or anything related to Jeff's murder. When we come tomorrow, we'll scrutinize the house for any more cameras." I ease out of his embrace. "Yeah, okay. But we can't keep doing this, Gray. I haven't seen my kids or grandkids in almost a year. My best friend's home was vandalized, and we've narrowly escaped death a few times, along with you and Officer Lopez. Please, solve this so we can all return to our normal lives." Desperation colors my voice, but it's been too long. I promised Goldie I would find her killer. I vow to keep my promise, with or without Gray's help. Returning home, I share the events with Brock. He sits on the couch, hands to his face. "I can't believe someone killed Jeff. This whole thing is so damn messed up, Trice." "I know." "The more I think about it, the more I believe Jeff wasn't going to hurt us. When we escaped, he was trying to find us, not kill us. It was his wife – Melanie – who wanted us dead. It still doesn't excuse what Jeff did to Troy, but he didn't deserve to be murdered." He falls silent, tears welling in his eyes. I realize how deeply this is affecting him, and I draw closer, wrapping my arms around him. "I'm sorry, Babe. I know this whole nightmare is taking its toll." He looks pensive, a shadow of sadness passing over him. "The world is so messed up. How did we get caught up in it?" I hang my head down in shame. "It's my fault. If I hadn't answered Goldie's texts—" "No, this is NOT your fault. If you hadn't answered back, we wouldn't have known who killed Troy or what he was caught up in that ultimately led to his death. Goldie would have been killed with or without you. But now, you can avenge her death. I just meant, you know, you never think it's going to happen to you, to your family. A year ago, we were completely oblivious to any of this. It just seems this rollercoaster will never end." "It will, but it may mean we have to end it." I hang my head. Brock lifts my head back up. "Look at me." I meet his eyes. "I will not let anything happen to you. I will go down if it means I can save you." "No, Brock! This isn't a you or I deal. We are going to make it together." We come together and kiss like it's our last day on earth and then go upstairs hand-in-hand. In the morning, I groggily open my eyes to the sun filtering in through the blinds. The days are getting longer, and usually, by this time, I'm planning out my gardens for the season, but I can't even focus on that right now. I glance over at Brock snoring softly and get up, shuffling to the bathroom, rubbing my eyes. Herc follows me, wagging his tail. I look in the mirror littered with water droplets and push down under my eyes. I look like the dead. I take out my undereye cream, dab some on, and then brush my hair, smoothing it with a little oil for some needed shine. After getting dressed and feeling more awake, I quietly leave the room with Herc by my side and head downstairs to make some coffee. The sun streams through the windows, and I look out back, scanning from right to left, always aware these days. Relieved I don't see anything, I pour myself a cup and grab a bagel with cream cheese. Walking into the living room, I turn on the TV. Gray said he would be here around 8:00, so I have nearly 80 minutes more to wait. I flip through the channels and settle on a geographical program about ancient Egypt. About an hour later, Brock comes downstairs, yawning but dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. "Hey." "Hey," I say, patting the couch and motioning him to sit down. "Gray should be coming soon. I want these drugs out of our shed now." "Same. And before you say anything, I’m going to ask some of my legal team to dig up some dirt on Petra and Greg. The more we find, the better, you know?" “Brock, no, you could get in real trouble.” “I'll just tell them it’s for a case I’m helping out with. Don’t stress about it. If the cops can’t sort this mess, we will, just like you said.” I did say that. It’s time to put an end to this crazy ride. Almost twenty minutes later, Gray texts saying he’s here. Brock and I spot him, Officer Lopez, and the drug unit hanging out in our driveway, each person clad in white hazmat suits. “Hey, Trice, Brock. We’re going to do this quick and low-key. That's why the drug unit truck is sneakily backed up in your driveway. Let’s grab these canisters out of your shed.” We all head to the backyard fence. Brock opens it, and we stroll into the yard. We slapped a lock on the shed, and it's still holding firm when Brock opens it. In one smooth move, they snatch the blue canisters, toss them in the back of the truck, and slowly drive away, leaving just us, Gray, and Officer Lopez. It took all of 5 minutes or less. “With these substances gone, you should be safer. We’ll set up a press conference saying you found them and we're doing some tests to determine what they are. Who knows? Maybe Troy slipped up, and we can pull some DNA from the cans,” Gray says, nonchalantly shrugging. “It’s a bit of a long shot,” Brock comments, arms folded. “Probably, but you never know,” Gray says. He snaps his fingers, making me jump. “Oh, and we've got some news about Greg and Petra, the other two in Troy’s mess. The gun used to kill Goldie, well, DNA came back saying it's registered to Greg. We’ve got enough to nab him, so I told the squad to quietly get a warrant for his arrest. And Petra's address? She's in Salt Lake City, moved there like nine months ago.” “Right after Troy got dumped,” I say. “Yeah. We can quietly bring them both in, Trice. Once we get solid proof, we can put them away for good,” Gray turns, checking out the surroundings. “What about Holder?” I ask, noting that his name is still the big unknown. “I’ll have a chat with him, but there’s no real evidence he killed Demitri.” I know Gray's got a point, but who else has had easy access to our place? I’m not convinced Holder's in the clear just 'cause he’s a cop. “Well, we’re gonna take off. We'll keep an eye out for a bit, you know, patrol the area, but now that the stuff’s gone, you shouldn’t be a target anymore.” “I won't totally buy that until every person tied to Troy, Goldie, and anyone else’s death is dealt with,” I say, determined. “They will be. We’re putting most of our energy into these cases, Trice. Just hang tight a bit longer.” We say bye to Gray and Officer Lopez and head back inside when my phone buzzes. It’s Leah. “Trice, what the heck is going on at your place? And don’t give me any bull.” “Got time to chat?” “Give me fifteen minutes.” True to her word, Leah swings by, and I invite her in. “Okay, spill it,” she demands, hands on her hips. What do I tell her? If I spill everything, I could drag her into this mess, but if I don’t, and she hears it from someone else, she’ll never let it go. “You better sit down.”

The next couple of days drags on as we wait for information about the gun. All is quiet at the house, but that’s to be expected since the police are back watching it. Brock and I are trying to get back some semblance of a normal life, but every noise startles me. This can’t continue or I’m going to have a nervous breakdown. It’s Saturday, the last day of March, and I’m at the grocery store. I’m also headed to the garden nursery to pick up some spring plants. It’s finally Spring, and I need some color in my life. After paying for the groceries, I head out to a sunny and warmish day. It feels about 60, but I’ll take it. After loading the groceries and loving that I got the shopping done in the morning so few people are around, I hear the familiar buzzing of my phone, and my heart leaps. I fumble in my pocket and pick it up. It's Gray. “Do you have some news?” I say, not mincing my words. “Yes, and this is going to shock you. Also, the shooter did wear gloves when he shot Dimitri, but we were able to match the residue from the bullet to the gun and then put that in our gun registration database.” I wait with bated breath. “And …” “The gun belongs to your neighbor three houses to the west of you, Jack Montgomery.” I mentally calculate it and then gasp. “Him?” I’m very shocked, but then I recall when Troy was found, and he had that smirk on his face and the way he looked at me … “Trice, you there?” I snap back to the present, unaware Gray has been talking. “Sorry, yes. I was just thinking back to the day Troy was found. Jack wasn’t upset. In fact, he looked satisfied. I just chalked it up to the fact that he didn’t like him and left it at that, but this doesn’t make a lot of sense, unless … “ And then, as if the world stopped, the pieces start falling into place. “He knew about the drugs.” “Now, we don’t know that. He could have been walking by and saw the shooter on your property or was out on his deck and saw movement in your backyard. Don’t jump to conclusions just yet.” “I highly doubt Jack walks anywhere. He’s a truck driver and has been gone three-fourths of the year. When he’s not gone, he’s probably sleeping. Put it this way. I have never seen Jack on a walk in the entire time I’ve lived here, and we both have been here for thirty years.” “Yeah, well, we still don’t want to assume anything until we’ve had a chance to interview him after we take him in. The problem is he’s on a delivery for the next week and won’t be back until then.” “So, we have to wait. I guess at least we know who shot Dimitri and that for the time being, we’re safe, right?” I chew on a nail and force myself to stop the nasty habit I’ve had for decades. “Not necessarily. Your theory that he knew about the drugs could be right, but we have no solid evidence. Again, he could have seen something, and since this street is now infamous for crime, he took it upon himself to get rid of a problem. You do know he was in the military, right? He was in the National Guard.” I didn’t know that, but I’m not entirely surprised. “Yes, so he knows how to handle himself and shoot a gun. Now, if we go with your theory – and it’s just a theory,” he says, emphasizing the word, “Then Jack had to have known that someone was after them –“ “Melanie,” I say, cutting him off. “But how does she know Jack?” “It could be that Jack found out about the affair, either from Troy himself or by accident and was blackmailing Troy when he learned about the drugs. Hell, maybe the two were in on it together and had some sort of deal. Maybe Jack was … “ he stops mid-sentence, and I sense he’s had an epiphany. “Was what, Gray?” “Well, and this sounds insane, but could Jack and Troy have been running a drug operation? It would be easy enough since Jack is a truck driver. They could have hidden the drugs in empty boxes in a large semi. Maybe at some point, it was starting to become too risky or something and so they had to find someplace to hide the drugs in case we came snooping. Or, maybe in one of the states he was delivering, he started getting suspicious about something, and they had to stop. The government has been cracking down hard on fentanyl.” I had to admit it was a strong possibility. But how did Melanie know about all of this unless Troy told her. When Grant killed him, suddenly, the drugs were fair game. I tell Gray about my theory. “If Melanie knows and sent someone, Dimitri, to get the drugs and Jack somehow found out, he was ready to take care of the problem,” I say signaling air quotes. "That makes sense. But I’m still hung up on how Jack knows Melanie sent someone when she did and he just happened to be there to catch him. That part isn’t adding up.” He’s right. We have to find out what Jack knows, but that won’t be for another week. In the meantime, if Melanie finds out Dimitri isn’t coming back with the drugs, will she send someone else? The thought sends shivers through me. Gray promises to call me as soon as they can arrest Jack, and I head to the nursery with too many questions filling my mind. *** I return home after picking out some Spring plants to fill my pots. When we get more freezes, which can happen until Mother’s Day or beyond, it’s easy to move them indoors. But just having some color to adorn our porch and deck gives me hope for a Spring rebirth and an end to one of the hardest and most dangerous years of my life. I grab the groceries from the car and head inside. Brock is in the kitchen making pancakes, and the smell of bacon wafts through the air. I realize I never ate before leaving, just grabbed coffee, and the food looks good. “Hungry?” Brock says, flipping a pancake. He’s wearing his light blue apron one of the grandkids got him for his birthday one year. The words “World’s Greatest Barbeque King” splashed across the front, with a crown on top, matches his baby blue eyes. I grin. “Yes! As soon as I bring in the rest of the groceries and plants, I have some news from Gray, and you’re never going to believe it.” “Really?” Here, let me help you.” He tosses the remaining pancakes onto a plate with the bacon on another one and covers them with a plastic plate. Once everything has been brought in and we’re sitting down to eat, Brock says, “Okay, spill it.” I tell him everything, and he stares at me as if I’m telling him a mesmerizing story. “You’re right, I can’t believe it. I mean, I knew or thought I knew that Jack hated Troy. But maybe that was all a façade. If Jack hadn’t shot Dimitri, he may have never been found out. For someone in the military, he should have known they would match his gun with the bullet found and trace it back to him.” “Yes, but he could use the defense tactic too. He was walking by, saw or heard some commotion and went to investigate. He saw Dimitri in our backyard and there was a struggle and he shot him. Clear self-defense.” Brock nods. “Yes, and I would have argued just that as a defense lawyer. However, if your theory rings true and he murdered Dimitri so he could get the drugs himself, then the self-defense plea won’t work. Gray has to question Melanie. She obviously knows about the drugs.” “Well, maybe, but maybe not. Here’s another theory. What if Dimitri was hired by Jack to get the drugs and he wanted some of the cut, which makes sense, or he would go to the police. So, Jack agrees; however, when Dimitri finds the drugs, he changes his mind or he demands more. Jack goes to confront him and they fight. The gun goes off and Jack kills him. Not wanting to be caught, of course, Jack takes off and leaves Dimitri there.” “Could be. The one thing I’m still hung up on, though, is how this all happened under the cop’s nose. Weren’t they watching the house? How could not one but two people jump our fence with no one seeing or hearing anything?” “Yeah … it just seems odd, right?” I cock my head and look pensive, trying to piece everything together. “I mean, unless a cop is in on it, which seems silly.” “I wouldn’t completely dismiss it, though. There are dirty cops.” “Yeah, but in Grantsville?” “Still, who was on patrol that night?” “Well, Officer Lopez and Holder. She left with Herc and then came back because she forgot his food. By then, the murder already happened.” “So, what if she was in on it with Holder?” “Lopez? No, she wouldn’t do this. I trust her. But, Holder could have. He’s new to the force. Maybe he found out or knew Troy or Jack and he was able to get access since he was watching the house.” Brock snaps his fingers; his eyes grow wide. “Oh my God, Trice. He was patrolling the house when we were gone to New York. Officer Lopez took a few shifts, but while she had Herc, he was here the whole time. Maybe he found out, and Jack told him he would get a cut if he kept quiet. Holder is young, might have debts, who knows? Melanie knew we would be gone and contacted Jack.” "Wait, so you’re saying they all were in on it? I find that hard to believe, Brock. I still don’t get how Melanie knew, unless Troy told her and when he died, well, we hashed that out already. So, Melanie, Jack, Dimitri, and Holder knew about the drugs. Do you think Jeff knew as well?” Brock looks to be pondering my question. “I don’t think he did. I don’t think he poisoned us. Melanie knew we were leaving to go back home, and she couldn’t have that since she still didn’t get the drugs, so she laces our coffee with arsenic, even though I don’t know how she acquired the same poison Grant used to kill Troy. “But, when we escaped and came back home and found the drugs ourselves, Holder was there. Remember, he came when Gray came. He contacted Melanie and Jack. She hires Dimitri to get the drugs, but when the deal goes south, Jack kills him.” An alarming thought enters my mind. “Holder knows Jack killed him and warned Jack to stay away. What if Holder gets the drugs himself? He’s patrolling the house tonight. How easy would it be for him to grab a buddy or give a kid a hundred bucks to help him get the canisters and toss them into the back of the truck? No one would be wiser because he’s a cop.” Brock rubs his forehead and then buries his head into the table. I hate that we have to deal with several murders now, and we still have no idea who murdered Goldie. He abruptly flips his head up. “This means Holder has known about this since day one. How convenient that he happened to be transferred to Grantsville shortly after Troy’s body was found.” As we are talking, I start to feel the hairs on the back of my neck flicker, and a cold feeling washes over me as I notice, out of the corner of my eye, a tiny camera hidden in my vase of artificial flowers. I try not to react. I must get Brock out of the house. “Hey, enough talking about this, or it will drive us both crazy. Come help me get these plants outside,” I say to a very confused Brock. ‘Wait, now?” “Yeah, I need to clear my head and need some help.” I turn the vase around and pretend to be fiddling with the flowers. When the camera is no longer in sight, I grab Brock’s arm and point to the vase and mouth CAMERA. Brock places his palm over his mouth as he looks at the vase and then back at me. “You’re right. We both need some sun and clear air.” We get up and head to the car but don’t say anything until we’re out back. I pull him away from those cameras as well. Who knows if Holder has hacked into our home security system. “I noticed a tiny camera in the vase,” I whisper. “Damn it, we’ve been recorded this whole time.” “That son of a bitch. Trice, we have to call Gray, ” he whispers back. “Hold on. If he did hack into our system and he’s watching us, he will know we’re contacting him. Let’s get the plants in the pots, boring stuff, and then I will mention that I need a few more plants and leave. Instead, I will head for the police station while you go back inside and put away the breakfast stuff and the rest of the groceries.” “Okay, that would work. But be careful and watch for anyone behind you.” “I will. This ain’t my first rodeo, so to speak,” I say and chuckle a little. At these times, you either laugh or cry and I’ve done enough crying to last a lifetime. We finish potting the plants, and I take a few pics and video as I always do for YouTube and Instagram. 30 minutes later, I back out of the driveway and head for the police station. Every minute or so, I glance out my rearview and side mirrors and see that no one is tailing me. I pull into the police station. I had texted Gray before I left, out of earshot of the backyard cameras. He wasn’t at the station but said he would meet me in 15 minutes, which gave me enough time to record my YouTube segment. I park and look around to see if I’ve been followed or if anything suspicious stands out. Finding nothing, I hurry into the police station. What greets me makes my blood boil.

The next morning, Brock and I barely speak. We quickly get breakfast, pack up, and head back to Grantsville for another nightmare that won't end. I don't even care how I look since I didn't sleep much. I'm sure my eyes are bloodshot with purplish bags under them. I hear Brock get up a few times, once he goes into the bathroom and the other time, he leaves our room and doesn't return for a while. I never ask him where he goes. It's close to 9:00 when we get into the city. I don't want to go home and see crime tape strewn across my lawn, but I know that's the scene we will encounter. When we enter our street, I notice a crowd gathering – of course, I know where. Soon, the press will be here, if they aren't already, and questions will begin. "Do you know about the body?"  "It seems odd the police notice it after you leave."  "Where have you been?"  "Another murder on this street?  "Are you involved?" I want to crawl into a hole and not come out until this whole horrible string of events and murders is behind us. However, now, we have a dead body in our backyard, drugs that we found in our shed, no idea who killed Goldie, and who is now targeting us – again. I take a deep breath as we slow up on the crowd, and they start to part, seeing our car. Is it too late to slink down into my seat so no one can see me? I look straight ahead, my heart racing, palms sweaty, and the feeling of dissociation comes on strong. I try taking some deep breaths. I have to face this, and panicking won't help. Brock pulls into the driveway, and I see a few police cars on the curb. I had texted Gray that we would be home around 9:00, and he said he'd meet us there, and he's right. Brock stops the car in the driveway, and at first, I wonder why he doesn't pull into the garage, but then figure police would need easy access to the backyard. "Hi guys," Gray says as we exit the vehicle. He looks somber. "Hey Gray," I say. The morning sun is beating down, and if I'm not just coming home to a crime scene, I would relish the late March day. "Let's go inside. Officer Lopez is in there with Hercules." I nod and follow him in, feeling eyes on us from all angles as the crowd comes back again. "Please, give the Summers some privacy," Gray barks at them. When I step inside, Herc is right there, tail wagging and running circles around me. I bend down and scratch behind his ears. "Hey, buddy," I say, thankful he was with Officer Lopez and not at the house yesterday. He would have for sure heard the commotion and went out and maybe even tried attacking the intruders. Who knows what could have happened to him. I wrap my arms around his neck. "I'm glad you're safe." "Do you want to see where it happened?" Gray says. "The body has been removed," he adds. "I want to see," Brock says. We follow Gray out back, and since it's still too early to mow and it hasn't rained, I can clearly see a bloodstain in the grass. "As I said on the phone last night. Officer Lopez found the male – Dimitri – with a bullet to the chest. It pierced his heart because he bled out on the grass." I feel ill. "He's from New York, Queens. His license shows him with dark brown hair, brown eyes, and a scar running down his left cheek. He's 31 years old. And you've never heard of the name?" "No," I say, as he pulls out what looks to be the man's wallet. He pulls out a New York license. He hands it to me, and I stare at his photo having no idea who it is. I hand it to Brock, and he shakes his head. "I've never seen him before." "Yeah, figures. We have no idea what happened here, and since he's dead, we can't question him. The only one we can question, besides you and Brock, is Jeff. Being from New York himself and this Dimitri also from New York, it can't be a coincidence." "Well, that very well could be. If she knows about the drugs, where they're stored, and Dimitri was staking the house, he would have known when you left, as well as Officer Lopez. He had the perfect opportunity to get the drugs. Of course, he wouldn't have known that we too were waiting for someone to show up. The question is who found him and subsequently shot him?" A shiver runs through me. If Dimitri was after the drugs, who was after Dimitri? Better yet, did they know about the drugs too? Was this a neighbor who heard something and came over to investigate, saw him, and there was a struggle and he was shot? Did they flee because they had just shot and killed someone? Questions swirl in my head, and I try to focus on what Gray is saying. "So, you question Jeff and if he doesn't know who this person is, then what?" Brock folds his arms and stares down at the bloodied grass. Officer Lopez kept Herc inside, or he would have been sniffing and digging around. "Well, we can question Melanie. If she is the one who poisoned you, we have means, motive, and opportunity, but it will be tough getting proof." Gray is right. This seems like a crapshoot. The one person who could spill the beans is dead. "You guys didn't notice anyone suspicious slowly driving by or stopped next door or across the street before you left?" I shake my head. "No one. Of course, I wasn't paying that much attention since I figured no one would come until last night when we were gone." "Whoever shot Dimitri has to be connected with the drugs somehow," Brock says. "What I don't understand is why come in the afternoon and not nighttime when it was dark?" I say. "Lopez said she wasn't gone that long before she forgot to grab Hercule's food, maybe 30 minutes. It was long enough, apparently, but I still can't understand how he got into the backyard without anyone noticing," Gray pivots to the 6-foot-tall vinyl fence. "Not only that, but how did Melanie know where we live?" I say and then realize she could have found us online. "She probably Googled us," Brock answers for me. "Yeah, I realize that now. You can find anyone online," I mutter. "Gray, you said you questioned the neighbors, what did they say?" I completely forgot to ask him about that. "I talked to the neighbor to the east, but she wasn't home, and I couldn't reach the neighbors who now live where Troy and Samantha used to, and the home across the street, Mrs. Baxter, wasn't helpful either as she's an old widow who is legally blind." I knew Mrs. Baxter was mainly a recluse but had no idea she couldn't see. It shows how much I converse with my neighbors. I shuffle uncomfortably, wanting to leave the backyard, suddenly feeling uneasy, as if someone was watching us. "Can we go back inside? It's getting windy, and I need to sit down." I start to head for the sliding glass doors before anyone can object. Back inside, it feels warmer, and I can concentrate on who this person who shot Dimitri is and who Dimitri is connected to. We all sit down in the living room sectional. Gray looks lost in thought and then he pipes up. "Trice, didn't you say Melanie works in New York City?" "Yeah." "Do you know where?" "Um, it was some big ad agency. Let me think." Did Jeff or Melanie mention where she worked? I can't remember and tell this to Gray. "We can always check her social media; she might have it listed on Facebook or Instagram," Brock says, getting out his phone. "True," Gray says. "Okay, see if you can find that out. Trice, can you look up ad agencies in New York? I know it's a long shot since there are probably more than we can fathom, but it's worth a shot." I grab my laptop from the study and flip it open and start searching. Google comes back with a ton in the city. It could be anywhere, but I screenshot the top ten. "There are a ton of ad agencies, so I screenshot the biggest ones since I remember Jeff telling us it was a huge one in the city," I say. "I'll do some research." I start clicking on each one and go through the company bios to see if Melanie shows up in any of them, and then when that doesn't produce results, I enter her name in Google and up comes several Melanie Pattersons. I narrow the search to her name and city, and I see her photo and her title at Top Quality Advertising, not a very unique name. I click on the link which takes me to the website and her photo and bio that mentions she's the Account Executive. The company's in Brooklyn. "I found it. Here's the company she works for, address, and phone number," I say, taking the laptop over to Gray and showing him. He takes the computer. "Brilliant, Trice." I feel my cheeks grow hot. I always felt odd with praise, probably why I don't read my YouTube comments. I also don't like hate or confrontation either. "I found her social media," Brock says a few minutes later. "The last time she posted was late last year, looks like Christmas Eve. Nothing after that." I found that rather odd. Melanie is what I call an attention whore and I can't see her not posting for months. I look myself and see Brock is right, and even photos of her and Troy are gone. It's like she erased anything to do with him. After all, if Jeff's in prison, her lover dead, she could hire someone to find the drugs and get them and no one would know the wiser. She would have paid Dimitri to make it worth his while, but I'm sure his death wasn't part of the deal. "All right, well, this is a good start. Once we get info on the gun used, we might be able to lift prints if the shooter was careless and didn't wear gloves. If he did, it's going to be harder finding out who killed Dimitri." Back to square one. The mystery of Goldie's killer remains unsolved, and now we're faced with another murder to unravel. It feels like the Universe is working against us, and it's a reminder that fate is not to be trifled with. "I'm going to head back to the station and expedite this investigation. The shooter is still at large, and there's a possibility they're waiting for the right moment. Officer Lopez and Holder will stay here for a while. Tonight, Holder will be stationed in his squad car, keeping watch over the house. If this person is aware of the drugs and took out Dimitri, they might attempt to seize them. Maybe not tonight, but when things settle down. I strongly advise you to keep your gun with you at all times." "It's in the safe, but I'll grab it," Brock says, heading upstairs. "I'll inform you as soon as we have any information about the gun," Gray assures. He rises and heads for the door. "You know the drill. Stay vigilant, and if you observe anything unusual or hear any strange sounds, contact me immediately." I am all too familiar with the routine, and it has become wearisome. Shouldn't the forces of good prevail? I'm not so sure anymore.

I'm back writing again after being sick for two weeks. Hope you're enjoying the novel so far. Full disclosure: This is the first novel I have not outlined and fleshed out characters before starting. I decided to throw caution to the wind and let the characters tell the story.  Is it perfect? Far from it. I'm still a little rusty from not writing for years, but I love creative writing and crime stories, so if you guys keep reading it, I will keep writing it! This novel has about 60 more pages before I wrap it up, and then I will start on the second one - this time, Patrice will be in an exotic place when the crime(s) take place, and I will change from the present to the past, as it gives me more artistic license with the characters. (this one was a test) The new novel will be Begonias & Belladonna: A Patrice Summers Mystery. Begonias loves warm and humid climates, so join Patrice and me in none other than Greece for the next novel! Thank you to those who have stuck it out and subscribed to my newsletter. I'm always open to feedback and suggestions. Okay, back to the story ... The following day, we head to Salt Lake City. The weather is a bit gloomy, with a chill in the air. Snow might be on the horizon – Northern Utah does that whole snow-in-May thing and warm Decembers. I was hoping for some sunshine, but it doesn't seem likely. Brock pulls up to the Marriot Hotel entrance. It's starting to drizzle, but thankfully, there's an underground parking lot to dodge the rain. Finding a spot is a breeze since it's not exactly peak season. I snap a quick pic of the parking area – gotta outsmart the forgetful parking struggle that comes with age. Brock's more of a wander-around-looking-for-the-car type; I prefer a foolproof strategy. Brock hauls out the luggage, wheels it to the door, and I trail behind. The automatic doors whoosh open, and a blast of warmth hits my face. Maroon flooring clashes with crème-colored walls as we stroll down the hallway under fancy tear-drop chandeliers. Our room's on the third floor, offering a sweet view of the mountains to the east. At the guest desk, a friendly host greets us. She has a long, slicked-back, low ponytail of blonde hair and sports a black blouse and a dark green skirt that matches her eyes. Looks about 30-ish. "Enjoy your stay," she says, handing over our key cards. "Thanks, we will," I respond, while Brock just nods. I'm usually the one who interacts with hosts; Brock is all about getting to the room. We ride the elevator to the third floor, find our room, and Brock swipes the card, opening the door. It's nothing fancy, but it's got two king-size beds with peach comforters and beach scenes framed above them. A large TV sits across from the beds. I head to the bathroom, eyeing the inviting jetted tub for later. "Where do we want to go first?" Brock yells. "Well, museums, lunch, Temple Square, and maybe some shopping at City Creek?" I suggest. Salt Lake, settled by pioneers in 1847, has a rich history centered around Temple Square and City Creek. The story is one of faith and tragedy. "Oh hey, I also want to head up the canyon if there’s not too much snow," Brock adds. "Sure thing. We've got all day. It's only 10:30," I check my watch. Ready to go Brock enters the bathroom, running his fingers through his hair. "Okay, I'm ready," he says. I touch up my hair and lipstick, and we leave the hotel. The cooler air hits me, and we walk a bit before visiting the history museum. I love soaking in history, studying each piece, while Brock opts for a quicker tour, glued to his phone towards the end. "Hungry?" I ask when we reconvene. "Yeah. Let’s grab some food. Johnny Rockets is only a few blocks from here at City Creek. Should we go there?" Brock suggests. "Sounds good to me." As we step outside, rain pours. I open my umbrella, and Brock pulls up his hood. We dash to Johnny's, a place we've frequented in the past few years. It's our go-to lunch spot in Salt Lake and Brock’s when working in the city – evidenced by the friendly workers saying hi to him. When seated, I dive into a juicy Cheddar Bacon Burger and strawberry lemonade. Johnny's, with its 50s throwback vibe, is packed. Somewhat like Daniel’s in Grantsville, however, the décor of Johnny’s is colorful and in your face. Half the walls are a bright peach and halfway down is painted with dark brown stripes intermingled with a light peach. The flooring looks like confetti – no joke – and the booths are crimson red leather, with a white V shape in the middle. The tables are white. A large bar at the back of the restaurant features a stainless-steel counter that wraps all around, with a silver backsplash that travels up to the ceiling. Silver lights that look like small rockets shine down on diners. Old-time red stools stand under the counter to complete the look. You can’t step into a Johnny Rockets and not feel like a kid again. The place was loud, with college kids being the loudest. The University of Utah isn’t too far from here, and this is a popular place to hang out. Brock had told me. Post-lunch, we explore Temple Square, declining an invitation to learn more about the LDS faith from a few nice missionaries who introduced themselves as Sister Carrington from London and Sister Langston from Montana. It wasn’t that we weren’t religious, but Brock said he had his own relationship with God and didn’t need organized religion, especially since so much wrong has been done in the name of religion. Since I’m a Christian but don’t belong to any sect, I took on his religious perspective as well. Still, it’s nice to see the architecture and culture of the LDS faith and what they went through to become a worldwide religion. Back at the hotel around 5:00, I'm exhausted. We decide to rest before dinner at Ruth’s Chris Steak House, for which I've made a 7:00 reservation. The rain has stopped, and the sun had come out when we walked into the hotel. As I relax, my phone buzzes. It's Gray. My heart picks up a bit. "Hey Gray, what’s up?" I answer, pretending it's just a casual chat. "Hi, Trice, how’s Salt Lake?" he greets. Maybe he is just calling to chat. "It’s nice, a little rainy today. Walked around a bunch and heading to dinner in a while." "Good," came the initial response, followed by a pause and a hefty sigh, which wasn't exactly a positive indicator. "Gray, something's up, right?" I query, my tone casual yet tinged with concern. "Yeah, well, there's been a bit of a situation. A dead body was found about an hour ago," Gray revealed. "What?" My disbelief was palpable. "On your property," he adds. My eyes widen, and I shoot up, color draining from my face. "What?" I repeat, urgency creeping into my voice. "How, when, where?" I need answers, pronto. Brock, engrossed in TV, hits pause and turns to me. "Trice, spill. What's happening?" he asks. I shush him. "This morning, an hour after you left. In the backyard. Lopez was waiting for Hercules to finish his business when she heard him suddenly barking like crazy. She went out to see why, and that’s when she saw the body. Hercules kept sniffing, and she had to grapple with him, getting him away. The body was found next to your shed. Trice, he was shot,” Gray explains. “Shot?” I echo back. "Shot?" Brock's eyes widen. "Who got shot?" He almost grabs the phone from me. "Hold on, Gray. Let me catch Brock up." I relay Gray's update to Brock, who has the same questions as I did. "I don't know, but he was shot." "Can I see the phone?" Brock gestures for it. I yank it back, "No, just hang on." "Okay, Gray, putting you on speaker so Brock's in the loop." I activate the speaker icon and put the phone between us. "Go ahead." "Well, as I was saying, Lopez found a dead body in your backyard. Male, recently deceased. Identified as Demitri Ballinger. Any bells ringing?" Gray inquires. Brock and I exchange puzzled looks. I shrug; he shakes his head. "No clue," I admit, wracking my brain to place the name. "He's not local; he's from New York," Gray continues. My heart races. "Connected to Jeff? He's the only one in the mix living there," I speculate. "That's what we're trying to figure out," Gray confirms. "But Jeff's in prison," Brock points out. "True, but he can still communicate. Maybe he knew about the shed and drugs and sent Demitri to get them," I suggest, acknowledging the wildness of the idea. "Possible, but how does Jeff know unless..." Brock starts. "His wife knew," I interject, like I knew all along but didn’t want to believe it. "Could be, but why rat out Troy?" Brock questions. "If she knew, maybe she got Demitri to grab the drugs. Jeff's in prison, money's tight, no job, lawyer fees, living in New York on one income—it adds up," Gray theorizes. "That's what I was thinking. That woman never liked us. Maybe she even spiked our coffee with arsenic, not Jeff. He confessed to protect her," I say, my excitement rising thinking back to that nightmarish day, the poisoning, being tied up, the little girl untying us, escaping, twisting my ankle.  I shiver. "You might be onto something. Revenge, framing Jeff, she gets the drugs, sells them, and makes money. Seen stranger things," Gray adds. "So, she sends a goon to our house, knowing that's where the drugs are. But what's weird is that Demitri gets shot shortly before we leave. Who knew he was there? Did a neighbor hear, investigate, and shoot him in our backyard?" Brock ponders aloud. "That's the big question. I need to quiz the neighbors. Unfortunately, guys, your trip's cut short. We need you back to answer questions. Protocol," Gray informs us, a necessary but unwelcome reality. "Can we at least return in the morning? We're beat," I plead, stifling a yawn. I know Gray is correct, but I’m not ready to come back home and deal with yet another murder, another dead body, and one that is on our property – just yet. "Yeah, tomorrow works. But hustle back. We'll question the neighbors tonight. Text when you're in town," Gray instructs. "Thanks, Gray. Can't believe this isn't over yet." I push end and sit there. A sickening thought crosses my mind. Would Melanie put a hit on us?

Brock first checks the foyer window, with me following, checking myself. A squad car is still there, and I wonder how long he’ll be there until Officer Lopez replaces him. “Okay, the house is still being watched, so we can go out back and check the shed,” Brock says, going back into the living room and to the sliding glass door. Herc is behind us, wagging his tail furiously. I follow Brock outside; the sun is bright, and it feels slightly cool but not bad. Thankfully, no snow has fallen for a few weeks, so no worries about ice. Herc starts growling at the stupid cat in our tree. I swear he lives there. “Shhhh, Herc,” I slightly scold him. I bend down and rub his neck. “It’s just a cat.” Brock opens the door and we both go in. He flips on the light, the one I asked him to replace because it’s dimming. Hopefully, it holds out while we’re here. I wonder if we should tread lightly, but then why? This is property shed. Still, I can’t help but feel a little anxious about what we’ll find. Brock heads to the back, where the large blue canisters stand. The shed is fairly large; Brock built it about 20 years ago, close to when we moved in. The old one was smaller, with the gray paint chipping off. It looked weather-worn, and I wanted a larger area for all my garden stuff. So, he built me a new light crème color shed with two matching window boxes I fill with colorful plants each year. Inside, toward the front, a row of shelves houses my fertilizer, pesticides, and herbicides; underneath, there is a large enough area for soil and mulch. On the back wall, the lawnmower and edger sat. He installed a row of hooks on the east wall to place the shovels, rakes, etc. The two blue canisters fit under the shelves along the west wall. I’m unsure if I should help him open them or let me have a go at it. I scan the yard as he’s pulling them out from underneath so he can grasp the lid of the first one. Herc is still eyeing the cat, sniffing the air. “Okay, you ready?” Brock claps his hands. “No, and yes.” He grabs the lid and starts turning it. Curiosity and all that leads me to watch. My heart is beating fast, and I feel my stomach turning somersaults. Once it’s turned all the way, he opens the canister, and we both stare at gallon-sized white bags of white powder, dozens of the stuff packed in the container. “Oh my God,” I clamp my hand over my mouth. “Trice, this has got to be worth a ton of money.” He pulls the other one out and opens it. More drugs in bags are in this one, too. “We can’t touch this and need to contact Gray ” He’s right. This is evidence. He screws both lids back on and pushes them under the shelf. We leave the shed, and this time, Brock locks it, telling me the key is on his keyring. “One thing that still bothers me,” I say. “We were gone for nearly a week. Why didn’t they try and find whatever he stashed then?” “Well, the police were parked on our street every day and night, remember? They would have been caught.” “Ah, true.” When we go back inside, I call Gray and tell him what we discovered. “You’re kidding,” was all he said. He then promised to be over with his officers and the drug unit ASAP. “Stay inside until we arrive.” He ends the call, and Brock and I sit on the couch, both shocked at the discovery that has been in our shed for probably close to a year. “Now, it makes sense,” Brock says. “Yeah. The amount of drugs in those canisters amount to probably a million dollars or more, and it’s all in our backyard shed.” The realization sinks in, and I get why our home and our lives have been targeted. A few minutes later, I hear a knock at the door and Gray announcing his arrival. Brock and I rush to the door and let him in. ‘Okay, show me.” Following him are drug-sniffing dogs, two more officers, and another officer in charge of the drug unit. Soon, the street will know something is up. At least four police cruisers and the Canine Unit van are parked on our street. Thankfully, kids are in school at this hour. We all file out back and to the shed. The police officers are stationed on both sides of the yard, watching the area and standing guard. Brock opens the canisters and Gray has the drug-sniffing dog go to work. His tail is wagging hard and Gray says, “It’s definitely drugs.” With his latex-gloved hand, he pulls out a bag, opens it up, and sniffs the contents. “Smells like Coke.” He takes another bag from the second canister and does the same thing. “This smells different. Could be Fentanyl.” I’m dumbfounded. The two most lethal drugs have been sitting in my shed, and my neighbor, whom I mourned and grieved his passing, was dealing drugs and used our property to stash them. The bastard. “So, this is why you two have been targeted for so long. I’m so sorry,” Gray says, shaking his head. “I’m going to take the heat off you. We will have a press conference and announce what we found and that it will be removed and sent to a secure location, so this thug or thugs will have no reason to keep targeting you. I’ll notify the news stations. This will not stand on my watch.” Oh great, now our home will be broadcast to the whole world, but I can’t argue with him; this is the right thing to do. It’s just when it’s removed, what happens then? Will we ever find out who killed Goldie? Will we be back to square one? “If it’s moved, how will you catch the people or person? Wouldn’t it be better to trap them? We know they will try and find the drugs. Maybe we should let them keep trying and then catch them in the act,” Brock says, which does make sense. “If you take it, we may never find out who killed Goldie and is after us.” Gray contemplates Brock’s question as he inhales deeply and puckers his lips. “You have a point. Okay, but you must leave again for a few days or so. If they get wind that you’re leaving the house, they may decide to try and find the drugs. We will stay hidden and have the officers in an unmarked vehicle. Officer Lopez and Holder will stay there at night with your dog, but stay out of sight. You have cameras on the perimeter, right?” “Yeah, two in the front, on each side of the house, and three on the back, one in front of the sliding glass doors and two by the side fences,” Brock says, pointing to the area. “Okay, they will monitor the cameras. If there’s any movement, they will see it. Hopefully, this perp will be caught. When we leave, tell your neighbors you thought you heard someone in your garage, but it was a stray cat.” “What about the Canine unit?” I ask, knowing there will have to be a good reason why the dog is here. Officer Lopez speaks up and says, “Tell them you found a cat who knocked over a bag of white powder in your garage you hadn’t seen before and wanted to know if it was a drug. When the results came back, it was just diatomaceous earth that Brock had bought years ago and put into a box. The cat found its way inside, knocked the box over, and spilled the contents. Enough said.” That would work. “Okay, we’ll go with that plan,” Gray says, seemingly impressed with her clever excuse. “Can you take off again for a few days, say to a Hotel in Salt Lake?” Brock and I look at each other and nod. “Yeah, we can do that,” Brock says. “At this point, I’m willing to do what it takes to put the thugs behind bars.” “Same,” I pipe in. “I just want this nightmare to end.” “Okay, get your reservations for tomorrow, Saturday, and Sunday. The weekend is a perfect time for them to try again. You’re off for a romantic weekend for an anniversary or something,” Gray says. “My birthday coming up in April,” I announce. “Well, there you go. Brock is taking you away for a birthday weekend celebration in Salt Lake City.” I just remembered that tonight is Garden Club. We are discussing Spring planning. I can’t miss it, as we’ve only held it four or maybe five times in the last year. Two times, I couldn’t meet, and one time, we canceled because only one person was coming. The rest of the time, we dealt with Leah and Trevor’s home being broken into, us being threatened, and others ill or away on vacation. Plus, it’s been winter, and no one really cares about gardening until Spring, which meteorologically begins next week. March is planning month for gardeners, and April and May are typically for buying and planting. I plant all season, though. This is the first time that everyone is supposed to come. I won’t tell anyone of our plan, well, maybe Leah. I’ve hidden so much from her, and we rarely talk now. She’s busy with her new adventure as a vintage boutique shop owner - they opened late last year. She’s there quite often, and when I do talk to her, she seems happy to be busy. I also haven’t released a YouTube garden video in almost a month, and have decreased my marketing consultant business while dealing with this mess. We all file out of the backyard; by now, the street is humming with people gawking and whispering. Our street has had its fair share of shocking events this past year. I wouldn’t be surprised if people started moving out and our property value decreased. “Nothing to see here, folks. Mrs. Summers wanted a box of powder tested a cat had knocked over in the garage. It wasn’t drugs, just some old pesticides,” Gray tells the growing crowd. “I guess that’s what happens when you live with a gardener,” Brock jokes as he grins and shrugs. That gets some laughs, and people start leaving. “Let me know when you two are going to leave tomorrow, and I will get Officer Lopez and Holder here,” Gray says before leaving. We nod, with me feeling guilty they have to leave their families to stay in our home, but Officer Lopez said her boyfriend would take the kids to his parents for the weekend, and Officer Holder is young and unmarried. I still hate that we are once again in danger. But at least now, we know why. After everyone left and Officer Lopez and Holder pledged to be here when we leave tomorrow, Brock and I flopped on the couch, each absorbed in our thoughts. I have to call a Salt Lake hotel and get reservations. We’re supposed to only be gone for a few days, but what if the person targeting us doesn’t show up while we’re gone? Do we stay longer? What if they come back tonight before we leave? Our street was once again center of attention today and will be when the gardening group meets again tonight. “I’ll call Marriott in Salt Lake and see if we can get reservations for tomorrow night and Sunday,” I tell Brock. “Yeah, okay.” As I watch him, I notice he looks more tired than usual. Dark circles look prominent under his eyes, and fine lines are more pronounced. His gray hair is nearly all gray now, and it seems both of us have aged a decade in the last year. I don’t think I’ve had a good night's sleep all year. After getting our reservations and packing – yet again – I get ready for the gardening group. Since we’re nearing Spring, this is the time to start planning our gardens, but I haven’t had any desire to plan, let alone think of the plants I want to grow this year. My mind keeps wandering to the shed and what is contained in two blue canisters – the amount of drugs is mind-blowing, and no doubt, whoever is after them will go to great lengths to ensure they get them. I look in the hall mirror before opening the door to the first gardening group member. I rub my lips together after putting on some rose lipstick and smoothing my hair, which is nearly to my shoulders now. I lightly pinch my cheeks to bring some color to my cheeks, a trick my mother taught me when I was younger. Squeezing your cheeks lightly brings the blood to the surface so you display a pinkish tint. I think back to the gardening group. If they knew our home had been cased out, broken into, and there were possibly hundreds of pounds of drugs worth a ton of money sitting in our shed, they’d never believe it. Hell, sometimes, I can’t believe what I saw in my own backyard. Officer Lopez was in an unmarked car next door, watching the house. She didn’t like that we were having people over, but I told her this meeting had already been canceled several times. We have to act normal – at least for tonight. “Welcome,” I say, taking the cheese and crackers tray from Roger, a new group member as of a few months ago. He’s wearing light jeans and a black hoodie. His sandy brown hair waves to the side, reminding me of a California surfer, which is apt since he’s from the state. His blue eyes stand out and are a deep hue piercing you when you stare back. He looks about as tall as Brock, around 6’2, and a slight pinkish scar runs down his neck. I wonder about the story surrounding the wound. “Hi Patrice, your home is gorgeous,” he says, his eyes following up and down and around as I lead him to the living room. I place the platter down and motion for him to sit on the sectional and wait for the remaining members. He’s single, says he went through a divorce last year, and is trying to put the pieces of his “dreadful” life back together again. He’s a mechanic and works 10 hours daily to pay for child support for his 8-year-old son and 4-year-old daughter. I feel bad for his situation, especially when he told me his wife had an affair and petitioned for a divorce six months later. What is it with couples having affairs and then divorcing their spouses shortly after? The doorbell rings, and I quickly walk to the door—Herc’s in Brock’s office with him while I host the group. I told Officer Lopez I was planning on seven people tonight and that each person would bring a platter of food, so if anyone showed up without one, she would know to be suspicious. After everyone shows up and the food has been passed around, Leah starts the conversation surrounding today’s police call. “Trice, what was really going on here earlier?” She asks me after taking cheese and crackers. She’s holding a butter knife and waving it around. “I mean, we all know, or should know, you don’t just call the police to check if something is poison or not.” of course, I dread where this is going, and I feel trapped. What can I say? Instead, I tried to make it into nothing. “I didn’t call them; Brock did. A stray cat pulled over a box of some white substance in our garage. We don’t know how the cat got into the garage in the first place, and we were concerned that Herc would mess with it and possibly end up ingesting it or getting into his skin. We had to ensure it was safe, and since I didn’t remember purchasing it, it was better safe than sorry.” And that was that. A few members seemed to buy it, but others still looked at me as if I was telling them a lie, especially Leah and Veronica, my true crime partners. It was nearly 9:30 when the meeting ended. I put away the remainder of the plates and cups and was now reading in my bed. For the most part, the meeting went well. We actually talked about gardening, and by the end, I was getting excited about the plants I would grow this year. For a few hours, chatting about nothing but gardening felt normal. We each had developed our gardening plan, and I was given them so I could “grade” the space, plants, water, fertilizer, soil, etc., to ensure they chose the best garden for their space. Our reservations were for the morning. I told Brock we could spend the day in the city and check in that evening. We would stay until Monday morning – three nights. If whoever was coming to get the drugs did so in that period, Officer Lopez and Holder would be ready. I just pray everything goes as planned. And if it doesn’t … who knows what will happen?

Before you read this chapter, I would love to know your thoughts. Are you enjoying the novel? Do you have questions or anything that stands out? Please comment and let me know your feedback! Okay, back to the chapter... _____________________________________________________________________________ I sit up, my hands clammy. “Well?” I say, waiting for him to tell me. “It’s not what you expect. The license plate is registered to a Nick Giovani. He has priors and was released from jail not more than two months ago for organized crime. He was part of a string of people busted by a sting operation. They were selling drugs to minors. What’s interesting is that he’s connected to Troy.” “Wait, what?” “Yeah, I did some digging, and he and Troy were buddies, went to school together, and, get this, even gambled together. My source said he may have also been involved in helping him sell or acquire the drugs.” Troy was a drug dealer? My head is spinning. “I can’t believe this. But why come after us? Is this Nick also involved in this whole mess?” “It looks like he may be. I don’t know yet how he ties into it, but he’s coming in tomorrow morning for questioning. I’ll let you know what he says.” “Okay, thanks, Gray.” “Get some sleep. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.” I did anything but sleep. My mind kept going over this whole year to see if I missed something. Was Troy really the bad guy all along? Suddenly, nothing makes sense anymore, I think as I get dressed for the day. Brock didn’t come to bed last night, and I so desperately want to talk to him, especially considering what I learned. He must have slept on his couch in his office. After putting on some yoga pants and a maroon sweater, I leave the bedroom. It’s getting a little warmer but still cold enough to wear a sweater. I stop by his office, and the door is open but he’s not there. Maybe he went downstairs. I don't see him there when I step into the living room. I search the house, and he’s nowhere. I go into the garage, and one car is gone. Why didn’t I hear the garage door go up? Our room is right under the garage. Did I sleep that deeply? I don’t remember when I fell asleep. Where did he go? I’m alone and feel anxious. I peek out the curtains in the foyer and notice a squad car parked at the curb. At least Officer Holder is still here. I turn my wrist over and see that it’s 7:02 AM. It’s getting lighter earlier in the morning now, so even though the sun isn’t over the horizon, it’s still turning light. Brock never leaves this early, which has me wondering where he went. Back in the kitchen, I grab some coffee and sit down. Herc is wagging his tail, which tells me he’s hungry. I feed him in the morning and Brock at night. I get up and take out the can opener and his food. After opening his can, I plop it in one bowl with fresh water in another. I take out my phone and text Brock. You left. I wait. Three little dots show up and then disappear. I wait longer. Shopping. I’m surprised. In the 36 years I’ve been married to Brock, he’s never gone shopping alone. Now I wonder what type of shopping, but I don’t need to wonder too long because minutes later, I hear the garage door open. Brock comes in with bags full of groceries, and I stand there like a statue just watching him bring in all these bags. He puts them on the counter and starts rifling through them, taking items out and putting them away. “Can I help?” I ask, coming over to the sacks. “I’ve got it.” I back away. “Thanks.” I’m not sure what propelled him to go shopping, but there’s a lot of food, toilet paper, plastic cups and utensils, paper plates, and then several packages of beef and chicken and even some steaks. Boxes of cereal and oatmeal, chips, and more are now stocked in the pantry. He pulls out juice, milk, eggs, butter, fresh fruit, yogurt, and salad bowls. He then pulls out a ton of frozen meals, vegetables, ice cream, and pizzas. There are also some pies and Cool Whip. It’s like he shopped for the apocalypse or something. After everything is put away and the sacks neatly folded and placed in our bottom drawer (helpful for picking up Herc’s poop in the yard), he sits down at the kitchen table. “I’ve been thinking.” I sit down across from him and put my hands on the table. He reaches over and takes them in his hands. “I think we need to have a big party and invite the whole street. I’m tired of being a recluse and wondering if it’s safe to go out and take a walk. I know you have been stressed out and wanting this whole thing over, and that’s what you got desperate and went to Bart.” I feel his hands safe in mine and let the tears fall. “I'm so sorry I've put you through all this and that I lied to you. That wasn't right. I'm so scared, and I do want this over, but I realize I should have trusted you. You're my husband, and I love you. Please, forgive me.” I wipe my eyes and grab a napkin from its holder and blow my nose. “I forgive you, and I'm sorry you were involved at all. It wasn't fair to put you in the middle, so now our family isn't safe here.” “It wasn't, but Goldie paid the ultimate price for her bravery, and I want to make sure her death isn't in vain. Can you understand that?” “Yes, and I want to solve her murder too, but let's do it the right way – with the police's help.” I snap back to when Gray called. “Speaking of police help,” I say and then tell him everything I know. “Wow, I would have never guessed. Troy always seemed to be…” “Quiet and reserved,” I finish his sentence. “Exactly. I never thought he would have peddled drugs to children. He had young children.” He shakes his head. “It seems crazy, right? And now, this guy follows me home. It doesn't make sense.” “None of this makes sense. Why is someone still following you after most of those involved confessed or were arrested and put in jail? I think Petra and Greg are long gone. The whole thing is unraveling, and yet someone is still threatening us.” “Yeah, I mean, Gray has the ring, the photos, the license plate, the confession. Why are we still being targeted? Jeff already confessed and named names.” “Unless …“ Brock seems to be deep in thought. “Unless, what?” “Unless this is bigger than just Troy and Goldie's death.” I don't quite understand where he's going with this, but I let him continue. “You said Troy was a dealer. Did he still have the drugs or money that was supposedly owed to someone and then was killed before he could deliver it? And now this person or people are trying to find it?” That might make sense, but I don't understand what that has to do with us. “But why target us?” I ask, puzzled still. He snaps his fingers. “Maybe I put away some of these drug dealers, and they're coming back for revenge.” I never thought about that, but he could be right. He continues. “Do you think Troy told people about us and where we live before he died? Could he have been planning some kind of revenge against us? And after he died, his buddies took over the plan. When Goldie learned of the plan to kill and bury Troy – “ “They killed her because Grant, her nephew, was involved with the drug dealing,” I interrupt. “Yep, and they think we had something to do with his death in some way.” “Hold on. If they are after drugs or money, maybe Troy hid them somewhere his family wouldn't be able to find them,” the excitement in my voice rises. “Somewhere next door, or … “ I abruptly stop talking and raise my eyebrows. “Our shed.” The realization that Troy may have put a target on us gets my anxiety going. “But why would he hide them there?” Brock looks just as puzzled as I was earlier. I ponder the question but then know the answer. “Because they didn't have one and it was the perfect place where no one would think to look.” I mentally picture the shed and where he possibly could have hidden drugs or money. And then it hits me. “Our blue canisters. Remember we bought them because we were planning on storing manure for compost? We ended up saying we were going to wait until we re-landscaped the front yard. So, we kept them in there. It would be the perfect place to store lots of money or drugs.” “Oh my God, Trice, you're right!” Oh, and remember when they came over for the barbecue last year? It was a few weeks before he went missing. He wanted to see the shed, said he was looking to purchase one and wanted to see inside it? He could have easily stashed the drugs or money there after the party. We never lock it, so it would have been easy to hide it there when we were gone.” “When we took the grandkids to the county fair the week after,” Brock says, running his fingers down his face. “We were gone the whole day and didn't return until late that night.” Of course! “I can't believe this! This is why the intruder was in our garage, why I saw someone in our backyard, why I've been followed. This doesn't have to do with Troy's death directly but the items he left behind.” Anger boils within me. “Exactly. And my guess is the items are still there.” He's thinking what I am, and we both bolt for the sliding glass door leading to the backyard. Time to discover the truth.

Gray motions for me to sit down on the same chair I occupied not more than 10 minutes ago. "So, tell me, when did you notice the car?" "I was driving down Main and noticed the car, I’d say, probably about ¼ mile or so from the station. I didn’t think anything of it until it was nearly tailgating me. It then followed me to my neighborhood and then to my street. I drove slowly by the house and slightly turned to see Brock in the garage working in his shop." "Hold on. He drove past your home behind you?" "Yeah." Gray bolts out of his seat and pushes the button on his shoulder. "Holder, head to the Carmichael’s home, now." I recognized the officer’s name. He and Lopez took turns watching our house, so he knows the address. Gray throws on his jacket. "We need to get over there, Trice. He obviously knows where you live, and that Brock is alone in the garage." I slap my hand over my mouth and my eyes grow wide. "Oh no! Would they …" I can’t even say the words. "Let’s hope Officer Holder gets there quickly but stay here with Officer Lopez." I want to protest but think better of it. I hope Brock is OK. I should have never looked. I could have just put my husband of 36 years in danger. I wait anxiously, pacing in Gray’s office, the minutes tick by. Finally, my phone buzzes in my hand. It’s Gray. "He’s OK. He said he saw your message and soon after you drove past, he went inside and locked everything up." "Oh, thank God." I place my hand on my chest and nearly crumple into the chair. "I’m headed back with him. You apparently didn’t tell him about the photos." I close my eyes, bracing for the scolding from both. "No." "I figured since I asked him, and he had no clue what I was talking about." "I just didn’t want to involve him. He’s dealt with so much. I wanted to do this quietly, but I guess that’s not going to happen." "We’ll be there soon." Click Well, I messed up yet again and I know Brock is going to be upset. I wait until they arrive back to the station and pile into Gray’s office. He shuts the door and Brock won’t even look at me. "I’m really sorry, Brock." I try to save face by staring down. "When are you going to learn, Trice?" Brock’s reply stings, but I can’t blame him. "Bart wanted to help, and –" Shit, I did it again. Now Gray and Brock know his name.  "Bart gave you these photos?" Brock is now angry, and his forehead's deep lines display his emotion. "Please, he was just trying to help." "Wait, is this Bart Camden?" Gray speaks up. "Yes … " I say, and now feel incredibly ashamed. I promised to keep his name out of this. "How did he get involved?" Gray folds his arms. "He came to the house a few weeks ago and apologized for what he did to us, said he got out of prison early on good behavior and wanted to make amends for what happened. He was sincere and I didn’t feel it was right not to forgive him. Isn’t that what Christians are supposed to do." Yes, I used the WWJD card, but I’m right and he knows it. "Trice, I appreciate that you forgave him, but involving him with Goldie’s murder was wrong." Brock finally speaks. "I know, and I didn’t want to, but he offered, and well, it’s been over two months, and nothing was being done, no offense," I say, looking at Gray. Brock's head drops. "Look, we’re doing all we can, but this isn’t the only case we’re working on, and we don’t have a lot to go on. Cases can take years." "I understand; I just couldn’t stand by and do nothing. I promised Goldie we would bring justice; well, I promised myself justice would be served, and we would find her killer," I clarified. Brock’s head is against the wall, and he’s staring up. "Well now, we’re targets again, Trice. If you hadn’t texted me, this person could have returned to the house. I would have never seen it coming." I don't want to be reminded of what could have happened. We’ve both come too close a few times now. "Okay, guys, this is what’s going to happen. You will go home, and Officer Lopez will follow. She will patrol the house the rest of the day. We will post another officer for the night. I will see if I can get a hit on the license plate and put these photos into the database to see if anything comes up. And you," he says, pointing and looking at me, "will not meddle anymore into this case and let us take care of it. You will tell Bart not to do anything else. Is that clear?" He emphasizes the word. "Crystal," I say. On the way home, Brock and I are silent. We were doing so well until Bart showed up and the hurt look tells me I’ve screwed up yet again and a cold shoulder is about to be my companion. We get home and I pull into the driveway. All is quiet but who knows if this person has been here. I know better than to immediately go into the house before Officer Lopez is able to clear it, so we wait to pull into the garage. A few minutes later, she gives the all-clear signal and I drive in. We go in and Herc is waiting, his tail wagging. Brock doesn’t stop to pet him but immediately heads up the stairs. I bend down and scratch behind his ears. "Well, Herc, I messed things up yet again." He follows me to the living room couch where Officer Lopez is sitting. "I’m sorry you have to do this again," I say, watching her pet Herc’s back. "I thought I was helping." "I know, but you have to let us do our job. Whoever this is or whoever they are don’t want to be found. I’m glad you got part of the license plate and the photos. It was a gutsy thing." I see a little smile form and I exhale. Her hair is down and even displays a touch of curl to it. She doesn’t look as tired as she did before, and she’s wearing light pink eyeshadow that matches her lipstick. Her cheeks also look rosy, and I wonder if she’s dating someone. "I don’t think Brock thinks it was gutsy. He won’t talk to me for a while," I say looking up. He’s likely in his office working. When he’s mad he needs time to cool down and I have to give it to him. "Give him time. He really loves you and probably thought you were finally safe or at least safer after Jeff’s confession. Now you have to worry about more threats." "Yeah, and believe me, I don’t like this any more than he does, but I also owe it to Goldie to find her killer. But I learned my lesson and will stop interfering. Hopefully, Gray gets a hit on the plates and photos." After Officer Lopez flips open her laptop and starts Typing, I announce that I’m going to take a nap. It’s probably around 3:00 by now, but I feel sleepy. And maybe I’m just wanting to hide for a while too. I climb the stairs and head to my room, but stop by Brock’s office. The door is closed, and I hear the click-clacking on his computer. I briefly place my hand on the door and then go to my room. I take off my shoes and climb into bed. The cool sheets feel good on my feet, and before long, I drift off. I wake to the door opening and Brock coming in. The light has faded, and I fear I slept too long. He says nothing but goes straight to the bathroom and closes the door. I look at my watch. It’s nearly 6:30. I slept for at least 3 hours. I throw my covers back and sit on the edge of the bed. I want to talk to Brock but I hear the shower turn on and know it will be a while. I smooth my hair and leave the room and head back downstairs. Officer Lopez is on the couch still, the TV is on but low. “Good nap?” She says, turning off the TV. “No, keep it on. It might help distract me.” She turns it back on, and I see she’s watching Lethal Weapon, one of my favorite 80s movie franchises. “My dad turned me on to 80s movies, said this was one of his favorites,” she says smiling at what had to be a precious memory. “They did have some great ones. Mel Gibson and Danny Glover were great together.” She smiles, and I leave her to her memories. When the show is over, I get up. “I’m famished, how about you?” “Yeah, I could use some food. I told my boyfriend I would be here for a while yet until the night shift, so he’s taken care of food for the kids.” “Boyfriend, huh?” I give her a sly grin. “Yes, we’ve been dating seriously for a few months now. I introduced him to the kids and got their approval.” “So, he’s a keeper.” “Yeah, I’d say he is.” Her smile widens. “Well, I’m happy for you. I knew there was a change when I saw you in the police station.” “He’s a good guy and I haven’t had one.” I feel for her. She deserves better than the lowlifes she’s dated. “I haven’t been shopping, so how about DoorDash?” It’s like déjà vu from the first time she patrolled the house. “You know I like it. How about Thai food?” I smile. “My favorite.” I pull out my phone and order from a Thai restaurant that just opened last year. I make sure to get enough for all three of us. “Up for the second Lethal Weapon?” She picks up the remote. “Let’s do it. Brock may not come down for a while yet, but when the food comes, I’ll leave it in front of his door.” “Do you want me to take it up to him? Maybe I can get him to see reason. “You could try, but he’s pretty stubborn.” “I’d say he’s pretty protective – big difference.” I have to admit she’s right. About 30 minutes later, a knock on the door startles me out of my Mel Gibson trance. The gruff voice, long hair, and blue eyes pull me in when I watch his old movies. Officer Lopez gets up. “I’ll get it.” “I’ll get some drinks and glasses.” When I come back out, the Styrofoam containers are spread out on the coffee table. “Smells yummy,” I say, placing the glasses and bottles of two different juices: blueberry pomegranate, Brock’s favorite, and passion fruit, my favorite. “I’ll be back,” Officer Lopez says after she loads a plate for Brock. It’s filled with fried noodles, ginger and curry chicken, mango fried rice, and beef and broccoli smothered in rich Thai sauce. She carefully balances it with a glass of his juice. I load my plate and start eating, savoring the spicy curry and ginger. I wait for her to come back down before pushing play again. It’s longer than I expected when she comes into the living room. “He’s really hurt, Patrice. I tried to tell him you didn’t mean to hurt him and were trying to protect him, but he thinks you don’t trust him.” My heart sinks to my stomach. I couldn’t feel any worse than I feel right now. “I have to talk to him.” I get up to go upstairs but she stops me. “He won’t talk to you. I tried already. He needs some time to process everything. He said he’ll come down or he won’t, but to not bother him. He said you lied to him, and it’s not the first time.” My appetite is suddenly gone, and I push the plate away from me. I can’t keep doing this to Brock; it’s not right. I push play on Lethal Weapon 2, but my heart’s not in it anymore. Afterward, Officer Lopez heads home, and Officer Holder takes her place outside in his patrol car. It’s pitch-black outside, and all is eerily quiet. It’s around 9:30, and I’m wide awake. Brock has yet to come down, and I doubt he will tonight. I prop up the pillow and lay back on the couch, my body not even covering the length of it. I retrieve a book I just bought from the pouch affixed to the side. The latest thriller from a favorite author came out, and I had to buy it. looks like another good one. The black cover features a room and a dim light that shines on a woman tied to a chair, tears streaking down her face. I decide I’m a glutton for punishment, but I can’t help it. My phone buzzes, and it’s from Gray. “We got a hit.”

It's two weeks since I heard back from Bart, and I start to wonder if I made a mistake in letting him help find Goldie’s killer. But this morning he contacts me and says he has a few leads, and could I meet with him. I tell him to meet me at Daniel’s Diner for lunch at 1:30 p.m. I don’t want it to be too crowded, so meeting a little later would mean construction workers and the like wouldn’t be there. The doctor also calls and says my levels of arsenic are not bad, but I am definitely poisoned by it. Brock tells me he got the same result. As the crime novels also state, the plot thickens. After taking a shower, I pull on a pair of jeans, noticing that I’m losing weight. It’s not a huge difference, but it’s enough that my jeans are a little loose. I put on some makeup and dry my hair. I contemplate whether to straighten it or let the natural curls come out with a touch of scrunching and hairspray for wavy hair. I decide to leave it be. Brock is in the shop building who knows what. Not working is “driving me crazy,” he keeps saying. I had to remind him that he wanted to take the time off. Nothing has happened, and even the police stopped patrolling the area. He could go back to work, and we’d be fine. But I still want Goldie’s murder solved, and we’re not entirely safe until whoever did it has been arrested and justice served. I feel somewhat anxious as I sit waiting in the booth at Daniel’s. My foot tapping on the floor and my heart rate accelerating doesn’t help. I look at the families around me, or single people at the bar. No one knows what is going on in other people’s lives. We all judge why someone acts the way they do, or if someone is introverted or extroverted, we think they’re either snobbish or stuck up. A server is pouring coffee into an older man’s cup as he reads a newspaper, which is rare these days. A few minutes later, I see Bart walk towards the booth, and I exhale as I see him carrying a manila envelope close to his chest. “Hi Patrice,” he says, sliding onto the bench opposite mine. “Hi,” I say, looking around, almost feeling guilty for meeting him here. I wipe imaginary crumbs off the table. “Thanks for meeting me here. So, I found something you may find not just interesting but a little odd.” He opens the envelope and spreads out some photos. At this time, a server comes to our table, and he gathers them up. A young woman with long blonde hair pulled into a tight ponytail takes out her phone, which I thought was odd. Her red T-shirt fits like a glove over her tall frame, showing off her ample breasts. A white apron wrapped around her tiny waist hides her black yoga-like pants. Her blue eyes look like the ocean, her eyelashes long and thick with mascara. When she smiles, her eyes crinkle and sparkle as if she genuinely is happy. She is naturally beautiful, and I can see why Bart is staring at her. As an older woman, I can appreciate beauty when I see it and remember when I was that age how I looked before kids changed my body. Aside from being short, I had long blonde hair, and my hazel eyes changed with my clothes and even my moods. My face was fair, but my skin took on more of an olive tone. I had several boyfriends before meeting Brock and went out every weekend. Sometimes, I miss those days. “Hi, I’m Lisa, your server. Can I get you some coffee to start out with?” “Yes, please,” I say, with Bart nodding. I pick up the menu and tell her we need a few minutes to look it over. When she leaves, Bart hands me the photos. Three were at what looks to be Goldie’s funeral, and then a few more were at her gravesite. I remember that day. Several hundred people came to her funeral at the local LDS church in town. The place was filled with what looked to be her students, friends, and family. She had three children, and they were all there with their spouses and kids. She was a loved woman, and it makes me sick that someone would so callously murder her. The day was cold and gray when we all stood at her gravesite; the beautiful cherry oak casket was adorned with her favorite white and yellow roses. Afterward, I approached one of her kids and gave her my condolences, announcing my name and that I was one of her students. I never said anything about our other relationship. What Goldie told me before she died was between her and me, except for the info on Troy’s death and burial. A few birds were chirping, the wind started picking up, and leaves scattered about. Even though it was over two months ago, it still feels like yesterday. She died alone at age 69. Life isn’t fair, and I promised her at that gravesite that I would find her killer. I stare at the photos, trying to understand. “Is there something I’m supposed to see here?” I ask Bart, picking them up one by one. I see her casket, her family in front of the casket, other people milling around, and some tall trees. “Look at them again, and you will notice the same person in three pictures. He stood out, was quiet and kept to himself, and in this one,” he said, rifling through them and picking out one, “he was smiling. And in another, he's talking with a woman." Bart slides the photo over to me, and I pick it up. He’s right. A man who looked to be at least six feet tall with dark brown hair slicked to the side and green eyes was looking at something, grinning. I pick up another photo to see if I could place where he’s looking. I put the photos side-by-side. It was like piecing together a puzzle. Then I see it. One photo was of the man talking to someone, a woman; the next was him grinning, and the last was a photo of the same woman looking and smiling too, most likely at the man. They don’t look familiar, but immediately I wonder if it’s Greg and Petra. The woman looks tall, and her skin is almost porcelain, her eyes an icy blue. Her hair is practically white. Her smile, more like a smirk, gives me chills. “The first one is a man and woman talking, and the other two are the same man and woman in separate photos, grinning at someone, probably at each other.” I throw down the photos in disgust. “I can’t believe they would go to her gravesite – sickening.” “Yeah. I think you’re looking at her killers,” Bart whispers. “How did you get these, and who took them?” Bart steels a look that tells me not to ask questions. “I see. Thank you for these. I need to show them to the Chief of Police.” Bart’s eyes widen, “But I promise your name won’t come up.” He sighs deeply. “Thank you. I don’t want to get involved in another case, but I owe you this. "I don’t know how much more I can do, but if this helps, it will be worth it.” “You’ve done more than enough. If we can prove these two killed Goldie, it will be because of your work.” Lisa brings us our coffee, and I order a pastrami sandwich and fries, and Bart orders a bacon cheeseburger, fries, and key lime pie. “Man, I miss real food. The crap they serve at the prison is horrible, not even fit for a dog,” Bart says. “Well, it’s not supposed to be Hotel food. The whole point is not to end up there.” “You’re right. I won’t make that mistake again.” I believe him. After saying goodbye to Bart and him saying he would try to get more information, I head straight to the police station. Gray needs to see these photos. I pull into the parking lot and find a spot at the front. I swear this place has become my second home as many times as I have been here in the last year. In fact, most of the officers now greet me by name. I walk in, and the place buzzes with officers chatting or on their computers. I see Gray in his office, the door closed. Officer Lopez sits, engrossed in staring at her computer, talking with another officer. I start back towards his office, and Officer Lopez stops and comes over. “Hey, Patrice, what’s up?” “Hi. I need to give some photos to Gray. It may help with the investigation into Goldie’s murder.” Officer Lopez gives me a suspicious look, her eyes squinting. “Photos?” “Yes. Look, I can’t go into how I got these photos, but this could help solve her murder.” I can tell she’s not too happy with me, but I don’t care. She sighs deeply and shakes her head. “Follow me.” She knocks on the door and then slowly opens it. “Hey, you busy?” Gray turns from his computer and sees me. “Hey, Trice. You, OK?” “Yes, fine. But I have some photos you need to see that could help with Goldie’s murder investigation.” I retrieve the envelope from my purse and hand it to him. “What is this?” “Please, just look at them. Focus on two people, a man and woman, in three of them.” I come over and sit down; Officer Lopez follows and sits in the adjacent chair. I watch him pull out the photos and stare at each one, his brows furrowing deeper as he goes through them. “Where did you get these?” “I – I can’t tell you.” “Trice …” “I promised the person who gave them to me that they would remain anonymous.” “This doesn’t provide proof, you know?” “Yes, but isn’t it odd that two people who shouldn’t be there are smiling at a funeral? This could be Petra and Greg. At least look into this, and since you now have photos, you can compare them against the database.” Gray grins slightly. “Hell, Trice, you’re starting to sound like an investigator.” “Haha, that’s what Brock says.” “Did anyone see you with these photos?” It’s Officer Lopez speaking now. “I don’t think so. I met the person at Daniel’s Diner, and he was very careful.” Shoot, I just revealed his gender, and my face shows it. “So, this person who gave you the photos is a male.” It was a statement, not a question, and Gray sits back in his chair with one of the photos, looking at it again. “It does look like they could be the two we’re looking for.” “But why go to her gravesite?” I say. “It’s an act of control,” Officer Lopez says. “Most killers go to their victim’s funeral since it gives them an air of authority or a feeling that they got away with murder. It’s basically an F-you to the family and friends, and even the victim themselves.” “How cruel,” is all I can say.  "Okay, I'll put out a BOLO for these two. The least we can do is bring them in and question them. I don't like how or why you got these, but I'll take any lead I can get." I leave the police station for the first time in months, feeling like we may finally get justice for Goldie. On my way home, I see a car in the rearview mirror following quite close to me. It follows me to my neighborhood, and I start to feel uneasy. As I pull onto my street, so does the car. I keep looking in the mirror, my heart racing. The car is red and looks to be an older sedan. I struggle with pulling into my driveway or going right back out and to the police station again. I decide to pull up to my home, but before I do, I text Brock from Carplay and tell him someone is following me. I wait but don't see a reply message. I go past my home and see the garage door open, Brock working in his shop. Damn, he needs to know what’s going on. When he's working, he rarely has his phone. He told me he wouldn't hear it anyway. I exit our street, leave the neighborhood, and return to the station. The car is hanging back now, and the driver probably knows I’m onto them. When I pull into the station, the car flies by, and I flip my head back to see the license plate, but all I get is three letters: RMB. That might be enough, though. I text Gray, and seconds later, he throws up the door and comes to my car window. “Did you get the plates?” He asks while searching the area. “I only got three letters, RMB.” “That’s enough to make an identification. Come in.” I get out and follow Brock inside. Here we go again.

I stand there, speechless, confusion blanketing my face. Staring back at me is someone I hadn't seen in years and who I thought I'd never see again – Bart Camden. This man nearly destroyed my marriage. He was a "private detective" (not really) who, the first time I met him, informed me that he had proof Brock was doing illegal things and that he was having an affair to cover it up. When I confronted Brock, he vehemently denied it. This was five years ago. We had learned that Bart was in litigation with several other lawyers, Brock included, when he tried to blackmail high-profile lawyers, telling them he had dirt on them and would go to the media and their spouses if they didn't pony up obscene amounts of money. When some refused, including Brock, he found the spouses' contact info and called us. At first, he sounded very convincing, said he had photos, video, and proof that the lawyers were doing either unethical, illegal, or immoral things and that he would take what he knew to the media if we didn't give him $250,000. He showed me his badge, gave me his card, and kept in touch with me. For several weeks, I was torn on who and what to believe. "I know this is not what you wanted to hear, but I felt it was my duty to expose criminals where I see them," Bart had said. "Look, I know my husband, and there's no way he would do anything illegal – he's a lawyer and knows the system. Plus, he's not that kind of man." "Look, I get it. You want to believe him because he's your husband, but you can't always trust the ones you love." That night, I confronted Brock, and he swore this guy was a grifter and had nothing on any of the lawyers. To prove it, he represented himself and the lawyers. When he was through with him, they didn't even go to trial; his case was so weak. The judge sentenced him to 15 years for blackmail, perjury, falsified identity, and extortion. And here he was, standing at my door with a remorseful look. I can't believe the sleazy man with the receding black hairline, calico mustache that looks more red than brown, and almost painted-on, and green eyes that bore into you was free. Other than looking thinner, he has stayed the same. He's quite tall and at least 50 by now. But when I look at him, he gives off an air of being defeated – the once arrogant smile and tone are gone, and in its place is a broken man, his face a little gaunt. "Hello, Patrice." I want to slam the door in his face, and when I go to put some space between him and me, he takes a step forward and holds his hands up. "Whoa, I'm not here to start trouble." "Why are you free?" I fold my arms, waiting to hear what better be a damn good reason. "I was let out for good behavior. I turned my life to God while in prison and it taught me about forgiveness and grace. I know what I did was cruel and wrong, and I'm so sorry. I was able to be let out, only if I came to each family I wronged and made amends and agreed to two years' probation. Don't worry, I'm not here alone; my parole officer is sitting in the car," he turns and points to a gray sedan parked on our curb. The man has his window rolled down and he waves. "Anyway, is Brock here? I need to especially apologize to him." 'He is. Stay here." I close the door and rush to get Brock from the living room. The TV is loud, so I doubt he even heard us talking. "Brock, you'll never guess who's here?" He turns the volume down and looks at me, then flips his palm up. "Well? Who? I can't read your mind." "Bart...Camden." That got his attention. He sprung up off the couch. "What?" "Yeah, he's out of prison for good behavior and here to make amends. His parole officer is sitting outside in the car. He seems humble." Brock stares at me as if I just said the craziest thing. "Humble? I seriously doubt that." "Brock, we need to hear him out. He really looks like he's changed." "You know the saying that a tiger can't change his spots, well..." "Come on. He's waiting out on the porch." Brock reluctantly follows me, and as I open the door, Bart can't look at him. "Bart," Brock said with no emotion. "Hi Brock. Can-can I please come in?" He shuffles his feet. "Whatever." Bart walks through the door, and I invite him to sit in the chair while Brock and I sit on the couch. It's an awkward moment for all three of us. "Thank you for letting me in, I know you didn't want to," Bart says. "You're welcome," I say, trying to be polite but not too polite. After all, he did try and ruin our relationship. "I'm sure Patrice told you that I'm out of prison on good behavior and while there, I found my way to Christ and have since repented of my sins; however, to feel truly forgiven, I need to ask for your forgiveness and all the others I hurt and wronged. I know what I did was stupid, mean, and criminal. Back then, I was in desperate times, but it still doesn't excuse what I did. I'm sorry for everything I put you two through. I am trying to do what's right so I can live a life full of purpose and joy, but I can't do that until I set things right." He sounds so genuine that a little tear slips from my eye. I wipe it away and Brock sees and gasps at me. "You're crying? Trice, this man nearly destroyed our marriage and did destroy others' marriages. I'm sorry, but you put us through hell," he says looking squarely at Bart. Bart looks down, his shoulders sagging. "I know, and I will never live that down. I made some bad mistakes, and I went to prison for them," Brock says under his breath. "Brock, he did time and is out because he made amends and sought out God. Give him a chance." I'm always taught about second chances and forgiveness. If Christ could die on the cross for all our sins, then we need to forgive others who have wronged us so they can move forward. Holding grudges just punishes us, not the ones who harmed us. I remember one day my father told me, "If we don't learn to forgive and we hold grudges, we give our power away. Then we become victims and they become victors." I will never forget that. "I do appreciate you coming to apologize and ask for forgiveness, but I can't just forgive and forget. It's not that easy." Brock glances at me as if I should know better. "I understand. I don't expect you to forget – I'm just asking that someday you can forgive me. I'm only here to apologize for what I did. I'm on probation, and for a few months, I will be volunteering my time in the city. It's the least I can do." He leans forward and places his elbows on his knees. I see them shaking slightly. He's nervous, and it shows. "Thank you, Bart, for gathering up the courage to come and see us. I'm sure that was tough to do," I say. He nods and stands up. "I don't want to take more of your time than is necessary, so I will go now. Just know that I have learned my lesson, and I will be helping the police with a few cases they are struggling with. I figured the least I could do is lend my skills of hacking and such to hopefully catch some criminals." I wonder if he knows about Troy and all that stuff or if he's strictly helping with petty crimes. I decide not to pursue it. I stand up and follow him to the door while Brock doesn't move, lost in thought. I know it will take him a while before he can forgive Bart. "Thanks again, Bart. It's been a tough year, and it's nice when someone can apologize when they've done something wrong, and justice can be served." As if he can tell something is bothering me, he stops at the door and turns around. "I heard about Troy and everything that has happened, and I just can't believe it. Troy and I used to be friends, and even though he did some shitty things, look who's talking, I know he loved his kids. And Goldie was also my first-grade teacher in the '90s. When I found out she was murdered, it shocked me. I hope Chief can solve this case." I'm surprised he knows so much, but then it's been in the news for months, and I have no clue how long he's been out of prison. "Yeah, it's been a very hard year, and there are still two co-conspirators who haven't been caught. We've been threatened, and well, the person who put the hit on Troy tried to kill us. Believe me, I'm trying hard to solve Goldie's murder. She's the one who told me about Troy's killer." I stop and wonder why I'm spilling this to him. "Man, I can't believe that happened to you, and to Goldie. Listen," he says, stroking his chin. "Let me help. And before you say no, hear me out." I'm not quite sure what to say, for some reason, my gut tells me to listen. "I've developed some, uh, skills in actual investigating. Give me a week and let me see what I can come up with. I have some connections who can do some digging. It's the least I can do." I look over my shoulder to see if Brock is around or even listening, but the TV is on, and he's still on the couch. I know Brock would vehemently disallow Bart to do investigating on Goldie's death, but I owe it to her to solve her murder. "Is it anything illegal? "Haha, no. I learned my lesson. I just know some people who are real investigators who could look into the case and do some research on these two people still missing. Do you have their names?" "I only know their first names: Greg and Petra. I do know they are Grantsville citizens, but I have no idea if they are still here, though." Bart scrunches his eyebrows. "Okay, no problem. It may be a little more difficult to find them, but I'll do what I can." His face changes, and he looks anxious. "I better go." He rushes out just as Brock joins me at the door. "What were you two talking about?" "Not much. He knows about Goldie, said she was his teacher as well, so we talked about our memories of her." I hate lying to Brock, but the last thing I need is to have him upset with me, allowing him to use his connections to investigate her murder. "I don't trust him," Brock said, staring at him as he gets in the car. "He did his time, and he apologized. What more do you want?" "I don't know. I just don't buy his whole remorse spiel." Just hearing him say this tells me I was right to not say anything about what we really talked about. "I know, but I think we should give him a chance. I think he's sincere. He wants to atone for what he did." Brock doesn't say anything, and I don't push him. And yes, I have my doubts too, but if he can help find Goldie's killer, this whole nightmare can finally be over. We all need a break.

The days seem to blend into each other as we go back and forth from the courthouse to the station and back home each night. After Colton Cosgrove, we learn, confesses to helping dump Troy's body, he takes a plea deal. But the other two co-conspirators are still out there, and Gray has put out arrest warrants. It's not until two weeks after he takes that plea that Jeff pleads guilty to putting the hit on Troy and attempting to murder Brock and me. His sentencing is set for May 14th, nearly a year after Troy was killed. Since he pleads guilty, it's up to the lawyers and the judge to determine his fate. I don't want his money; I want justice. We still don't have a confession on who killed Goldie. I can't imagine it being the female, Petra, or the other male, Greg, both of whom were involved in the plot to dump Troy's body. Is there another killer? The thought makes me shiver, tiny bumps forming on my arms as I push a shopping cart around Reddy's on a Monday afternoon. After loading the groceries in the car, my eye wanders to another car one row over. Someone is blasting rock music, and I briefly recognize it as ACDC's "Bang Your Head," which instantly throws me back to the '80s. Sometimes I miss the simplicity of that time. I was a young mom in the late 80s, and we didn’t worry about so much information being fed to us twenty-four a day. It was easier to raise kids (not as easy as the 50s) and there wasn’t so much political correctness. I snap out of my memory trance and shut the car trunk. Looking around, the world looks normal, even though grief, sadness, anxiety, and stress are all around me. We all put on facades and go on with life. When I get home, I see Brock out in the front. He’s slapping on a fresh coat of white paint to our doorframe. It’s an unusually balmy March day and I only need a light jacket. The sun pours down upon me as I come outside after unloading and putting the groceries away. You’d think it was any other day in Grantsville and has been for the past year, even if it’s been anything but. “Looking good,” I say, shielding my eyes from the sun. “You think? I figure it could use a fresh coat after 15 years.” I can tell Brock is going stir-crazy being home. He wants to be in the city, taking on cases and winning, and socializing with people. I took a break from posting on my YouTube channel, telling my subscribers that I was dealing with personal issues and would be back soon. Next week, we meet up again for my gardening group. The last time, it seemed we only talked about the crazy that had happened last year – the last thing I wanted to discuss. I understand, but if everyone knew the hell Brock and I have been through, they might be more sensitive. I had the group promise to talk about gardening, and that was all. We’ll see what happens. I go back inside and notice Herc barking at the sliding back door, instantly putting me on edge. I cautiously look outside, half expecting to see someone in our backyard, but I only see that stupid cat who seems to have made our tree his home. “Herc, quiet. It’s just the dumb cat.” I grab his collar and drag him away. For a split second, I think I see something out of the corner of my eye, but when I look back, it’s gone. It’s just my mind playing tricks on me. No one is out there. As I’m folding a pile of laundry, I hear my phone vibrate. I pick it up and push the phone icon. “Hey, Trice, Gray here.” “Hi, Gray.” “Listen, there’s been a … well, some kind of hiccup with the case.” His voice sounds strained, and my heart skips a beat. “What hiccup?” “Jeff has been released.” My mouth drops open. “What? How?” I feel faint. “He has a damn good lawyer, and he made up some bullshit story that you and Brock threatened him and his family, and it’s why he tied you two up.” “Are you kidding me? What absolute rubbish!” “I know. He also said Troy’s death was an accident, that he fell on a step leading to the cabin, smacked his head and got a severe concussion. Grant, who went to medical school, tried to save him but wasn’t able to. They were both scared and didn’t report to the police.” “Hold up. Jeff confessed to having Troy killed and poisoning us. I’m so confused.” What the hell is happening? This is supposed to be over. “He said he was forced to confess, that he was intimidated, and when you guys came to Long Island, you all but accused him of murder. You didn’t, right Trice?” I have to think back to dinner at Jeff’s home. I recall talking about Troy’s death and that someone killed him and then dumped his body, and I guess I could have – “Trice, please tell me you didn’t say anything to Jeff.” “Well, I … “ “Damn it, you did.” Gray’s long and deep sigh makes me feel ashamed. “What did you say?” “He asked how life was in Grantsville, and I might have said that Troy’s body was found and that someone killed him and did he know anything about it.” “I can’t believe you. You may have just screwed this case; you do know that, right?” I had no idea Jeff would do this “I’m sorry, Gray. I had to know if he was involved.” I should have kept my shut. “So, you basically accuse him of murder at his home? Do you know how bad this sounds? Any leverage we had over him is gone.” At this point, he’s nearly yelling at me, and I feel about 4 inches tall. I realize what a stupid thing I did and wish I could unwind back to that day. If I had kept silent, I wouldn’t have put Brock and me in danger. We could have come back and told Gray what we found and let him take care of it. Of course, it was Brock who found the files and took pics, and Jeff found them, which, if he said something about that, there’s no evidence, just his word against ours. This just keeps getting worse. “Gray, I don’t know what to say. I feel so ashamed. I thought we were helping the case, not hurting it. What can I do?” I hate the silence on the other end. “You and Brock need to find some evidence to tie him to Troy’s murder and your attempted murder. We need something or he walks free.” “What about the arsenic they found in his blood?” That was no accident. “Arsenic in different concentrations can be in food. The bloodroot was at the cabin. In other words, both can be explained, other than murder.” This can’t be right. And then it hit me. If we were also poisoned with arsenic, it would still be in our blood. “Gray, we need to be tested for arsenic. It’s not even been a month since we were poisoned. When our blood comes back with it in our system, that’s too much of a coincidence, right?” I can tell Gray is thinking about it. “That might work. Okay, you and Brock get an appointment for a blood test. We can prove that he poisoned you with arsenic.” “I’ll call right after I get off with you.” “Alright, Trice. You may have just saved the case.” I blow out a breath. I end the call and immediately contact the doctor for a blood test. They can get us in tomorrow morning. I go out and tell Brock everything, and at first, he’s just as angry as Gray. “I knew this would come back to bite us, Trice. We should never have gone there in the first place.” His face shows disappointment – the creases showing prominently between his brows. Then his face softens, and he looks sad. “You suspected it was the same person, and I never listened. This is my fault as much as yours.” “No, I should have just not said a word and enjoyed our trip. We could have taken the pics and acted as if everything was fine. If I wouldn’t have accused him of something, he probably would have never known we knew. No, this is my fault, and I need to make it right.” The following day, Brock and I are sitting in the doctor’s waiting room waiting to get our blood drawn. Some people are there, sitting in red and gray leather chairs. One is with a little boy, and he’s watching Encanto on the large TV in the back.  The large aquarium on a black stand in the corner houses colorful fish swimming back and forth, yellow, orange, and a few multi-colored ones. The lightly colored blue Berber carpet contrasts perfectly with two large portraits of colorful bouquets, one with yellow and white roses with baby’s breath and the other with yellow and pink carnations and blue salvias that hung on the back wall. The walls are painted lavender, which gives it a calming effect. “Brock and Patrice.” I hear our names, and I get up and head to the waiting open door. “You just need your blood draw?” The nurse with the white scrubs, short red bobbed hair, and green sparkly eyes says as we follow her down the hall. “Yes. We need to know if there’s arsenic in our blood,” I answer back. The nurse, identified as Bridgette from her nametag, looks back at me with a confused look. “It’s a long story, but we think we were poisoned by it.” Nurse Bridgette places her hand over her chest. “Oh, how awful!” She leads us to the lab and tells us to wait in their waiting room while she informs the phlebotomist of what to test for. Suddenly, I feel like all eyes are on Brock and me when two come into the waiting room with Nurse Bridgette and take us individually into the room. I inform the male, who looks like he could pass as a younger version of Tom Cruise, that I get faint if my blood is drawn in a sitting position. He nods and leads me to an empty room. He’s quite tall and thin, and his brown hair and eyes show off his white face, light blue scrubs, and white lab coat. He looks no older than his mid-twenties. After we get our blood drawn, we’re told to wait for the doctor. About ten minutes later, Doctor Henshaw, our doctor for the last 15 years, comes in, a frown planted on his mouth. His brown hair is starting to gray, and you can see a receding hairline, but he looks fit with no fat in the middle. He reminds me of Sean Connery in his younger years, except for the British accent. “So, I understand you might have been poisoned with arsenic?” Straight to the point. “Yeah, it’s a long story, but we went to Long Island and, well …” I struggle with what to say. “We think someone poisoned us, the same one who had Troy Carmichael killed.” Doctor Henshaw sits down and looks fascinated with the story Brock tells about, well, everything since last year. “I heard about that but had no idea you two were involved. I know Jeff; I was his doctor for years and would have never thought he’d be capable of doing something like that.” We never did either, but here we are. “I put a rush on the test, so it should be back within 24 hours. Do you have any residual effects? Arsenic can have long-term damage, so I think it would be wise to get a full blood workup and check for any signs.” Great, another thing to worry about. When we both agreed to further blood tests, we got more blood drawn. Doctor Henshaw said he would contact us by tomorrow with the results. “If you have any symptoms or signs of further effects, let me know immediately. He then rattles off a list of everything we could experience now or in the future. By the time we arrive home, I’m exhausted and just want to crash. Brock flips on the TV and immerses himself in a mind-numbing sci-fi movie. I go upstairs with Herc and lie down. It’s not quite noon, but I feel like I’ve been up all day. Before long, I feel myself drifting off. When I wake, it’s still light outside, but I’m surprised when I see that it’s nearly 4:00. I don’t ever take long naps, but something about having eight vials of blood drawn takes it out of you. Thankfully, the dull headache I had earlier is gone. I get up and yawn, stretching my back. I feel famished, and no wonder. The last time I ate was before getting our blood drawn nearly 8 hours ago. I run cold water and splash it on my face. It feels refreshing. After brushing my hair and teeth, I walk downstairs, Herc on my heels. It’s quiet, and I can see why. Brock is sprawled out on the couch, snoring softly. I tiptoe into the kitchen and grab a feta chicken berry salad bowl I had bought at the store. It’s light but feels me up. When I finish, Brock walks in, his hair sticking up. He yawns. “Man, we both crashed.” I point to his head. ‘You’re sticking up, dear.” He pats his hair down. “Man, I’m starving.” “I was too, so I ate this salad. There are shortbread pepperoni pizzas in the freezer,” I say, throwing away the plastic salad bowl. “Great,” he says and retrieves two and tosses them in the microwave. That man will eat anything. I make a pot of coffee and pour him and me a cup. At this rate, we’ll be up late. I smell the aroma of straight black coffee and put a little cream and sugar in it for taste. Brock likes his plain. I stare at his arm, that still sports the yellow bandage wrapped around it. I ripped mine off the moment we got home. “Gonna keep that on all day?” I motion to his arm, and he chuckles and removes it. Just a hint of a prick is noticeable. A small bruise is forming on my arm, which is typical. When I get my blood drawn, I often end up with a blown vein, and they have to do it again. I was told I have small veins and need to stay hydrated when getting blood drawn. This time, I followed the instructions, and they quickly found a good vein. But I bruise easily, always have. It’s the same with my mother and sisters. We are just settling down to watch March Madness when I hear a knock at the door. Without thinking, I get up and answer it without checking through the peephole. When I open the door, the blood drains from my face. It can’t be ….

After Gray takes the intruder away, Officer Lopez stays behind and interviews us. You can tell she's drained, just like us. Her facial expressions shift from confusion to anger as we recount what happened. Her long hair, typically in a ponytail, flows past her shoulders and down her back. It's been a relentless year, filled with sleepless nights and constant worry about my family's safety. We lost a neighbor and a former teacher, had a friend's home broken into, and nearly lost our own lives. The ordeal isn't over, and I'm determined to find out who killed Goldie, no matter what it takes. She sacrificed herself to get the truth to me and, by extension, Gray. As Officer Lopez leaves, I feel the exhaustion creeping in. The days, weeks, and possibly months ahead will be mentally taxing, but I have to stay strong. Earlier, Leah suggested getting the gardening group together for an upcoming Spring meeting. I'm initially hesitant, considering the recent events, but now it feels like the right thing to do. We need to show our community that we won't let criminals dictate our lives. It's been months since our last meeting, and it's time to reintroduce some semblance of normalcy amidst the chaos and uncertainty. In the next few days, Brock and I find ourselves caught up in rounds of questioning, first with the uncooperative intruder and then with Jeff regarding the events at his home. But tonight, as we prepare for the gardening group meeting, all I want is to discuss the upcoming season and momentarily set aside the weight of our recent troubles. Since the arrest of Jeff and the intruder, Gray believes our home is safe. He suspects the intruder is Colton, who has been terrorizing our street for months. The other two involved in Troy's disposal remain elusive, but with Jeff's confession, the truth is now within our reach. As I stand outside, I notice the sun ascending higher in the sky, signaling the arrival of March and the impending Spring. Utah's chilly climate might persist for a while, but the promise of warmth looms on the horizon. The snow has melted, leaving behind buds on the trees and the cheerful chirping of baby birds. Since the threat has diminished with the capture of Jeff, Colton, and Grant, I yearn to venture on a walk. However, Gray advises me to remain vigilant for a while longer. I examine my reflection in the mirror and note the emergence of more gray hairs and wrinkles. The past six months have aged us both prematurely. Since Troy's discovery and the subsequent threats, I've been unable to visit my grandkids in person. We make do with FaceTime, trying to maintain a façade of normalcy, but kids are perceptive. They sense it's not safe here yet. This knowledge fuels my anger, often driving me to the brink and making me want to punch a hole in the wall or confront Jeff himself. I place the blame squarely on Jeff's shoulders. His wife's affair should have been a matter for personal resolution. Divorce or seek help, but don't resort to murder. Don't orchestrate the disposal of a body, don't issue threats, and certainly don't endanger innocent lives. My initial fear has transformed into a burning anger, a deep-seated resentment towards his reckless actions. How could he be so callous, so willing to destroy lives for his selfish agenda? It's a question that gnaws at me every day. Since the intruder has been caught, Gray thinks our home is safe now and that this person is Colton who has been terrorizing our street for months now. Even though there were two others involved in the dumping of Troy, there was no direct evidence linking them to the crime. Jeff did tell Gray who was all involved, but it’s been months. The others could be gone by now, or they have no clue (more likely) that Jeff confessed everything, and Gray is looking for them. I want to go for a walk but haven’t since last September. Gray told me to still be watchful for a while yet, so all threat is gone with the arrest of Jeff, Colton, and Grant at least. When I looked in the mirror this morning, I noticed more gray hairs popping up and wrinkles gracing my face. It’s like Brock and I aged five years in the last six months. “Hey, whatcha doing out here?” I hear Brock behind me. I turn and smile. “Just enjoying some sun. I’m so tired of being cooped up, even with it still being cold out here. I want normal to make a comeback,” I chuckle somewhat. Brock comes toward me and wraps his arms around me. “I feel the same. But, with the intruder in custody and the cards starting to fall, I feel like justice can finally be served. We just have to be patient a little longer, Trice.” He sweeps my hair from my back and rubs it gently. “You know, we make a pretty good team.” I pull back from him. “Yes, yes, we do. I don’t know what I would have done without you.” I reach up and kiss him, my lips melding with his; I sense a mixed taste of salt and coffee bean, which tastes comforting.  Suddenly, I want to hold onto Brock and not let go. A few times now, he could have been killed. It makes me panic to think that if he dies before me, how I would move on without him. His father died at a young age, and his mother had to, but the stories he told me of her need to work two jobs to make ends meet and then Brock needing to step up and do what his father no longer could do, stressful and put a lot of pressure on a kid who just wanted to enjoy childhood but knew he couldn’t. “Well, that was unexpected, but I’m not complaining,” Brock says as he pulls his lips away from mine. So, what are your plans for the day? It feels weird not to be going to the office, but it gives me time to fiddle around in the shop. Maybe I’ll clean it up a little.” I smile. I’ve been asking him to clean it for months, but he was so busy he didn’t have time. Since he’s on a sabbatical for the next month or so, he has plenty of time – well, until the trial starts. A brisk wind picks up, and I wrap my arms around myself and head back inside. It’s laundry day, and since we have to wait for the court hearing for both Jeff and Colton, who I still believe is the intruder, it’s best to go on as normally as possible.  The upcoming gardening group meeting and the prospect of reconnecting with friends bring a glimmer of hope. It's time to demonstrate our resilience and show that the actions of criminals won't cow us. The following days will be challenging, but I'm determined to stay strong. The arrest of Jeff and Colton marks a turning point in our quest for justice. The memory of Goldie's sacrifice continues to inspire me to seek the truth and ensure her legacy lives on. As I load the laundry, my phone buzzes, and I notice my youngest son's name flashing on the screen. Every time he calls, a pang of anxiety washes over me. My initial thought invariably skews towards some grim scenario, fearing that something terrible may have happened to someone we care about. “Hey, son,” I say after swiping left to answer. “Hi, Mom, long time no speak,” he chuckles. It has been a few months since I’ve heard from him. He doesn’t act like anyone is hurt, so I silently thank God. “Yes, it has been. I was beginning to wonder if you’d fallen off the face of the earth,” I joke. “No, but we do have some news …” He trails off, and I perk up. “Ok …?” I match his tone. He’s silent. “Ian Brock Summers, tell me now!” “Are you ready to become a Grandma again?” My hand flies to my mouth. “What?” “Yep, baby number two is finally on the way and healthy.” I want to cry. Ian and his wife, Stephanie, have seen heartbreak after heartbreak when they started trying for baby number two after Clarise turned two. She’s now 6, and after four miscarriages, one when Stephanie was 22 weeks along, it finally happened! “Ian, I’m so happy! How far along, and when’s she due?” She’s 19 weeks, and we just had the ultrasound yesterday! We also found out we’re having a boy!” Another grandson to add to the three we already have, and he’s healthy! “Right now, the due date is July 4th! “Oh, I’m so happy,” and the tears streaming down my face show it. “We can’t believe how it happened. You know we stopped IVF since it was just too hard on Steph, right?” “Yeah, you mentioned that last year.” “Well, we stopped trying, and she didn’t even know she was pregnant until she started to show. We took four tests, and they all showed two very pink lines. We were shocked and scared when we had the ultrasound. He looks absolutely perfect, though; he has my nose and Steph’s lips. We also want to come visit after he’s born in July.” It suddenly hits me that we never told Ian about Troy or anything else. He lives in South Carolina, and Brock and I figured he didn’t need to know and worry. But now that there will be a trial, it will go on for months. He needs to know, but then I worry he will stay away, and we won’t get to see our new grandson or Clarise, who we haven’t seen in person since she was four. I decide to hold off until I know more. “Oh, we would love that!” “Save the date then. Sometime in August, when it’s safe to travel.” We talk a little longer, and I get to say hi to a very excited Clarise talking about her baby brother she will get to see in summer. After, I rush to the shop adjacent to the garage, where Brock is cleaning up. He’s sweeping, kicking up dust. “You’ll never guess who just called!” “Gray?” “No … better. Ian called and they had some news … “ I trail off and realize Ian gets that snarky tone from me. “And?” He sighs. “They’re pregnant!!” Brock’s eyes widen, and then he smiles. “It’s a boy and due on July 4th! They just had the ultrasound yesterday and he’s healthy!” He closes his eyes. “Oh, thank God.” “I’m so happy for them and us. But they want to come after the baby is born, in August. They don’t know about Troy or anything else. I didn’t have the heart to tell him.” “That’s right. We didn’t tell him, only Eric. Josh doesn’t even know.” He sits down on his bench with the broom still in his hand. “Yeah, I begged Eric not to tell his brothers. They didn’t need to know until Jeff was caught and everyone involved charged and in prison.” ‘Yeah, but if this trial goes through the summer, they will know one way or the other. It has to come from us, not the media.” “I know, but can we wait until we at least have more info and a trial date? We still don’t know who this intruder is, and if it’s not Colton, we’re still in danger. Let’s wait until at least May, OK?” Brock grits his teeth and he starts to shake his head. “Brock, you know how the boys are, especially Ian. They will overreact and scold us for not saying anything.” “Yes, but they will do that no matter when we tell them.” He has a point. “Look, let me take care of this. I can talk to them logically, whereas you –“ “Are too emotional,” I finish his sentence. “Well, yeah. You know how the boys protect you.” “They are very protective.” “Yes, so let me handle them, OK?” “Okay. I just don’t want them to freak out. August is five months out, and by then, the case should be over, right?” I should know better than to ask Brock that. His last case was nearly nine months long. “Trice, you know I can’t promise that, right?” “Yeah.” I lower my head, knowing he’s right. “Tell you what. I’ll wait till April to tell them. A court hearing probably won’t even happen for a few weeks. Once we know more, then we can make a decision on how best to tell them. OK?” “OK. Thanks, hon.” He got up and walked over to me. I immediately went into his arms. “We’re going to get through this.” Almost as if on cue, my phone buzzes. I pull it out of my pocket and see a text from Gray. “It’s him, Brock.” I show him the message. The flood of tears can’t be held back, and I cry in his arms. It’s over. It’s finally over.

Two days have passed since the incident, and I find myself watering my houseplants when a sudden knock on my door startles me, causing my heart to race. I consider the possibility of a squad car parked outside, prompting the visitor to knock. Yet, my instincts drive me to check the peephole, and a sense of relief washes over me as I see Leah. I quickly open the door, and she greets me with an immediate and heartfelt hug. "Oh, I'm so glad you're OK!" I reciprocate, wrapping my arms around her, realizing how much I've missed her. As we pull away, I take in her appearance, noting her yoga pants and the dark red sweater beneath her black pea coat. Her impeccably styled hair still stands out, but I can see the signs of exhaustion in her eyes. "We're fine, but I'm so sorry about your house," I say, leading her into the living room. I go on to explain that my husband and I were away for our anniversary, and our house had been torn apart during our absence. Leah listens intently as I describe the chaos left behind by the intruders. "They were either looking for the ring or trying to divert the police's attention," I continue. "But they won't find it because Brock and I already did." I watch Leah's eyes widen as I share the story of how we found the ring and where it is now. "Wow," she exclaims, visibly surprised. "We got in trouble with Gray, but he didn't arrest us because he knows the ring will bring Jeff down," I explain. Leah's eyes widen even further as she places her hand over her mouth, clearly absorbed in the gravity of the situation. I go on to reveal more about our encounters with Jeff, including our visit to his home in Long Island, where he tied us up in his guest bedroom. Leah is left speechless by the time I finish my account. "I can't believe he tried to kill you," she finally says. "It just shows you what someone will do to avoid getting caught." "I think he's so afraid of losing his family that he would rather risk going to prison than have his wife leave and take the kids," I respond. Leah shakes her head in disbelief. "You have to be careful. He probably doesn't think he has anything else to lose now that he will be arrested. He may send his goons to exact his revenge." "Yeah, I know. But, after nearly a year, Troy's murder will finally be solved and possibly Goldie's as well," I reflect. "I can't believe everything that has happened in the last 9 months. Nothing has ever happened on our street, let alone our neighborhood," Leah says with a concerned look. "I look over my shoulder whenever I go out or leave for somewhere." "I know, and I'm sorry you got caught up in all this. It wasn't my intention; I hope you know that," I admit with a crack in my voice. "I will never forgive myself if something happens to you." Leah reassures me, mentioning that she now carries a Glock for protection, even though she once detested guns. Her newfound sense of caution is evident. Before I can comment further, my phone buzzes in my pocket, and I retrieve it to read the three words on the screen: "We got him." I share the news with Leah, and she departs, but I can't divulge any details until Jeff has been indicted. Left alone, I sit on the couch, contemplating the recent turn of events. I call Gray to get more information, and what he reveals leaves me in awe. "Gray, tell me everything," I urge. "You'll never believe this, Trice, but Jeff turned himself in," Gray shares. "What?" I exclaim in astonishment. As Gray continues to provide details, I hang on every word. Jeff's confession and the remorse he's expressed are shocking, and I can't help but feel a mix of relief and sadness. His decision to turn himself in impacts not only him but also his family, especially his children. "That little girl is smart," I mention, recalling the day we were tied up and the way she had helped us escape without saying a word to her father. Leah continues to voice her concerns about the remaining co-conspirators and their potential actions. "I think he's so afraid of losing his family that he would rather risk going to prison than have his wife leave and take the kids," I reflect. Leah shakes her head in disbelief. "You have to be careful. He probably doesn't think he has anything else to lose now that he will be arrested. He may send his goons to exact his revenge." "Yeah, I know. But, after nearly a year, Troy's murder will finally be solved, and possibly Goldie's as well," I express with a glimmer of hope. "I can't believe everything that has happened in the last 9 months. Nothing has ever happened on our street, let alone our neighborhood," Leah says with a concerned look on her face. "I look over my shoulder every time I go out or leave for somewhere." "I know, and I'm sorry you got caught up in all this. It wasn't my intention; I hope you know that," I admit with a crack in my voice. "I will never forgive myself if something happens to you." Leah reassures me, mentioning that she now carries a Glock for protection, even though she once detested guns. Her newfound sense of caution is evident. Before I can comment further, My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I swiftly retrieve it, my eyes fixed on the three words displayed: "We got him." I hurriedly inform Leah that I have an appointment, and she leaves. There's an intense need to share this moment, but I remind myself that I can't say anything to anyone until Jeff faces indictment. I lower myself onto the couch and dial Gray's cell phone number. After several rings, Gray answers, and I waste no time in getting to the heart of the matter. "Gray, tell me everything," I implore. His words leave me astounded: "You'll never believe this, Trice, but Jeff turned himself in." My head flops back against the cushions as I absorb this astonishing revelation. "Yeah, he walked in and told one of my deputies that he ordered the hit on Troy and tried to kill you and Brock," Gray continues. "He said he knew it was time to confess, especially since he tried killing you guys, and once you escaped, it was just a matter of time before he was arrested. He’s ready to accept the consequences. He also said he was very sorry for what he did, not just to Troy but to you and Brock, in particular. We questioned him for hours and he told us about the affair, the cabin, Troy’s accident, how Grant had poisoned him, and then when you guys came, how he slipped arsenic in your coffees and tied you to the bed. He’s now been arraigned." I hang on Gray's every word, my emotions ranging from shock to relief. "He said the guilt was eating at him because his daughter asked why he tied you up and wouldn’t let you leave. He didn’t have an answer. She then asked him what he would do if someone tied her up. He said he knew then he had to turn himself in and make it right, even if it meant he would be imprisoned." I nod, remembering the cleverness of Jeff's daughter that day and how she played a crucial role in our escape. My initial excitement at Jeff turning himself in starts to wane, replaced by a sense of sadness, knowing that his children will bear the brunt of his choices. "Yeah, she is," I respond to Gray's mention of Jeff's daughter. "He seemed very remorseful, even cried. He said he didn’t want his kids to think he was a monster. And since we know he didn’t kill Goldie or break into Leah and Trevor’s home, we need to focus on Colton, as he has the most to lose, aside from Jeff. It was his wife’s ring he lost in the same area Troy was dumped. But now that Jeff has confessed and told us about the whole plan, including everyone involved, we can now get them all." A deep breath escapes me, signaling that it's finally ending. "I still can’t believe he turned himself in just like that. But kids can be very influential." "That is very true," Gray acknowledges. "He has contacted his attorney, and his court date is Friday." With three more days to go, the anticipation mounts. "You and Brock will need to testify once his trial starts. Are you ready for this?" Despite the reluctance to relive the trauma and confront the painful details about Goldie, I muster my resolve. "I'm ready, and I will call Brock too. He went to work to alert his team that he was taking a sabbatical until the case was over." "Okay. You will need to come to the courthouse at 10:00 A.M. on Friday." "We’ll be there." I bid Gray farewell and toss my phone on the couch, my thoughts racing to process this newfound information. I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them, recognizing that there are still three co-conspirators to locate. We're not out of the woods just yet, but the finish line is finally in sight.  ------------------------------------------ After I shared what I'd learned with Brock upon his return home, his expression contorted with a mixture of pain and regret. "I'm glad Jeff did the right thing, but he alone destroyed his family. It’s too bad because he seemed to be a good father and loved his kids. Now, they will grow up without him." I watch his face, feeling an overwhelming sense of empathy wash over me. Jeff had been like a fourth son to us, a constant presence in our lives, almost like part of the family. I remembered the time he had mentioned that our game night was what a real family looked like, and it tugged at my heartstrings. I reach over and embrace Brock, understanding the weight of the forthcoming testimony. "This is going to be hard testifying against him. I never thought he had the capability of murdering someone," I confess. Stepping back, I add, "But now, we need to be more worried about Colton. He’s still looking for the ring, but who knows if he’s still in the city after breaking into Leah and Trevor’s house. I doubt anyone else did it. And once the tests come back with his fingerprints, we will have solid proof. It could take weeks, but Gray can bring in Colton for questioning. I mean, even though he didn’t kill Troy, he did help dump his body." Brock nodded, his expression a mix of relief and determination. "Thankfully, I’m home for a bit, and we still have police protection. It’s almost over, Trice." Later that night, after we'd ordered food for delivery and settled into bed, me with a book and Brock engrossed in his iPad, a sudden loud noise pierces the quiet, making me jump. Herc, our loyal dog, starts growling instantly. My head snaps up, and I see Herc's intense gaze fixed on the doorway, ears perked up. Brock, too, had heard it. He reaches into his nightstand drawer, retrieving his gun, and with a tense motion, he cocks it and points it toward the door. My heart races as fear grips me, and I dread what might be on the other side. Brock climbs out of bed and moves silently toward the door, the gun leading the way. "SHHHH, Herc," he whispers, glancing back at me. "Stay here and close the door behind me." "Brock, please be careful," I implore, hurrying out of bed to follow him to the door. He ventures out, with the loaded gun guiding his path. I try to keep Herc from following, gently taking hold of his collar, urging him back, and then closing the door. My hands are clammy, and panic surges within me. I could do nothing but wait, hoping it wasn't Colton inside our home and praying for Brock's safety. I strain to listen through the door but can’t discern anything. To keep Herc from growling, I stroke his ears and whisper soothing words. I briefly contemplate hiding in the bathroom, but then I hear a gunshot echo through the house. Without hesitation, I fling the door open and rush into the hallway. "Stay down!" Brock's voice reaches me, sounding like he’s in the living room. I hurry down the stairs to find Brock aiming his gun at a figure clad in a black ski mask, jeans, and a hoodie. The intruder clutches his leg, blood gushing from the wound. "Call Gray," Brock instructs me urgently. Fortunately, my phone, which I had grabbed from the nightstand, is in my hand. I rapidly dial Gray's number. "Trice?" he answers. "Someone broke into our home. Brock shot him in the leg." "Be right over." Click. "Who are you?" Brock demands. Silence. "Listen, you bastard, I'm not afraid to shoot you again." "Okay, fine." "Take off the mask." The intruder complies, revealing a face I don't recognize. His short, spiky sandy brown hair framed deep brown eyes that glare defiantly at Brock. Bulging muscles suggest a frequent gym visitor. "I'm going to bleed out," the man whimpers. "No, you're not. I barely grazed your leg," Brock retorts. I can see the blood still flowing from the wound, knowing it was more than a graze. The intruder needs medical attention. "Brock, we have to staunch the blood," I urge, rushing to the bathroom to fetch an old towel. I return and swiftly wrap it around the man's leg, tying it tightly to stem the bleeding. "What are you doing in our house?" Brock demands, his eyes never leaving the intruder. Before the man can respond, I hear a loud pounding on the front door, followed by Gray's voice announcing his arrival. I rush over and open the door, and Gray, along with Officer Lopez, burst in. "Are you both OK?" Gray inquires, stepping into the living room and spotting the injured intruder. "Oh shit," he mutters. "Okay, we've got it from here, Brock." Brock lowers his gun and lets it hang at his side. Gray moves swiftly to secure the intruder, handcuffing his hands behind his back. "Damn, chill out," the man complains. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law..." Gray recites Miranda rights. While Officer Lopez calls 911, Gray attempts to extract information about the intruder's intentions and identity. The man remains stubbornly silent. It must be Colton.