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I wake up feeling extremely groggy and immediately notice that I'm strapped to the bed. Panic surges as I try to free myself, but the tight ropes cut into my wrists. I glance over and see that Brock is still asleep, his hands also bound to the bedpost. My feet are tightly bound as well, but thankfully, there's nothing in my mouth, though it feels parched, like I could down a large glass of water in seconds. "Brock," I whisper, trying to get his attention. When that doesn't work, I say it louder, and finally, he opens his eyes, his expression filled with shock as he struggles against his restraints. "It's no good. The rope is pretty tight," I tell him, trying to stay calm. "Trice, w-what happened?" he stammers. "We were drugged at breakfast, and Jeff tied us to the bedposts. It's a safe bet to say he knows we know the truth." "Damn, that bastard." Brock's jaw tightens, and he flexes his neck muscles. "I knew I should have listened to my intuition." "I should have listened to you—again. I'm sorry. We left Utah to be safe, and now, we're trapped in a psychopath's home." He attempts to move his feet back and forth. My arms start to ache, and I wonder how long we'll be stuck like this. "I don't think Jeff is a psychopath. I think he's been deeply hurt and is trying to protect his family." I recall the genuine concern in his eyes when he talked about his kids, especially Ian. The special bond he has with his son. If our family was in danger, Brock might have also taken drastic steps to protect us. "He's the one that put his family in danger when he got Troy killed, paid off the killers, and lied to cover it all up." I nod. "That's true. But now, he's been backed into a corner, and unfortunately, we played right into his hands." "But how did he know we knew anything?" "His goons. They've been casing out the house, the ones who were in the garage and in our backyard months ago. The ones who sent the threatening letter. They know who I am because of my YouTube channel." Brock closes his eyes and shakes his head. "Of course they do." "Listen, I'm sorry this is happening, but it's not my fault." "I didn't say it was, but you are well-known in the YouTube community. It's not hard to figure out everything about you, our family, and our home. And since we live right next door to where they dumped the body, they were going to keep an eye out." I had forgotten about that. Even though Grant confessed, there was no direct evidence linking Jeff or his accomplices to the crime. Sure, Goldie said the five were involved, but what proof did she have now that she's dead? The recording was the only thing we had; well, Gray has it now. "Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry I put you and our family in danger." Brock looks at me with understanding. "It's not your fault, Trice. Goldie is the one who contacted you and put you in the middle." "I know, but if I didn't know anything, no one would have had her recording. She went through a lot before she died. They nearly killed her twice before when the smoke grenade went off at the police station, and then someone broke into her home, and if Grant hadn't shot him, they both might have been killed to protect the secret." "So now what? We can't stay like this. We have to try and get loose before he comes back. I don't know how long we've been here, but by the looks of it, hours." I see him peering out the window, and I turn to notice that the light is fading. Whatever he put in our coffee was pretty potent if we've been asleep all day. "I don't know how to get loose. Every time I try, the rope cuts into my wrists and feet, and it burns." Brock attempts to free himself again, wriggling his wrists side to side in the hope of loosening the ropes. After a few minutes, he stops, sweat accumulating on his brows. "Damn, he tied them good," he says, breathing fast. I hear a noise outside, and both Brock and I instinctively turn our heads toward the door. If it's Brock, yelling won't help, but what if it's not him? Should we try to get their attention? We remain silent, my heart pounding in my chest. Slowly, the doorknob turns, and the door inches open, revealing a child's hand. It's Kirsten. I bring my hands to my lips and wave her over. She cautiously approaches and sees us. Her hand flies to her mouth, her eyes wide with shock. "Are you guys OK?" she whispers. "No, sweetie. It looks like someone tied us to this bed. Can you help us? But, you have to be very quiet, and no one can know you were here. Can you do that?" My voice is soft and reassuring. She nods. "See if you can find some scissors," Brock adds. "Okay." She takes a step back. "Remember, be very quiet, and don't tell anyone about us," I repeat. Kirsten goes to the door, quietly closes it behind her, and leaves. I exhale a sigh of relief, though I can't help but worry about her getting caught. "I hope she can get the scissors without Jeff knowing. It's weird, though, that she was on this floor when it's usually empty," I muse, suddenly suspicious that Jeff might have sent her up here to see what we would say to her. "Yeah," is all Brock mutters. "Do you think Jeff told her to come up here? I mean, no one is on this floor, and then suddenly, she shows up." "It does seem suspicious." "If he told her to come up here, we just played into his trap—again." "Trice, stop thinking of the worst-case scenario. Let's just wait." I sense Brock's growing frustration from the furrowed brow and his curt tone. "Okay." I know better than to push him when he's like this. He's patient, but everyone has their limits. I'm more of a problem solver, eager to tackle things head-on. We wait what feels like an eternity when I suddenly hear the door turning again. Kirsten's back. She cautiously peers in, glances over her shoulder, and then enters, gently closing the door behind her. In her left hand, she holds a pair of scissors. Thank goodness! "Oh, good, you found some," I smile. "Was it difficult?" Kirsten's demeanor has shifted from earlier, and she climbs onto the bed. "No. Dad is working and never knows or cares what we're doing when we get home from school. I found the scissors in the junk drawer in the kitchen. He didn't even see me." Despite being only seven years old, she exudes a surprising level of maturity and composure. "Can I ask you something?" I tread lightly. "Sure." "How did you know we were here?" "Well, after breakfast and before Jayden and I went to school, we saw you eating breakfast, and then you left and went upstairs. When I came back home, I looked for you everywhere. Dad doesn't like us being up here, says it's not for children. But I was curious, so I heard the bed creaking and you guys talking, so I thought I would come say hi." Her vocabulary far exceeds her age. "I see. Well, we appreciate you checking up on us." I can't tell her that her dad drugged us and tied us to the bedposts; she's too young to hear that. "Anyway, why are you tied up?" she asks, curiosity evident. I have no idea what to say, but Brock steps in, saving the day. "We were playing a game, and it got a little out of hand. Before we realized it, we couldn't get loose. Patrice didn't realize she tied my hands a little too tight, and the same happened with her." It's a ridiculous story, but we hope she'll buy it. "Oh, okay," she responds, nonchalantly flipping her blonde hair behind her. "So, can you cut us loose?" Brock says, wriggling his wrists. "Sure." She comes to the side and starts cutting the ropes binding Brock's wrists. It takes her a minute because the ropes are so tight. Then she moves to the other side and cuts him free. He shakes off the ropes and rubs his wrists. "Thank you so much, sweetie," he says, relieved. "Here, I'll do the rest." Kirsten hands the scissors to Brock, and he cuts the ropes from his feet and then unties me. My wrists are marked with red burns, and as they're released, they flop limply to the bed. I feel utterly drained. Brock then moves on to cutting the ropes from my feet. "Okay, now, you need to go back down and replace the scissors where you found them, and don't tell Dad what you did. He's part of the game, and we don't want him to ruin the surprise," I say, improvising as I go. It's a good thing I've watched plenty of true crime stories. "All right." She takes the scissors and leaves as quietly as she comes in. "We have to leave – NOW," Brock says, emphasizing the word. He goes over and locks the door, then starts tapping on his phone. "There has to be some way to get off this island." I watch him scroll through his phone, and then he heads into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. I assume he can talk without whispering, but I can't sit still. I walk over to the window and peer outside. The snow has melted quite a bit. There's no reason we can't leave. A few minutes later, Brock reopens the door. "I've got a driver to meet us on the main road in ten minutes. If he shows up at the door, Jeff will know. That means we'll have to sneak out of here and get to the main road as quickly as possible." I mentally calculate how long it would take. Jeff's home is situated at the end of a winding road. We might make it, but we'll have to walk quickly, and that won't be easy with the remaining snow. As it is, darkness is starting to creep in. "Can you make it in ten minutes?" I turn away from the window. "It's getting dark, and we still have to find a way out of here. What if he's locked the doors, and we can't escape? And don't tell me I'm being too negative," I warn him when he starts to speak. "I'm being realistic." "I know. We're on the fourth floor, and Jeff is working on the first level. We'd have to take off our shoes and quietly but quickly get down the stairs and find a door that isn't locked. It's going to be tricky, but we have to do it." I feel tears bubble up, but this is no time to cry. Brock needs me to be strong. "Okay." Then it dawns on me that I don't have my purse and can't find it anywhere. Jeff must have taken it. "I can't find my purse." I search everywhere: on the bed, the floor, the bathroom, behind the computer, under the bed. Panic rises. "Do you have your wallet?" Brock reaches behind his back and pulls it out. "Yes." He quickly checks it. "Everything is still here." Thank goodness. At least we can get out of here. But all my identification and cards are gone, which means I may not be able to travel. "Brock, if I don't have any identification, how will I get on a plane?" "We might have to rent a car and drive home." The thought of a long road trip sends a shiver down my spine, but we may have no other choice if I don't find my purse. I can't bear the idea of days on the road. But now isn't the time to search the house. We need to get out. "Follow me," Brock says, heading to the door and listening carefully. He then turns the knob slowly and opens the door. After checking both ways, he whispers, "We're good. Just take off your shoes and be quiet." I slip off both shoes and hold them to my chest. He does the same, and we tiptoe down the hall. We descend the stairs as quietly as we can, moving with the stealth of a cat. It's eerily quiet – almost too quiet for a house with three kids. We reach the ground floor, and Brock glances in both directions. "Let's try the back door to the garage. That's the one most likely to be unlocked," he murmurs. Are the kids in their room? My watch reads 6:02 p.m. Dinner should be soon. Brock peers into the living room and then motions for me to follow him. My heart races and my hands feel clammy. The adrenaline coursing through me and the lingering effects of the pills leave me feeling disoriented.  We reach the living room, and I quietly follow him into the kitchen. He tries the doorknob, and it turns. He opens the door, and I slip through closely behind him. The garage is shrouded in darkness, and Brock uses his phone's nightlight to illuminate the area. Only one car is there – Jeff's. Melanie hasn't returned home yet. Our only option is to sneak out through the backyard. I quickly slip on my shoes and join Brock outside. The cold immediately pierces my body, and I can see that the clear sky promises a frigid night. Once outside, I follow Brock to the gate, where a padlock secures our exit. "Damn," Brock mutters, scanning the area. "Unless we try to climb the fence, we're not getting out of here." Climbing that fence? It must be at least ten feet tall! "Are you sure we can scale it?" "We're going to have to try, Trice. There's no other way." I gulp, silently praying that we can make it over. It's a beautiful yet old, ornate iron gate with sharp, pointy tips that could impale a person; one in particular looks bent too. This isn't good. I just hope it can hold our weight. "You go first," he instructs me. I hesitate, but I understand he's trying to protect me. He cups his hands. "Climb up, and I'll push you over." I grip his shoulders and place my foot into his hands. With a strong push from him, I manage to hoist myself upward, searching for something to hold onto in the posts that will let me climb. The curly Q of the iron allows me to get a foothold, and when I make it to the top, I have to remind myself not to look down. The pierced tips look like it's waiting for someone to land wrong. I carefully slide my legs between the spikes to the other side and descend again, using the iron as footholds. Towards the bottom, I slide down faster than I want, and my right ankle twists when it hits the ground. I feel it pop, and a sharp pain shoots through it. "Ahhh!" I cry out, tears springing to my eyes. "Are you okay?" Brock asks as he lands nearby. "I turned my ankle. I can't move it." "Hold on." Brock looks around. "It's going to be all right, babe." He picks me up, and I clutch onto him, wrapping my arms around his neck. "You can't carry me to the car," I protest, but deep down, I know he has no choice. The ground is lightly dusted with snow, making it easier to walk now. I can't see, but Brock keeps the nightlight on his phone to guide us. I turn my head and glance behind us, but there's no sign of pursuit. Yet, Jeff could discover our absence at any moment and come looking for us. Brock walks along the side of the road, staying close to a line of sycamore trees to keep us hidden. "The last time you carried me like this was over the threshold on our honeymoon. Remember that?" He says, slightly breathless. "Yeah," I smile, recalling the memory. "You almost dropped me." "How was I supposed to know there was an extra step from the porch into the house?" To be fair, it was our first apartment, and an unexpected step caused him to stub his toe while carrying me in. He cursed and almost lost his balance, but luckily, he grabbed onto the door to steady himself. That night, wearing my white chiffon wedding dress with my hair in a French twist was magical. It was 1986, and we danced to Bryan Adams' "Heaven" at our reception. I knew then that I would be with Brock forever. As he carries me down the road, huffing and puffing, I know he'll do whatever it takes to protect me. I just hope we make it.

“Hold on, click on this folder,” I urge Brock, pointing at it. He complies, and we both widen our eyes in disbelief as we examine invoices for each person who had participated in Troy's murder. “These are the five who helped with Troy's murder,” I whisper, glancing toward the door nervously. “I remember Goldie telling me about it - apart from Grant, Greg, Colton, Petra, and Ely were involved. Three of them helped dispose of the body while the fourth acted as a lookout – that was Ely.” “They were each paid $10,000, and Grant received $20,000 for carrying out the killing. I can't believe it,” Brock mutters, shaking his head. He quickly snaps photos of all the files and invoices with his phone. “We should shut this down.” He logs off, closes everything, and wipes the keyboard and mouse with his shirt. We return to the bed, armed with this newfound information. “I had my suspicions,” I admit, recounting everything I had discovered about Jeff, Melanie, and Grant on Facebook. “Why didn't you tell me?” Brock appears hurt, his eyes downturned. “I couldn't be certain, and you wanted me to let it go, so I tried to respect that.” I lower my head, knowing I should have trusted my instincts about coming here. “I just can't comprehend how Jeff could pay people to kill Troy and then bury him in Deanna’s backyard to frame her.” I wrap my arms around his neck. “I know, but the pain that Melanie, and well, Troy caused him and his family might have pushed him to his limits. It happens. I guess since they have a baby now, he might have forgiven her, but she has no clue that Jeff was the one who orchestrated Troy's murder. When she finds out...” “It will shatter her and the entire family,” Brock finishes my thought. “Yeah. But we have to act like everything is normal. Jeff can't suspect that we know anything. When the roads are clear tomorrow, we need to leave and head back home. The sooner we get this information to Gray, the better. I don't feel comfortable sending it to him; he needs to see it for himself.” “I agree. It's unbelievable that we thought we had escaped the danger, only to have it resurface 3,000 miles away.” Brock turns on the TV. “Let's try to act as normal as possible.” We watch a movie for the next few hours, and eventually, I feel my eyelids grow heavy. Despite the movie droning on, I succumb to sleep. --------------- The next morning, I feel the sun's warmth filtering through the drapes onto our bed. Blinking my eyes open, I check my watch. It read 8:12. I rise from the bed and glance outside. Although the snow is piled up, at least the sun is shining. However, it seems it might be hours before the plows clear the road. I head into the bathroom and gaze at my reflection in the mirror. Over the past seven months, I feel like I have aged a decade. The bags under my eyes have become more pronounced, and my once-brown hair is now nearly all gray and looks lifeless. The wrinkles multiply across my forehead and down to the front of my neck. I don't feel attractive, especially when I think about April, Brock's assistant. What if he had had an affair, just like Troy did? I have to stop myself before I spiral into a frenzy of "what ifs." Cupping cold water into my hands, I splash it on my face, feeling the shock of the cold as it washes over me. I rifle through my makeup bag and begin applying some foundation when I hear Brock stirring and waking up. A few minutes later, he enters the bathroom. "Morning, babe," he greets me with a kiss. "Hi, how was your sleep?" "Could've been better. I'm freezing," he replies, stripping off his clothes and stepping into the spacious shower that could fit four people. "Yeah, I'm not used to being in such a cold house." I wonder if the kids' rooms are as chilly as ours. Normally, warm air rises, and since we are on the fourth floor, I assume it should have been warmer up here, but it feels as though a window is left open, even though everything is sealed tight. After finishing my hair and applying my makeup, Brock emerges from the shower. He always took longer showers than I did. When we both are ready for the day, we grapple with our plans. I feel hungry, but unsure if we should inquire about breakfast downstairs. Before we can decide, however, there's a knock at the door. "Hey guys, breakfast is downstairs whenever you're ready," Jeff's voice comes through the door. "Okay, thanks. We'll be there shortly," Brock replies. He waits until Jeff leaves, though we can't be certain if he's still lurking nearby. Brock pulls me into the bathroom and closes the door behind us. "After breakfast, let's check and see if the roads are clear. The sooner we can leave, the better." "Yeah, I can't relax. Of course, when we get back home, we also have danger there." "But at least we have proof that Jeff paid off these people – the same ones Goldie knew about. When we get on the road back to the airport, we can call Gray and let him know about the invoices. Let's head downstairs and get breakfast." I nod in agreement, and we open the door, putting on our best masks of normalcy. "It all looks delicious," I remark as we enter the spacious dining room. The scent of bacon and sausage fills the air, and a spread of eggs, hash browns, toast with butter and jelly is laid out on a table, an elegant burgundy cloth draped over it. A bouquet of yellow and red roses is placed in a crystal vase as a centerpiece. "Please, have a seat," Jeff smiles and gestures for us to join him at the table. He's wearing blue jeans and a dark blue sweatshirt, his hair combed neatly, vastly different than his pin-striped black suit and white shirt he was wearing the day before. I take a seat across from Brock, and although the food looks appetizing, just being in Jeff's presence makes my stomach churn. I eat as much as I can and sip fresh coffee while Brock engages in a normal conversation with Jeff, trying not to raise any suspicions. Jeff pours coffee into two cups and hands them to us. "Cream and sugar are by the juice." I grab the cream and pour some into my cup, followed by a pinch of sugar. "Hopefully, the roads are starting to clear so we can get out of your hair," I comment, glancing out the window. The snow is still piled up, and the prospects of finding an Uber seem bleak. I take a long drink and hope the coffee will give me some energy. "Oh, no problem. I hope you slept well," Jeff replies, picking up a small ceramic cup and pouring orange juice into it. "Yes, it was nice, thank you," I respond, placing my napkin on the table. "Thank you for letting us stay," Brock adds, pushing his chair back. "I'm going to check and see if we can get an Uber out here." He takes out his phone, and my heart races as Jeff's gaze locks on me. "Well, we'll see," Jeff replies vaguely. What did he mean by that? This is Long Island, not some remote outpost. "Excuse me," Brock says. "I need to call an Uber." I want to follow him but unsure if that would be considered rude. However, there is no reason to feel like we're prisoners here. I get up and follow Brock out. He paces back and forth as he speaks with someone on the phone. "What do you mean there aren't any drivers available?" I overhear Brock's conversation, watching as his expression shifts from confusion to anger, furrowing his eyebrows deeply. "Listen, we have to get to the airport for our flight." Even though our flight isn't actually scheduled for another three days, Brock doesn't care; he just wants a way out. "I can't believe this," he mutters before ending the call and shoving his phone into his back pocket. My heart sinks. "So, there's no Uber drivers?" I take a deep breath, trying to stay composed. "No," Brock replies with a sigh. "The city is locked down with the snow. Apparently, NYC has about a foot, and no one wants to drive. We're stuck here unless we can get Jeff to drive us. I don't know how I feel about that, either." He suddenly stops talking, and I turn to see Jeff approaching. "Is there a problem?" Jeff inquire. Brock faces him squarely. "There aren't any Uber drivers that want to drive to the city, so I guess you're stuck with us. Sorry." Jeff seems unfazed. "I figured that was the case. The news said quite a lot of snow fell. Well," he claps his hands, "Not a lot we can do about it. You're more than welcome to stay another day. I won't be going to work either; probably just work here. Melanie is already gone, but she has the Lexus crossover. The kids didn't go to school, so they're downstairs watching Disney or some other channel. Ian should be getting up soon." I listen to him talk about his family as if he hadn't paid people $60,000 to eliminate his wife's lover; it leaves me dumbfounded. He seems like a normal family man, not someone capable of orchestrating a murder. "Thanks, Jeff, we appreciate it," Brock says. The only positive aspect is that maybe I can spend some time with the kids, especially little Ian. "When he gets up, do you mind if I watch Ian for a bit?" I ask, trying to sound casual. "Of course. That would be very helpful. Thanks, Patrice," Jeff replies. I breathe a sigh of relief. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get some work done. I'll be upstairs next to Ian's room. When he wakes, I'll bring him…" "Our room is fine," I interrupt. "Okay." Brock and I head back to our room. Suddenly, I feel overwhelmingly tired, as if I'd just taken a hefty dose of melatonin. It must be the stress catching up with me. But when I look over at Brock, he, too, is rubbing his eyes and yawning. "Feeling tired, too?" I ask, mirroring his yawn. "Yeah," he replies, his voice heavy with fatigue. "It just came on suddenly." "Same here," I mumble, fighting to keep my eyes open. "You slept well, right?" Brock removes his glasses and places them on the side table. "I thought so, but I did let my mind wander a bit." I try to recall the events of last night, but my thoughts are growing increasingly hazy. When I look at Brock, he has already closed his eyes, seemingly fast asleep. This sudden fatigue was unusual for both of us. My mind races with suspicions as I recall Jeff pouring coffee into our cups. I notice that he hadn't taken a sip himself. Could he have...? No, he wouldn't do that, right? But who was I kidding? He had arranged Troy's murder. If he knew that we knew anything, we would be a liability. My mouth feels dry, and my eyes grow heavier by the second, along with my limbs. This isn't just fatigue; it feels like the effects of a drug. Then, just before I lose all consciousness, a horrifying realization washes over me. And then, I remember the arsenic.

I swallow hard, feeling like I’m suffocating in the tense atmosphere of the car. I need fresh air desperately, but for some reason, I can’t figure out how to roll down the damn window. “It’s kind of hot in here. Can I roll down the window a bit?” I ask, my voice betraying signs of aging, even though I haven’t experienced menopause symptoms in a few years. “Of course. Let me roll it down for you.” I sigh with relief as a rush of cool air greets my face when I see the window slide down. The cold air feels invigorating, though my coat provides some insulation against the chill. I feel better with the wind in my face but refuse to look up and meet Jeff's eyes. He takes us on a tour around Long Island, and I marvel at the vast Atlantic Ocean stretching out before us. We pass by vineyards and The Hamptons, where I can easily picture myself retiring in one of those beautiful lakeside properties. The Oheka Castle, perched by the seaside in Huntington, is truly a sight to behold. I can’t resist taking numerous pictures, already planning to frame one when we return home. Jeff explains that the cream-colored French chateau with its marine-blue rooftops is a popular wedding venue and had been built over a century ago in 1919. Again, I wish it were spring to see the gardens in full bloom. A few hours later, we circle back to face Jeff's estate. He parks the car, and by now, the sun has set. I hope Melanie is home so we aren’t alone. Jeff enters the security code, and the door opens, granting us entry. Laughter from children echoes through the hallway. “We’re home,” Jeff calls out. Shortly afterward, two kids emerge: a boy who bears a striking resemblance to Jeff and a girl who looks just like Melanie. The boy appears to be around ten, and the girl six or seven. “Hey, guys. Where’s Mom and Ian?” Jeff inquires. “Mom’s giving him a bath and said she will be down soon,” the girl replies. Despite her young age, her mannerisms seem mature. Her fiery red hair cascades down her back, complementing her wise green eyes. A few freckles dot her cheeks. “Okay. Well, let’s go sit in the living room. The cook should have dinner ready soon.” He leads the way, and I catch a whiff of garlic mingled with the distinct aroma of rosemary, making my stomach growl. It has been hours since I last ate. Jeff directs us to a plush creme-colored sectional with a high back and pillow-type armrests. “Hi, I’m Kirsten,” the girl introduces herself, extending her hand. I shake it, impressed by her politeness. “And this is Jayden,” Jeff says, ruffling his son’s hair. Jayden pushes his dad’s hand away, clearly embarrassed. It reminds me of how my sons had reacted when they hit puberty, avoiding any public displays of affection from me. A few minutes later, Melanie enters the living room, holding Ian. She’s dressed in a red pencil skirt, a black silk blouse, and black heels that accentuate her seemingly endless legs. Her red hair mirrors her daughter and displays subtle waves that add volume. She is undoubtedly gorgeous, and I can see why Troy was attracted to her. Brock even seems captivated, following her with his eyes. “Melanie, these are the parents of two friends I hung out with while growing up in Grantsville.” Melanie nods and hands Ian to Jeff like she’d had him for hours. “Nice to meet you,” she says, then kicks off her heels. “When’s dinner going to be ready?” She turns to Jeff. From Melanie's demeanor, I can tell dinner will be somewhat tense. She makes no effort to engage in conversation or get to know us. “I’ll go check,” Jeff replies, bouncing Ian in his arms. He looks like a proud father. If I hadn't seen the evidence for myself, I wouldn't think he had any involvement in Troy's death, but I have to try and relax and enjoy the rest of our time. We just have to get through the next few hours. “Melanie, your home is gorgeous,” I compliment her. “Thank you. It’s taken a lot of work, but it finally lives up to the Patterson expectation.” Melanie holds her head high, reminding me of Barbara Woodward, the most popular girl in junior high with her flowing red hair and piercing blue eyes. Barbara had walked the school halls as if she owned them, flashing a fake smile to anyone who waved. I had seen through her fakeness from the start, just as I see through Melanie's now. “Jeff says you’re an Account Executive at an ad agency. I’m a marketing consultant myself, but I don’t travel as much as you do. I’m sure it’s very rewarding,” I say, hoping to establish some connection with her. She flips her hair back. "Yes, well, it’s not always fun. But I do what I have to to contribute to our finances. Jeff isn’t always, well, responsible when it comes to money," Melanie reveals, raising her eyebrows. I'm curious about what she means, but I decide not to press her for details. The cook enters the room, and my first impression is of an Italian chef. Her bobbed black hair is neatly tucked behind her ear, and though she is taller than me, it isn't by much. Dark brown eyes crinkle with smile lines when she greets us, and her bright red lipstick is a bold choice that I could never pull off. Her white apron is smudged with grease and what looks like sauce of some kind. “Please, sit,” Jeff motions with his hand as he takes the seat at the head of the table, with Melanie sitting at the other end. I notice it’s just the four of us. “Aren’t the children joining us?” I ask, secretly hoping to snuggle with little Ian some more. “They will be eating in the kitchen. They usually don’t like the gourmet meals we feed our guests,” Melanie explains. Given the sumptuous spread before us—pasta with shrimp and what smells like a garlic sauce, roasted Rosemary chicken, and artichokes in a creamy white sauce, accompanied by various sliced breads and cheeses—I could understand why. “This is delicious wine,” I comment after taking another sip. “Ah, yes, the best Italian wine, vintage 2001 Montepulciano d'Abruzzo,” Melanie replies with decent Italian pronunciation. I have never heard of it, but I disagree with her assessment of 2001 as a vintage year. Nevertheless, what do I know about wine except that this one is a sensual delight with a light cherry flavor that has just the right amount of acidic taste. I also detect a hint of earthy mushroom that harmonizes perfectly with the chicken's sauce. The entire meal is a delectable experience. For dessert, the cook serves a chocolate fudge cake with orange sorbet that tastes heavenly. When I finish, I am comfortably full but not overly stuffed. Throughout dinner, Brock and Jeff engaged in conversation ranging from cars to the past, while Melanie remained mostly silent. I chimed in occasionally to feel like a part of the conversation. I check my watch and am surprised it is nearly 8:00. I want to leave, but Brock is deeply engrossed in Jeff's discussion about the stock market. Melanie dabs her mouth with her napkin, then pushes her chair back and stands up. “I’m going to put the kids to bed. Patrice, Brock, thank you for visiting,” she says, quite curt, directing her thanks mainly at Brock. "Thank you for having us," I say. With that, I also push my chair back and stand up, but my eagerness to leave is interrupted by an unexpected announcement. “Looks like a storm has arrived. It’s snowing pretty hard out there,” Jeff observes as he gazes out the window. I follow his gaze and see a blizzard brewing outside, the snowfall so thick that visibility is severely compromised. “Oh wow, I never noticed. We’d better get going,” Brock says, a note of urgency in his voice. Jeff chuckles. “No Uber will be coming out here tonight. But no worries, you can stay here the night,” Jeff offers, leaving us with little choice. “Are you sure? We wouldn’t want to impose,” I reply, knowing full well that the weather has made any other option impossible. “Of course. Mi casa, su casa,” Jeff reassures us. “Thank you,” Brock says as he gets up from his chair. “The dinner was delicious.” “Yes, it was very tasty,” I add, feeling a bit silly for using the word "tasty." “Rosalie is a great cook, learned it in her family’s restaurant in Italy before immigrating here. We hired her a few years ago, and she’s never let us down,” Jeff explains. Then, he turns to me and utters words that send a chill down my spine. “No one lets us down.” As Jeff leads us to our rooms on the fourth floor, I find myself panting. I’m way out of shape. He opens the door to one of the rooms, revealing a breathtaking cherry oak bed with a burgundy swag canopy surrounding it. The dark cherry wood is intricately carved with beautiful swirls. A matching six-drawer dresser sits stately across from it, and a desk in the corner features a computer and keyboard. I wonder if there are computers in every room. “I’ll let you get settled. There are some extra toothbrushes and toothpaste in the bathroom down the hall on your right. You’ll find some other personal items there as well,” Jeff informs us before leaving. I sit on the bed, marveling at the luxurious surroundings, and stare at the large-screen TV on the wall across from me. Though I’m ready for sleep, I’m ready to relax and watch a mindless movie until slumber takes over. The sooner night is over, the sooner tomorrow comes, and we can leave. Following Jeff's directions, I eventually find the bathroom down the hall. We seem to be the only guests on this floor, and I can’t help but wonder why anyone needs so many rooms. A family with only three kids certainly didn't require this much space. All their bedrooms are on the second floor, so what do they do with the other two floors? I ponder this as I explore the bathroom, which resembles the amenities of a luxury hotel: soap, shampoo, conditioner, a built-in hair dryer, toothbrushes and paste, washcloths, and plush bath towels. The countertops are adorned with pure white marble, and the glass tumblers add a touch of elegance. Gold faucets, similar to those in the kitchen, grace the sink. The jetted tub looks especially inviting, and I wish I could take a leisurely soak. After preparing for bed, I exit the bathroom and step into the darkened hallway. I can make out enough to find my way back to our lit room. The TV is on with the volume set low, and Brock sits at the desk, engrossed in the screen. “Trice, come here. Check this out,” he beckons me over. I walk over to the desk and notice the intense look on Brock's face, his hand cupping his mouth. “What is it?” I inquire. He clicks on a video folder. “They're small video clips of a cabin, but it's only like 15 seconds of video, like a panorama view of the area. I also saw a folder that wasn’t labeled, and when I clicked on it, a bunch of your gardening videos showed up, as well as you and Goldie sitting in the park, you coming out of the store, our home. It’s as if he’s spying on you.” I clamp my hand over my mouth. Goldie warned me. “Brock, how did you access this?” I react with concern as I rush to close the door before returning to the computer. I can’t believe Jeff has all this on me. The only thing I can think of is that he hired a private investigator or had his goons track me. Maybe this is who has been stalking me – the person in our backyard, in our garage, the car next door … it’s all making sense now. “Honestly, I wasn't hunting for a password. I was exploring the hard drive, and the password was taped on the bottom. I thought I might check my work emails while we're here,” Brock explains, reminding me that even on vacation, he can't fully disconnect but refuses to tie his personal email to his work. He left his laptop at home, knowing it would be too tempting to check on work. He's right about that. “We must send these over to Gray,” I say, wanting badly to leave this place now.   I scan the rest of the folders, and one particular folder caught my eye. My stomach churns when I read the label: PAYMENT FOR THE FIVE

Before I knew it, we had been in NYC for four days. We visited Central Park, Statue of Liberty, One World Trade Center, 9/11 Memorial, Empire State Building, saw a Broadway show, and enjoyed city life. Tonight, we are dining in one of the most popular restaurants in NYC when Brock mentions going to see Jeff. “Sure. Let’s go tomorrow,” I say, finishing the filet mignon, baby red potatoes, long green beans, and the softest dinner rolls I’ve ever eaten. I’m stuffed and can’t eat another bite. Brock orders New York Cherry Cheesecake and finishes it off quickly. He dabs his mouth with his napkin, and we wait for our check to arrive. The ambiance of the restaurant, coupled with soft music, makes me feel calm, almost too calm. The gleaming chandelier in the center of the room gives off just enough light on our table and those around us. I can’t remember sitting in such a comfortable booth, drenched in black leather, the distinct table, a deep chestnut. “Okay. I’ll text Jeff for his address, and we can leave right after breakfast,” he says. I nod, but that odd feeling resurfaces. I need to stop stressing about this. Jeff was a great kid and was friends with our boys for years. I could never see him doing something like this. Granted, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen him, and sometimes, people snap and do things they thought they’d never do, so I can’t completely rule it out. But still, why ruin the trip by stressing out about this irrational fear? On the cab back to the hotel, I’m leaning against Brock. “This has been a nice trip. We need to do this more often.” “I agree. We’ve needed time to get away and be with each other. I’m sorry I’ve been so busy with this case. I’m sure with everything that has happened, it’s been hard on you. I should have been there.” I grab his hand. “I know and it’s OK. We’re together now. Let’s make the most of being in the city and enjoying the sights. Before too long, our vacation will end, and we’ll be back home.” I dread going back without knowing who this person that is clearly targeting me is, and if they haven’t caught him, if he will try again. “I just hope Gray can find this person who tried breaking into the house. I’m tired of feeling afraid,” I say, feeling tears well up. I haven’t heard from Gray since we came here, and I have a bad feeling that he won’t be able to find a match in the database. For all I know, this person doesn’t even live in Grantsville. But I keep going back to what this person knows about me. Do they know about the recorder? And, how? --------------- The next morning, the skies are a bit overcast when we head out to Long Island. It’s about a 30-minute drive from Manhattan, and when Brock gave me the address, I looked it up on Google Maps and saw the sprawling estate located on the east side of Long Island by the ocean with Google Earth. It’s beautiful, and I marvel at the success Jeff has had in affording such a place. Just as we turn the corner to the street Jeff lives on, I get a text from Gray. My heart sinks. I knew it. We have five more days here, and the police haven’t been able to identify the person targeting me. I decide not to tell Brock just yet. I don’t want to ruin this visit with Jeff. A few minutes later, we get dropped off at the gates of Jeff’s home, the sun shining in and out of puffy, white clouds. The dusting of snow makes it look like a Hallmark Greeting Card at Christmas, without the decorations. I look around at the gorgeous landscaping. Even though it’s in the middle of winter, tall Sycamore trees stand on both sides of the home like a protective shield. Expertly shaped evergreen bushes standing stately against the foundation to the right, and I can picture a beautiful garden in the summer, brimming with colorful flowers; I wish it was Springtime so I could see the birth of new buds forming or tulips and daffodils displaying a delicate dance - that is if they planted them. I look up at the mansion and stand in awe. The red brick estate is three stories with a wall of windows encompassing the home. We approach the towering glass doors and push the button announcing our arrival. “Coming,” I hear a male voice call out. Seconds later, a man opens the door, and I audibly gasp. Even though he’s older, I remember Jeff when he played with our kids. What a transformation! His glasses are gone, and the chubby weight has been replaced with rock-hard abs, a chiseled face, deep blue eyes, and wavy dark brown hair. He’s about as tall as Brock, nearly 6 feet tall. “Hey, Brock and Patrice. Come in!” He gives Brock a quick hug and shakes my hand – appropriate. “We made it!” Brock ushers me in. “Hi, Jeff, it’s good to see you,” I say, standing in front of a winding staircase resembling Jack and the Beanstalk as he climbs up to the Heavens. I look up and see each floor’s cherry oak banisters. I can’t imagine needing to clean this place. I’m sure he has staff. “Patrice, you haven’t changed a bit,” Jeff says, and I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing. It’s been at least 15 years since I’ve seen him. “Neither have you,” I say, which is true in a sense. Yes, he has more muscle, and he’s gotten taller, but he still has the same bright smile and mannerisms he used to have. “My wife is at work, and the kids at school, except for our little guy, Ian. He’s just two months old, and for now, I’m the stay-at-home dad until he’s a little older and we can trust someone to care for him. He’s taking a nap, but let me show you around.” It's only about 10:30 when we arrive, and I wonder what we will do while we are here. Jeff takes us on a tour of my dream home, and then we sit in the living room while his cook brings in some cheese, crackers, fresh fruit, and coffee. A while later, I hear a cry and assume it’s Ian. Jeff leaves for a few minutes and then brings out a mini-me adorable baby with Jeff’s nose, mouth, and hair. It makes me long for my grandkids, whom I haven’t seen in nearly two weeks, and my newest grandson, who was born four months ago and have only seen him on Facetime since bringing him to our home now is unsafe. “Oh, what a handsome little guy,” I say, inquiring if I can hold him. Jeff hands him to me, and his sweet baby smell engulfs me. I rock him gently, and he stares up at me, studying this stranger. He then gives me the biggest smile, and my heart melts. I could sit here all day with him, but after a while, I give him back to Jeff when he starts to fuss. “Time for his bottle.” He calls for the cook. “So, tell me how everything is back in Grantsville,” Jeff says after the cook comes in and takes Ian off to be fed. “Well, I’m finishing up a big case, and Patrice has been watching the grandkids a few times a week and is also a marketing consultant.” Brock fills him in on our sons as well. “Wow, that’s great!” “Yeah. But there have also been some problems, especially next door when a body was discovered last year, buried in their front yard,” I let slip out. Brock steals a glance at me, and his eyes widen. I know this isn’t the right time; actually, no time is right, but I need to know if Jeff knows anything about it, and it becomes clear when I suddenly see his whole demeanor change and darkness falls over his face. “That’s horrible,” he says at last. “Did the police know who it was and how he died?” “It was my friend's ex-husband who lived there, and it was discovered that he died from arsenic poisoning. His body was also burned by the Bloodroot plant. Ever heard of it?” I say, studying his face. He squints at me and then softens his face. “No, but that is truly awful. I’m sorry.” We sit in silence when Brock says, “Well, we don’t want to keep you. It was great to see you again.” “You’re leaving already?” A deep crease between his brows shows his disappointment. “I wanted you to meet my wife, Melanie.” I suck in my breath, and my heart is racing so fast I can swear you could see it in my chest. Melanie was Troy’s lover! As if a brisk wind blew through my body, I hug myself. I must act nonplussed; he can’t see my fear. “Oh, well, I guess we can stay a while longer, right, Brock?” He turns to me and smiles. “Of course. We just didn’t want to hinder any plans.” “Oh, it’s no bother at all. I actually planned on having you for dinner. We can talk more in the study until Melanie and the kids get home, okay?” It was more of a statement than a question. “Sure,” I say. I hope my demeanor hasn’t given away my shock at learning this is the same Jeff, and the thought didn’t escape me that if he did orchestrate Troy’s death, we are no longer safe here, either. I have to get Brock alone and tell him. “Great. I’ll show you to the study, and then I have a few things I need to take care of, so if you’ll follow me …” “No problem,” Brock says, quickly interceding and ushering me to follow. I walk slowly behind Brock and Jeff as they chat about our sons. A loud  vibrates the ground, and I look towards the end of the hall, where a huge grandfather clock chimes that it’s 12:00 PM. How are we going to occupy yourselves for hours? I walk into the largest study I’ve ever seen, reminiscent of the stately libraries from old movie classics. It’s wall-to-wall shelves with books that travel to the ceiling. I could get lost in all these books. A large desk devoid of anything on it except an equally large monitor and keyboard sits in the corner with a black leather office chair under it. My high-heeled boots clank on the hardwood floor, and I second-guess why I chose to wear them. A crackling fire warms my face as I observe a rock fireplace encompassing the whole wall. A leather couch and two chairs are placed in front. I immediately picture Jane Austin’s when the Bennett sisters visit family in London and are in awe of the estate, compared to their paltry home. I don’t know how old the home is, but it looks like it’s at least from the early 20th century. “This is beautiful,” I whisper. “Yes, well done, Jeff.” Brock pats him on the back. “It’s not me who decorated this place. My wife is to take credit. She’s the designer, not me.” “Well, she’s done an amazing job,” I say, almost forgetting the proverbial elephant in the room. Jeff excuses himself, and I drag Brock over to the couch. “So, I have to tell you something you won’t like or may not believe.” Jeff had closed the door behind him, but I talk quietly anyway. “Jeff’s wife is, well, was Troy’s lover.” Brock almost looks amused as he throws his head and chuckles. “I know it for a fact, Brock. I saw Melanie’s Facebook account and pictures of her and Troy. But I also saw a comment by Jeff on one of her posts back last year when Troy was reportedly killed. He said she got what she deserved. And now, Goldie is dead, and we are sitting in the ex’s home!” I bow my head and cover my eyes. “Trice, you are obsessed with this. I had hoped that we could put all that aside when we left Grantsville and enjoy ourselves. Do you have any proof Jeff did anything?” I really didn’t have concrete evidence, but it seems too much of a coincidence for him not to be involved. I mean, his wife had an affair, and now Troy is dead. “No, but come on, Brock. He’s Melanie’s  He has the means, motive, and opportunity,” I say, listing off the words with my fingers. “Trice, we are in the man’s  Please, just let this go. You are letting your imagination run wild.” I know he’s right. I don’t have any evidence that Jeff did anything to Troy or had anything to do with his burial. But I do have a hunch, and they are rarely wrong. Still, I should let this go – for now. After sitting and not doing much except surfing on our phones, Jeff comes in and claps his hands, nearly scaring me to death. “Sorry to keep you guys in here for so long. I had some business to take care of, and sometimes, these meetings are forever. You know how that is, right, Brock?” Of course, I would have NO idea about that; I’m just a marketing consultant and spend hours in client meetings, but what I do I know. “Definitely,” Brock chimes in. Jeff looks at his Apple watch. “Well, it’s about 2:00. The kids will be home in about an hour, and I contacted Melanie and told her you were visiting. She said she would try and make it home by 5:00 for dinner. In the meantime, would you like a tour of Long Island?” “We would love that, right Trice?” I hesitate, but I don't want to ruin this for Brock. “Yes, that would be great. Thank you, Jeff.” “My pleasure. There are some beautiful places to see. Why don’t we hop in my car and check out the sites.” I think about the wisdom of getting in his car and having Jeff control where we go. “Uh, can I borrow your bathroom?” I have no clue how long we’ll be gone, so I’d better take advantage of a bathroom nearby. “Of course. I’ll show you.” I think it’s odd that he can’t just direct me, but when he shows me, I realize why he didn’t just tell me. I felt like I went through a maze to get to it. I walk inside a bathroom that’s nearly as big as my bedroom. It reminds me of the Hilton Hotel bathroom, except the counters are made from rose quartz, and when I run my hands along, it feels like it was made out of slick oil. Even though the room has only a double sink, shower, and toilet, it’s still way bigger than my master bathroom. On the way out of the home, I notice a beautiful portrait that I can only surmise is Melanie, large as life, in the foyer. Her fiery red hair flows down her back, and her emerald green eyes seem to bear into your soul. She’s wearing a long, beautiful black gown with a plunging v-neckline and ruffles at the bottom. She looks like she belongs in 1900, not today. However, I see a sadness in her eyes, not what I would expect from a modern portrait unless, again, this was 1900. This is definitely the same woman I saw on Facebook. Jeff tells us to wait while he “fires up his car.” My mouth falls open when he pulls around to the front of the house. A sleek red Maserati (yes, I know somewhat about cars) is waiting for us. I get in the backseat, feeling more comfortable not sitting by Jeff. He peels away, and I grab the side, digging my fingers into the crevice under the door handle. “So, Patrice, about your YouTube channel,” he flips his rearview mirror and stares at me, his eyes dark. How did he know about that? “Uh, Yeah, I have a gardening channel. Did Jeff tell you about that?” Brock chuckles. “Not me.” My heart starts racing, and even though it’s cold outside and Jeff hasn't turned on the heat, I can feel the sweat forming on my brow. Jeff glances back at me, a sly grin on his face. "No, but I have my ways.”

The following day, Brock heads to work, and this time, Officer Lopez arrives almost simultaneously with his departure, so I don't find myself alone. With the knowledge that we'll soon be on our way to NYC, I keep myself busy by doing laundry and tidying up the house. Snowfall has resumed, and I hope it won't persist. The last thing we need is a delayed or canceled flight. After sweeping the kitchen and bathrooms, I remove the mop from the closet and attach a Swiffer pad. I'm cautious not to use too much cleaner as I'm running low. Bending down with a sponge, I meticulously clean the baseboards, observing the little chips accumulated from years of wear. I make a mental note to repaint them once this ordeal is behind us. Officer Lopez moves in and out of the house throughout the day, but I feel secure with Herc, who remains vigilant. Every slight noise alerts him, yet I don't hear anything similar to yesterday's unsettling incident. I hope they've been deterred for good. Winter brings its own advantages, as the snowfall creates obstacles for intruders attempting to gain entry to a home. The Ring alarm system has proven invaluable. Suddenly, I remembered the Ring video footage from yesterday. It might have captured the intruder entering the garage. We have cameras both in the front and back. I retrieve my phone from the living room side table and open the Ring app. Clicking on yesterday's video, I watch closely. It doesn't take long before I spot a shadow passing at the corner of the screen. The individual is dressed in a black jacket and dark blue jeans and appears at least 5'10" tall, with hands in their pockets. Their eyes dart around nervously. I wish I could enhance the image, but I'll leave that to the police. Maybe they can obtain a clearer view if I share the recording with Gray. At least I have evidence now. Officer Lopez returns shortly after I finish cleaning, and I unlock the door for her. She's stomping her feet on the doormat. "The snow's really coming down out there. Sorry, I took a bit longer. Everything okay?" she asks. "Yeah, I managed to clean the house. Also, I checked the Ring app for footage from yesterday and found something." I hand her the phone, and she sits down to take a look, squinting as she observes. "This is great, Patrice. I want Chief to see this." She retrieves her phone and calls him instead of using the button on her shoulder. "Hey, Chief, we have some video footage from yesterday from The Summer's Ring camera. Can you drop by and check it out?" She nods. "Okay, I'll stay here until Mr. Summers gets home." After the call, Officer Lopez informs me that Gray will arrive in about an hour to examine the footage. I hope he can get a clearer view of the person. She had gone to the store earlier and picked up groceries to last us until our departure in forty-eight hours. I'm hungry when I retrieve the ingredients for a ham sandwich from the fridge, noticing the abundance of leftovers from previous meals. I'll need to clean out the fridge soon, but for now, I throw out some containers with sprouted green fuzz. I make sandwiches for Officer Lopez and myself, adding juice, chips, and some melon to the meal. It's not easy to find ripe melons in February, but I had told Officer Lopez to look for ones with a yellow bottom and a web-like exterior – signs of ripeness. I cut up the cantaloupe and honeydew melon and serve them in two bowls. We eat in silence, awaiting Gray's arrival. True to his word, he shows up approximately an hour later to review the Ring video recording. "This is good footage. You can see his face quite clearly. He appears to be about 6 feet tall," Gray observes, snapping a photo with his phone. "I'll pass this along to my deputies and see if we can get a match from the criminal database. Can you send me this information?" “I’ll see what I can do,” I say, taking back my phone. I had never tried to send video footage to anyone before, but I should be able to; I just need to do some research first. Later that night, when Gray and Officer Lopez leave, I pick up my laptop and start surfing on how to send the video to Gray. Brock’s been working on his case, but at least he’s beside me, and I feel safe. It's Saturday morning, and we're ready to head to the airport. Thankfully, it's a beautiful, sunny day. Officer Lopez came and picked up Herc the night before so we could focus on getting ready. Our flight leaves around noon, but I want to be at the airport no later than 10:00 a.m. It’s a 40-minute drive, at least. I do one quick check to ensure I have everything I need, especially the 2oz bottles we’re only allowed to have for personal use, which is stupid. What harm is a bottle of lotion, for crying out loud? I found a way to send the Ring footage to Gray so he could check the face with the criminal database. He said he would contact me if there’s a match or if his investigators are able to get any identifying information. We ordered an Uber to pick us up at 9:15, and it’s nearly 9:00. I go around the house to check all the doors and windows. We leave a light on and have the porch lights programmed to come on around 6:00 P.M. In the back, we also have motion lights and, of course, our cameras. If anyone tries to come around and break in, we’ll see them. I get a text fifteen minutes later saying the Uber driver is arriving. Brock takes out suitcases while I take the carry-on and my purse. As we head out, the sun shines on my face. I look around and down the street, and it looks as normal as it always has, and on one hand, I pray it stays that way while we’re gone. Yet, on the other hand, I want this intruder to try breaking in again so we can catch them in the act. On the way to the airport, Brock is working on his laptop to get some last-minute case details taken care of, and then we can forget about work, the police, the recorder, and Troy’s death, burial, and suspects. I check when we go through the airport doors and notice it’s nearly 10:00. Perfect. I would rather be early than late and possibly miss our fight. You never know how long the TSA lines are, if the plane is early, or if a mishap occurs. At close to noon, we can board the plane. I sit down in First Class and sigh deeply. In five hours, we will be in the heart of New York, and we can disappear for a bit. As we ascend, I see the skyline fade to clear blue skies. I remove my earbuds, turn on my phone, and listen to my relaxing playlist. Shortly after, my eyes feel heavy with the soft music lulling me to sleep. I awake to the captain saying we are making our descent into NYC. I rub my eyes and see Brock also waking up. “Good nap?” He says, putting his seat and tray in the upright position for landing. “Yeah. I don’t usually sleep on a plane, but I think everything has taken a toll on me, and I just crashed.” “Same. Let’s enjoy this trip and hope Gray and his detectives can nab this person. Oh, and I got a hold of Jeff from Long Island, and he said we could come visit anytime.” I had completely forgotten that Brock wanted to visit him. I still can’t shake the feeling that this same Jeff could be the husband of Troy’s lover. But who knows? I don’t want to worry about that now. When we get to our Manhattan Hotel, The Hilton Suites, it’s nearly 1:30, and I’m starving. “Let’s go eat,” I say as I finish unpacking my items. The hotel is a four-star establishment, and I can see why. I lay my toothbrush, paste, and other items on the white and gray swirled marble bathroom counter and glance over to the jetted tub, which looks incredibly inviting. All the gold faucets are sparkling clean, with plush towels laying neatly folded on a gold rack over the toilet, which features a bidet. I always wanted one, but Brock hates them – says you have to use more toilet paper to dry when the blast air hits you. We opted for two rooms, one with a king-size bed and large flat-screen TV, and the other, a living room with a comfortable deep blue couch and chair, a deep cherry oak coffee table, and a matching desk. The kitchen sports the same marbled counters as the bathroom, with a microwave, fridge, coffee pot, and a double sink. The plush cerulean blue carpet offsets taupe-painted walls and two framed paintings of  and  by Claude Monet at the head of the bed and over the TV. I open the sliding glass door and peer out at the towering buildings that make up the NYC skyline. We’re on the 13th floor. “I’m ready. Let’s go,” Brock says, raking a comb through his hair and following me to the door. I want to enjoy this time and unwind from the last six months.    The last thought I have before we walk into the elevator is that if Gray can’t find this person while we’re gone, when we get back, we’re in the same situation. And then what?

The next morning, I woke up on the couch, feeling alone. Brock is gone, and I reach for my phone on the coffee table. The time on the screen shows it's nearly 7:00 AM and still dark outside. Officer Lopez was scheduled to arrive at 8:00, around when Brock usually leaves for work. Should I call and ask her to come earlier? I don't want to disturb her at home. After folding the blanket and stowing it away in the closet, I decided to head upstairs to my room. I could use a shower, but I can wait until Officer Lopez arrives. In the bathroom, I brush my teeth and notice deep, dark circles under my bloodshot eyes. I turn the water on as cold as I can bear and splash it on my face. Returning downstairs to the kitchen, I set the coffee maker in motion. As I reach for a mug from the cupboard, a sudden noise startles me, and I drop the mug. A small piece breaks off the handle, but I'm too alarmed to care about it right now. My heart races as my hand instinctively clutches my chest. The sound came from the back door;  I rush to the door and confirm it's locked—thank God. Herc, my ever-faithful mutt, starts growling, and I try to hush him, pulling him closer. "Shhh, Herc," I whisper, and then hear the door rattling. That sets Hercules off and he starts barking like crazy. I start to panic but have to think rationally. The steel door is locked and bolted, so there's no way this person could come in. Still, that doesn't calm my fear. The rattling stops, and I quickly guide Hercules into the bathroom and lock the door. I fumble in my pocket for my phone and find Officer Lopez's number, dialing it in haste. "Lopez," she answers. "Someone's in my garage," I whisper urgently. "Okay, what did you hear?" she asks. "It sounded like someone kicked a box or something. I heard it just a few minutes ago. Hercules and I are locked in the bathroom." "All right, I'm on my way. Get in the bathtub, shut the curtains, and stay very quiet. I'll be there shortly." I end the call, silently praying that she arrives quickly. A few minutes later, a text notification pops up. "I'M OUTSIDE. CAN YOU UNLOCK THE DOOR AND LET ME IN?" I open the Ring app and remotely unlock the door. I hear her come in. "Mrs. Summers?" I hear her faint voice. "I'm in here," I whisper back. I hear footsteps approaching. "Okay, I'm going to check the garage. Stay put." "Okay." I rub Herc's back, trying to keep him calm, and wish I could hear what's happening outside, but there's silence. A few minutes later, I hear Officer Lopez's voice again. "All clear." I unlock the bathroom door, and Herc starts barking before realizing there's no threat. "Are you okay?" Officer Lopez asks as I cautiously step out. "Yes. Did you see anyone?" I inquire, even though I know she couldn't have. "No. I checked everywhere, including your vehicle." Did I imagine the noise? No, Herc heard it too. "I know I heard something. Herc started growling too." "I believe you, but they might have snuck out to the backyard and escaped before I arrived or as I did. I tried to be quiet so as not to scare them off with sirens." She's right. The intruder could have unlocked the door and exited through the backyard gate. But how did they get into my garage? Did I leave the door to the backyard unlocked? "I did see a storage container turned over, but it could have been something harmless like a mouse, a cat, or just a box shifting, causing it to fall over," she suggests. "Now that I'm here, I'll thoroughly inspect the property and make sure it's secure. There's snow on the ground, so if someone was here and fled through the back, I should be able to spot their footprints." "Thank you," I say with gratitude. "Just stay here and keep away from windows. I'll be back shortly." I nod and consider where to go with no windows. My house is surrounded by them. I decide to sit in the living room on the couch with Herc since it's tall enough that I won't be visible from the windows. Herc gazes up at me, seemingly aware that something is amiss. "It's okay, Herc. We're going to be all right," I say, though it's as much to reassure myself. Time seems to crawl as I wait for Officer Lopez to return. She has been gone for what feels like a long while, though when I check my watch, it's only been ten minutes. She finally knocks on the door, and I unlock it via my app. "Okay, everything looks clear, but I did see footsteps in the snow," she reports. "I took some photos and checked all around your property, but they were long gone. Did you discuss leaving with your husband?" "Yes, we're planning to leave on Saturday," I reply. Then, I remember Herc. What will we do with him? He hasn't been boarded in years, and I'm unsure if there's enough time to secure a reservation. "But I don't know what to do about Herc. I could try to get him boarded, but I can't guarantee getting a reservation." "I'll take him," Officer Lopez says, her hand gently rubbing Hercules' ears. "You want to go home with me, Hercules?" I'm taken aback by her offer. "Oh! Are you sure?" "Yes, absolutely. My kids would love to have him over." "But they're in school all day, and you're at work." "While you're away, I'll be here keeping an eye on the place. He'll only come home with me at night, but he'll stay here during the day. I may not be able to be here all day, but I'll check to see he has food and water throughout the day." I consider her proposal, thinking that it might be best for Herc. "That sounds like a good plan. I'll give you his bed and blanket for him to sleep in at night.” “Sounds good." I must have looked worried because she interjects, saying, "He'll do better being home, so you can feel better about it.” "Thank you so much! I really appreciate everything you've already done for us." I'm grateful but unsure if a hug is appropriate, so I hold back. "It's my job," she replies, "and we could use a distraction from all the electronics at the house." "Yeah, it's crazy how hooked kids are on social media," I remark, though I realize I'm not much different with my YouTube gardening channel that takes up so much of my time. "Okay, it's settled then. The sooner you can leave, the better." I have yet to look into the destinations we can go to. Brock mentioned wanting to visit NYC, so maybe that's where we'll head. I open my laptop and start searching for flights for Saturday morning. We usually get First Class tickets when we fly now, but it wasn't always that way. We have the means to do so now. After booking flights to NYC for Saturday at noon, I feel a sense of relief. We should arrive in the city by evening, and we can go out for dinner and then head to our hotel. Our tickets are for nine days, but I don't know if that's long enough. We can figure it out later. Right now, we just need to get away from here. I inform Officer Lopez of our plans, and she advises us to take an Uber to the airport instead of driving ourselves. I'm not sure why, but I trust her judgment and decide to follow her advice. When Brock returns home that night, I tell him about the intruder and the flights I've booked for Saturday. He sinks back into the couch, visibly concerned. "I'm going to stay home until Saturday. I'll have someone take over the rest of this case before it goes to trial. It's too important that you're protected." His concern is evident, and he seems determined. I reach over and take his hand. "No, you need to wrap up this case. I'll be okay. Officer Lopez will be here in the morning, and I have her cell number in case I need to reach her. Plus, Herc will protect me, won't you, buddy?" I bend down to scratch Herc's neck and give him a kiss. "Trice, whoever is targeting you won't stop. I don't know what they want since you took the recorder to Gray, and no one knows you had it, right?" "Yes, no one knows." At least, I hope no one does. We were careful at the park, and neither of us saw anyone. Of course, Goldie is now dead, and someone was in my garage, so who knows. "Mr. Summers, I will make sure Patrice is safe," Officer Lopez interjects, addressing Brock by his first name for the first time. Brock sighs deeply, reluctantly conceding. "Okay, but if this happens again or anything else puts you in danger, we are leaving. If we have to stay in a hotel until we depart on Saturday, so be it. Deal?" "Deal," I agree, getting up from the couch. Both of us are likely hungry, and I have yet to have a chance to go grocery shopping. "We need to eat." "Let me grab you some burgers," Officer Lopez offers as she gets up. "Just let me know what you want." "No, you need to get back to your family. We can order through DoorDash again," I argue, not wanting her to stay longer, especially when she has children who need her. "Okay, then I'll stay until your food arrives." After placing our order and waiting for dinner, Brock and I discuss the tourist spots we'd like to visit in NYC. "Oh, and remember, we need to visit Jeff in Long Island," he reminds me. I had forgotten about that, but it's not a good idea. We need to be alone, and in a city of ten million, we can blend in, which is exactly what I want. After dinner, Officer Lopez departs, and Brock goes around the house to double-check that everything is locked up securely. We need to inform the boys about our plans, but that can wait until morning. Brock and I stretch out on the couch, opting for another movie night. This time, I eventually rise and make my way upstairs to our bedroom. Shortly after, Brock joins me. He gently kisses me as we lie in bed, and I respond in kind. His fingers slide through my hair, igniting a passion that has been dormant for far too long. Our bodies entwine, fueled by a desire that comes from fearing the loss of one another. We make love with an intensity that reflects our deep connection. Afterward, I nestle in his arms, feeling drowsy and secure as I close my eyes. Two days can't come soon enough.

I contacted Officer Lopez and told her about my grandkids, and she agreed not leaving and having the kids not come back here was a good idea. I’m alone until Brock gets home, which may not be until later tonight. Before getting off the phone with me, he said he would try to get home earlier. I peer through the blinds and see Officer Lopez’s police car but no one other car. I can’t let this fear get to me. It’s been a couple of weeks since I put on a YouTube show. Sometimes, in the winter, I would open my mail and do a Q&A. It’s been some time since I did one, so maybe this will help occupy the day. I had gone to my P.O. box a week ago and grabbed all my mail. It’s sitting in a box in my closet, so I open the front closet, pull out the box, and start sifting through the letters. I open several of them to use in my video and then see one without an address. It’s not entirely odd since some don’t want me to know their address, which I can understand, but this one just says Patrice Summers and my P.O. Box number, but turning it over, I notice a distinctive smell: lavender. It’s quite strong. I tear the envelope at the corner, peer inside, and see one piece of paper. I hesitate to open the envelope completely and put it aside. I will open it when Brock is home. I take the letters to my home office and set up everything to go live. I figure I could do a 30-minute Q&A on gardening issues. I change my clothes, brush my hair, then apply makeup. I open my laptop, place it on my table, and arrange my Ring light. I adjust my microphone, and I’m ready. For the next 30 minutes, I open letters and answer questions. Afterward, I noticed about 50,000 views and over 100 comments pop up. I love reading the comments. I scroll down and then see the username of   and the comment,  I look at it again and feel a prickling on my neck. Is this the unknown name and address of this username? With a shaky hand, I pick up the tan business envelope, rip it completely, and pull out the letter. I unfold it, and it’s very short but in all caps, typed. I KILLED GOLDIE IF YOU KEEP GETTING IN MY BUSINESS I'LL KILL YOU TOO I drop the letter, and immediately, my body floods with adrenaline, and I feel sick. I call Officer Lopez and tell her about the letter. “I’ll be there shortly.” I pace back and forth, waiting. I hear a knock, and then I hear her voice. I quickly open the door. She walks in, and I shut and lock it. “Are you OK?” She says. “No, I’m not.” I hand her the letter, and she reads it. “There’s no address?” “No, but I did a video on YouTube, on my gardening channel, and one of the comments read, Did you read my letter? I promise you will want to know what it says.” “Can I look at it?” “Yes.” I open the laptop and give it to Officer Lopez. She takes it, sits down on the couch, and scrolls down. She looks lost in thought. “We need to show this to Chief. Maybe he can get the IP address.” She pushes a button near her neck and gets Gray’s attention, to which he says he will be right over. “We need to get you long-term protection,” she says. “This person knows what you look like, your P.O. box in Grantsville, and may have been tracking you. You’re not safe.” I close my eyes and realize I shouldn’t have recorded the video today. Me, and possibly Brock, are now this person’s target. Shortly after, Gray shows up at my door. Officer Lopez lets him in. “Trice, we need to get you protection. This person isn’t afraid to comment on your channel and send you a letter warning you. Does Brock know about this?” “Not yet. He’s in court. He does know everything else, though, and we talked about leaving the state for a week or so.” “It may help, but when you get back, you’re still in danger until we can identify the four people involved in Troy’s murder.” He’s right. No matter where and for how long I’m gone, I’m still a target when I get back. “Lopez, I want you here until they leave the state. We are trying to get a meeting with Grant at the prison to get him to tell us the four people who helped bury Troy. We may have to make a deal with him.” I understand. I don’t like it, but I understand that Gray will have to reduce Grant’s sentence to eliminate the danger.  Officer Lopez nods. “Got it, Chief.”  “Trice, it will be OK. Just stay put; keep your windows and doors locked. If you need something, do it through delivery. Right now, you’re safer at home. But, if we need to put you in witness protection –“ "No, I can't do that," I interrupt firmly. "I refuse to let these people win. Brock and I will leave for a bit and let you guys do your job, but I won't let them destroy my life and family." Gray and Officer Lopez exchange glances. "All right," Gray says, "then I'll leave Officer Lopez here, but if there's anything suspicious, you will let me know immediately." He looks at both me and her, and we both nod. After Gray departs, I sit on the couch, my head throbbing. I rub my temples, and Officer Lopez asks, "Are you okay?" "I just have a headache." "Where's your Ibuprofen?" "Top cupboard left of the sink." Officer Lopez heads into the kitchen, and all I can think about is my family's safety. I put them all in danger when I answered Goldie's texts, and it didn't matter anyway, as she ended up dead. Am I next? Suddenly, I feel mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausted. I lie down on the couch and close my eyes. When I wake, it's nearly dark, and my stomach growls. My headache is gone, and I feel like I've had a good sleep, but now I worry about being awake all night. I check my watch; it's almost 5:00. In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face, brush my hair, and look outside to see the icy blue sky. The wind has calmed, and the snow has started to melt. When I come back out, I see Officer Lopez on her laptop. She closes it when she notices me. "Have a good nap?" she asks. "Yes, it felt good, but I'm starving. I don't even think I had lunch. Maybe that's why I got the headache." "That makes sense. Do you have food to make, or should we order in?" I think about the fridge's contents and don’t even know if we have milk, but knowing shopping day is tomorrow, there might not be much. "Let's order in," I suggest. "Sounds good. I'm going to use my DoorDash account. What sounds good to you?" "I don't care. Anything sounds good right now, actually." Officer Lopez picks up her phone and orders Chinese. "How about lemon chicken, shrimp, sweet and sour pork, and ham fried rice?" My mouth waters at the thought. "Perfect, thanks. Just let me know the charge, and I'll Venmo you the money." "Sure thing. It'll be here in about 30 minutes." I turn on the TV and occupy myself until the food arrives. Officer Lopez keeps an eye out for the delivery driver, who leaves the food on the porch before departing. She retrieves the food and scans the yard before closing the door. It's frustrating not being able to leave my house freely. I quickly devour the food and store the leftovers while Officer Lopez continues her work on the laptop. I wrap myself in a blanket from the hall closet and watch a movie, feeling the cold despite the blanket's warmth. Hercules stays by my side. A few hours later, Brock arrives home, and Officer Lopez briefs him on the situation. She departs, promising to return in the morning. "There's Chinese in the fridge," I inform him. "Great, sounds good. How are you holding up?" "Better now. I took a long nap. Earlier, though, I had a terrible headache. I hate this," I say, tears welling up. Brock reaches over and hugs me. "It will be okay. I've got the week off next week, so just five more days, and we can leave and go anywhere you want." Five days still feels like an eternity, but it's only Wednesday. We could leave on Saturday, however. I propose the idea to Brock, and he agrees. So, I have to endure three more days. I rest my head on Brock's lap as he gently rubs my back. I miss his touch; it's been so long since we've been intimate. As I begin to drift off to sleep, I feel safe for the first time in days. I just have to survive three more days.

My heart races with worry. I pray to God that the news article doesn't refer to Goldie, but a sinking feeling tells me otherwise. She never reached her destination, and I can't help but question the authenticity of the text message. Does this person know me? Panic starts to well up inside me, and I rush around my house, making sure all doors and windows are securely locked. As I read the article, it confirms my worst fears. The body was found in a Home Depot parking lot, just as Brock had mentioned seeing Goldie's car there. It's undoubtedly her, and I can't shake the fear that this person may also know where I live. Have they been watching my home, waiting for an opportunity? The only individuals with a motive to harm Goldie are the ones named on the recording, along with Jeff Patterson. But would he travel all the way to Grantsville just to kill her? It's an unsettling thought. I continue reading the article, and a chilling realization sets in. Someone discovered the body in the passenger seat and initially thought she was asleep. But upon closer inspection, they realized she had been shot in the head. The thought that Goldie knew she was going to die pulls at my heart, and tears stream down my face. I can't imagine the fear and despair she must have felt in those final moments. As I ponder how the killer found her and whether she really sent that text, I remember her words about delivering the recorder to Chief Errington if anything happened to her. I rush upstairs to retrieve the recorder from my bathroom, then head back downstairs, hastily bundling up in my coat and gloves. I glance out my living room window to ensure no one is watching before getting into my car. I drive cautiously, constantly checking my rearview mirror for any signs of being followed. Thankfully, there's no one behind me as I pull into the police station, praying that justice will be served. I ask for Chief Errington, but Officer Lopez arrives instead, inquiring about my purpose. She reminds me of a police detective from one of those crime-solving TV shows. Her black hair is pulled into a tight ponytail, and her flawless brown skin has a natural beauty. I marvel that she doesn’t need any makeup when her big, brown eyes scrutinize me. I explain that I have something to give to him from Goldie Stanton. Her eyes widen with surprise, and she promises to inform the chief. He comes out and waves me into his office. "Trice," Gray greets me when I walk inside. "Hey, Gray." I search in my purse for the recorder, which I had slipped into my wallet before leaving for the station. "This was given to me by Goldie yesterday morning. She instructed me to give it to you if anything were to happen to her. It contains the names of everyone involved in Troy's murder." I slide it towards him. Gray takes the recorder and listens to the contents, his expression growing grimmer as he hears what I had heard. After the recording finishes, he places his hands behind his head in thought. "This is likely the reason someone killed her," I suggest. "Yeah, it certainly seems that way. We only have first names, but if I can get Grant to provide their last names, we can bring them in for questioning. He'll probably want a plea deal, even after what he did to Troy. I'll need some time to figure this out. Thank you, Trice, for delivering this to me.” Worry is etched on his face. “But since you had contact with her, you might be in danger now. I'll have Officer Lopez follow you home and keep an eye on the area for a while." "Okay, thanks," I reply. I get up and follow Officer Lopez outside. Gray accompanies us. "Trice," Gray says before I leave the building. "Yeah?" "Be careful. This person is very dangerous, and they won't hesitate to case out your home and ensure you're alone." I gulp and nod. "I understand. I've informed Brock, and he mentioned he might try to take some vacation time so we can leave the area for a while." "All right, let me know your plans.” "I will," I assure him. I walk to my car and wait for Officer Lopez to follow me home, cranking up the heat while watching through my windshield. A few cars pass by, but nothing appears suspicious. On the way home, I check my rearview mirror multiple times and see Officer Lopez's car following at a reasonable distance. When I arrive home, I press the garage door remote to enter, but Officer Lopez parks behind me and signals for me to stop. I slam on my brakes, and she approaches my car. I lower the window with a push of a button. "Don't pull into the garage until I've checked it out to ensure it's safe," she advises. I find her caution sensible, so I await her inspection before proceeding. She motions for me to drive in once everything is clear, and I obey, but she stops me again. "Let me go in first to make sure everything is secure," she says. I nod and wait, contemplating whether I should close the garage door while I wait. Deciding it's safer, I lower myself to the front of the car, feeling slightly absurd. A few minutes later, Officer Lopez returns. "Okay you can come in now. But make sure to close the garage door behind you," she instructs. I press the button, closing the garage door behind me, feeling a sense of security with Officer Lopez present, knowing she's armed and prepared for any potential threat. Herc bounds toward me but growls when he spots Officer Lopez. She wisely extends her hand, palm down, allowing Herc to sniff it. After a moment of interaction, Herc's demeanor relaxes, and Officer Lopez gently rubs his back. "Everything looks clear," Officer Lopez informs me. "I'll be out front, keeping an eye on your property and neighbors. How long will you be alone?" I consider the schedule I keep with my grandkids. "I pick up my grandkids from school and watch them on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. So, I'm alone from about 3:30 to 6:30. My husband, a Salt Lake City attorney, sometimes works late and doesn't come home until around 9:00. He leaves for work at about 8:30, so I'm alone most mornings and afternoons." Officer Lopez glances out the window. "All right, I'll give you my cell number. Keep your doors locked, and don't answer the door for anyone. If you hear anything outside that sounds unusual, call me immediately. I'll be here for a few hours, then I have a meeting at the station. After that, I'll return to patrol the area. When you pick up the grandkids, I'll be here watching the house. How far is the kids' school?" I provide an estimate, noting that it's about four miles away. "Okay," Officer Lopez acknowledges. "I'm sure you leave a bit early to get in line for pickup." "Yeah," I confirm, "I usually leave around 3:00 and wait for about 15 minutes before they get out at 3:15." "Got it. Just pick them up as usual, but stay aware of your surroundings. Look out for any cars following closely or appearing to watch you or the school." My anxiety deepens as I consider the potential risk to my grandkids. Taking them to their house seems unsafe, as it could lead the threat straight to their location. Officer Lopez gives the all-clear signal and departs, emphasizing the importance of locking the door immediately after her exit. I follow her instructions and then find myself with over five hours to kill until I pick up the grandkids. I feel trapped, like a prisoner in my own home. Realizing I can't jeopardize my grandkids' safety, I decide to call my son, Eric, and fill him in on the situation. I send him a text and request an urgent call. A few minutes later, my son, Eric, phones me. "Mom? Are you okay? What about the kids?" "I'm fine, and the kids are okay, but there are some things you need to know." I proceed to share all the details with him, and the phone call falls momentarily silent. "Mom, this isn’t good. Okay, um, I think it's best if the kids don't come over then," Eric eventually responds. "Since you have the police there patrolling the area, that makes me feel a little better. If my kids are in danger, though, I need to get them out. Let me call Steph, and I'll call you back." I agree to his decision, telling him I love him. I anxiously await his call. A few minutes later, he rings back. "Mom, I'll pick up the kids from school and take them to Steph's parents. They'll look after them until we can figure out what to do." "Okay. I'm sorry about all of this." "I just want you and the kids to be safe." "I completely understand." "Mom, you need to tell Dad now. You can't stay home alone." "I know, and I will." "Love you, Mom. Stay safe." Tears well up in my eyes. "I will. Love you too." With the knowledge that the kids will be safe elsewhere, I dial Brock's number and deliver the news to him. "Damn, Trice, what's going on?" he exclaims. "I don't know, but whoever is involved in Troy's death won't stop." "I have court all week, so I can't be home. But next week, we're taking time off. I'll make sure of it." "Okay. I'll be fine with Officer Lopez here, but I don't dare venture out. Who knows what will happen." "Just stay inside, keep the doors locked, and only pick up the phone if you know who it is. Promise me." "I promise," I assure him. Now that Goldie is gone, I doubt anyone will try messaging me unless... that message I received from Goldie's phone the day she died wasn't actually from her. A sudden shiver runs through me, causing me to tremble. If this individual has possession of Goldie's phone, they could have access to all our text messages, especially if Goldie failed to delete them. My phone number is also stored in her contacts. I send a silent prayer that Gray can obtain those last names swiftly. Two people have already met a grim fate. I can't shake the chilling thought … I might be the next target.

In the 43rd installment and part three of flipping your grass into a beautiful water-wise garden, where I discuss the perfect plants to grow. But first, before planting your garden, design it. Do you want tall plants intermingled with smaller plants, all tall plants, all small ones, or a cascading effect of tall, smaller, and small? Install the water system. Even though you will grow drought-tolerant plants, you still need to get them established first, and that takes regular watering. Drip systems work well for this because it allows you to meter the watering, thus ensuring the correct amount of water at the right time. Next, are you putting in rock, gravel, or just dirt? There are advantages and disadvantages with any type of substrate. Now onto the good stuff. Here are tried and true plants to grow in your garden. 🌵 Cactus plants (which there are many) take very little water and repel many pests due to their sharp stickers. 🏵 Yarrow is a great addition to any drought-resistance garden. Multiple bushy flowers are on each sturdy stem in beautiful colors, including red, purple, peach, yellow, and white, with different shades of those colors. 🌻 Sunflowers can make a rock garden shine and create a bold statement. There are small and mammoth sunflowers you can use as a backdrop or use as centerpieces. 🌿 Aloe not only doesn't need much water but it's medicinal. Have a sunburn or mosquito bite? Aloe vera helps to calm the itch and pain. 🌼 Rockrose has a perfume aroma that displays large, papery flowers; they are fast growing and love the sun, and don't need much water to thrive. 🏵 Brittlebrush are a bush teeming with yellow daises that need minimal watering and offer a bright addition to a water-wise garden. 🌸 Crape Myrtle puts on quite a show in summer with gorgeous, showy blossoms that linger into fall. The beautiful, dark bark contrasts with bright pinks, purples, reds, and snow-white flowers. 🌼 Bougainvillea provides an instant tropical feel to your garden, which feature vibrant, often vining blooms and peak in summer, and in milder climates bloom from early spring to late fall. 🏵 Marigolds, with their strong, aromatic scent and mustard blooms do quite well in a water-wise garden. Bonus is that they keep away nasty pests, so your plants stay healthy without being food to unwanted insects. This is just a small sample of plants that do well in deserts or without much water. Do you have a water-wise garden? Post your pics below! Happy Gardening!! ____________________________________________________________________ Hi, thanks for reading! I'm a 30-year garden veteran, having planted over 500 species of plants. Please like, comment, share, and join my gardening group where I post on everything garden related. Visit my website @ jewelswrites.blogspot.com & follow me on IG hotmamagardener

The words Goldie shared with me at the park would linger in my memory for a long time. I wish we could offer her a safe haven in our home. We have the space, but she had been confined to her own home for the past year, and leaving behind the residence she had known for decades would undoubtedly be challenging. Moreover, bringing her into our home would only make us more susceptible to danger, given the risks we already faced. I make my way back home before the snowfall worsens. My thoughts keeps returning to that elusive ring. With the ground now frozen, searching for it would have to wait until spring. I reach into my pocket, feeling for the small recorder that Goldie had entrusted to me. Upon my arrival home, Herc greets me with an enthusiastic wag of his tail. I bend down to scratch his ears and prepare hot chocolate before settling at the kitchen table. With the recorder in hand, I switch it on and begin listening to Goldie's message. "This is Goldie Stanton, and I possess the names of the individuals involved in Troy Carmichael's death and burial," her voice resonated from the recorder. "In the event of my demise, I have instructed Patrice Summers to deliver this recorder to Chief Errington. I cannot ascertain the extent of these individuals' knowledge, but I have been threatened and nearly killed twice. They must not escape justice for Troy's murder and the disposal of his body. Following these names, please continue listening, for I have also recorded my conversation with Ms. Summers. She is now privy to the same information you will hear shortly." The recording paused briefly before resuming, and I heard Goldie's voice again. "If I should pass away, my children will inherit my home. Although I have made a will, these are my spoken wishes. I am of sound mind, and my only desire is for my family to be secure and protected." She proceeded to reveal the names of those involved - Ely, Colton, Petra, and Greg. Although unsure of their last names, she suggested that her nephew might possess that information. Goldie emphasized her quest for justice for Troy and her determination to shield her family from the grim truth. I stop the recording, realizing the gravity of what had been shared. Considering all the novels and TV shows I have seen, I need to find a secure hiding place. It needs to be a location where no one would think to look or dare to search. My bathroom comes to mind. Although I no longer had a menstrual cycle, I still kept some medical supplies for other purposes. Climbing the stairs, I enter the bathroom and open the bottom drawer. Extracting a Preparation H tube from its container from the farthest corner, I replace it with the small recorder Goldie had given me. It fit snugly, and I conceal it at the back of the drawer where it would remain unnoticed. Returning downstairs, I switch on the TV and gaze out at the gently falling snow. I appreciated the beauty of winter, particularly the warmth of hot chocolate, a cozy blanket, and engaging murder mysteries. Herc curled up beside me. His multicolored fur, a mix of black, brown, and white, held fond memories of the day I first saw him, and I cherished his presence. Later, I awake from an unplanned nap and discover my phone buzzing. I grab it swiftly, noticing a text message from Goldie. "GOING OUT OF TOWN FOR THE REST OF THE WEEK – BE BACK LATER," her message read. Although somewhat surprised, I understood her need to distance herself from potential threats. Perhaps she is going to visit her sons. Although unaware of their whereabouts, her safety is paramount. I reply, "ENJOY YOUR WEEK," hoping she would remain safe during her absence. In the afternoon, I pick up my grandchildren from school, navigating the slippery roads caused by the accumulating snow. I detest driving in such conditions but ensure their safe arrival home. Upon returning, the children eagerly indulge in hot cocoa with cookies, adhering to my rules of orderly eating in the living room. They each grab a coaster, plate, and napkin. I glance at Connor, who seems fixated on something outside. "What are you looking at, Con?" I inquire. He points and I follow his gaze, spotting the same cat from last year circling a corner of my backyard. It struck me as peculiar, given the cold and snowy weather. "Don't go anywhere, Con," I caution before stepping outside to investigate. Hercules follows me through the doggy door. As I approach, I discover a lifeless bird, perhaps a crow, lying in the snow. Herc begins sniffing it. Something doesn't add up – dogs typically hunted birds, but Herc hadn't been outside all day and showed no interest in bird hunting. I shoo the cat away, and it retreats into a nearby tree. Disliking the handling of deceased birds, I fetch a shovel from the shed and dispose of it in the garbage can, wiping away any traces of blood with my foot, which I then conceal beneath the freshly fallen snow. Returning indoors, I feel a chill that has nothing to do with the weather. As I contemplate the strange occurrence, Herc follows me inside. "Was that a bird?" Connor inquires, staring at me with curiosity. "Yes, perhaps a crow. I think something killed it – maybe the cat that's often in our tree," I explain. Connor shrugs, seemingly unfazed. "Come on, it's cold," I urge, holding my mug and cookies, and we retreat to the warmth of the living room. Later that night, after the kids leave, I resume my reading in bed, a nightly ritual. The clock nears 9:00, and the garage door announces my husband's return. Brock's relentless work schedule weighs on my mind; I worry about his health and wish he would slow down. As he approaches 61, I fear the toll his demanding job could take on him, especially since he was seldom home. A few minutes later, he enters the room. "Hey, hon, how was your day?" he asks, climbing onto the bed and kissing me. "Good." I hesitate about mentioning my earlier conversation with Goldie to Brock, wondering if I should finally open up to him. He's my husband, and I've already kept so much from him. Perhaps it's time to share. I set the book on my nightstand. He studies my expression, his brows furrowing. "Uh-oh, I don't like your tone." "Sorry, but I need to tell you some things I've been keeping from you. I know I should have said something sooner, but I was worried." I take a deep breath and proceed to reveal everything I know, including the existence of the recorder. After hearing my account, he lowers his head and shakes it. "Trice, why didn't you tell me sooner? I can't believe you've held onto this for so long." He leans over and hugs me, surprising me with his lack of anger. "I was trying to protect Goldie, but Brock, she's in grave danger, and I don't know how to help her." "Well," he says, "you mentioned that Chief Errington is keeping a close eye on her, right? There's nothing more you can do except let them handle it." "She texted me shortly after leaving the park and told me she was going out of town for the rest of the week, which I thought might be safer." Brock looks at me curiously. "When was that?" "About 10:30 this morning." He taps his chin thoughtfully. "That's odd, because I saw her car parked at the Home Depot off State Street around noon. I had just come back from the courthouse and thought about grabbing lunch at Daniels." I furrow my brow, wondering how Brock knows what Goldie's car looks like and why he didn't contact me to meet for lunch. He usually has an hour, sometimes more, between court sessions. Maybe he quickly grabbed lunch and returned to work. However, my thoughts quickly pivot back to Goldie. "How do you know what her car looks like?" Brock gives me an incredulous look. "Come on, Trice, she's had that car for years. Plus, her license plate is pretty memorable." He's right; Goldie's license plate spells out "GOLDIE," and her car is, fittingly, a gold Toyota Camry. She had to order it from another state because no local dealer carried that color. "Well, perhaps she stopped at Home Depot before heading out," I suggest. "I assume she's visiting her kids, although I don't know where they live. Maybe they're in Salt Lake since she mentioned going 'out of town,' not 'out of state.'" In hindsight, Goldie being at Home Depot doesn't make much sense. Brock nods. "Could be." I contemplate sending Goldie a message to check on her and make sure she arrived safely at her destination. However, it's likely late on the East Coast, so I decide to wait until morning. She may be tired and already asleep. As I watch the snow fall gently outside, I can't help but wonder how much more snow we'll get overnight. The following morning, I wake up to find Brock gone again. I yawn and rub my eyes, feeling like I had a restless night, even though I can't recall any dreams. My memory for dreams has been fading as I age. I reach for my phone to check for messages and find none. Glancing at the clock, I see it's nearly 7:30. It's probably not too early to send Goldie a text. I type a quick message: JUST CHECKING TO SEE HOW YOU ARE AND IF YOU MADE IT TO WHEREVER YOU WERE GOING. I wait for a few minutes, but I don't get a response. She might still be asleep, so I get up and look outside. It's a beautiful, sunny morning. Realizing I need a shower, I gather my clothes and head into the bathroom. After my shower, I recheck my phone, hoping for a reply, but there are no new messages. A sense of unease settles in my stomach, but I try to push it aside. If I don't hear from Goldie by tonight, I'll try reaching out to her again. I head downstairs to grab some breakfast and open my laptop. As I glance out through the sliding door in the kitchen, I notice a significant amount of snow that must have fallen overnight. I spend some time browsing the internet and then decide to check the latest news on the KSL website to see if there are any reports about the recent storm. At the top of the page, one particular story catches my attention. The headline reads: Body Found in Car

PART THREE Almost six months had passed since Troy's discovery, Deanna's arrest and release, and the arrest of Grant Lawson, who faced charges of drugging his aunt and falsely diagnosing her with dementia, a cruel manipulation facilitated by mind-altering drugs. In the midst of this turmoil, another individual, Jeff, was brought in for questioning as Grant confessed that it was Jeff who had paid his associates $10,000 each to dispose of Troy's body and an additional $20,000 to carry out the murder. Jeff, reportedly the husband of the woman Troy had an affair with, vehemently denied any involvement, even though the investigation remained ongoing. Jeff had a compelling alibi for the crucial weekend, June 15, when Deanna and her children had gone camping. The puzzle persisted: who had orchestrated this sinister plot, and was Jeff framed? The mystery surrounding my backyard, which was undoubtedly linked to the disposal of Troy's body, continued to gnaw at my thoughts. The texts from the messenger, particularly the one mentioning the ring Goldie messaged me months ago about and what I tried to retrieve but never could find was also on my mind. Months had passed since the last message from the messenger, suggesting a resolution to Troy's murder, as his nephew, Grant, was now behind bars. However, the abrupt message on Valentine's Day raised new questions and concerns: NEED YOUR HELP NOT OVER I stared at my phone, perplexed. What did the messenger mean by "not over"? Was there another layer to this story that remained concealed from everyone? PLEASE – I’M IN DANGER The messenger, it appeared, had unearthed something dangerous. But how could I, a stranger, possibly assist them? The situation weighed heavily on my mind. CAN WE MEET? I watched the three dots indicating a response, my hesitancy mixed with a growing sense of responsibility. PARK 8:00 AM TOMORROW MORNING My apprehensions battled with my desire to help. Could I trust this person? What if this was all an elaborate ruse? Nevertheless, the earlier messages alluded to safeguarding their family, compelling me to take action. If the messenger was indeed in danger, it was my moral obligation to assist in any way possible. WILL BE THERE The following morning, my heart raced as I anticipated the messenger's revelations. However, I couldn't let my unease hinder the day's plans. I had promised to take my grandkids to the latest Disney movie, granting their parents a Valentine's Day night out. As they arrived, we embarked on our outing, enveloped by the warmth of family bonding. Later that night, I lay in bed, engrossed in my book, when the sound of the garage door interrupted my reverie. Herc scampered downstairs to greet Brock, a routine they followed religiously. I glanced at the clock; it was nearly 10:00 PM. Our Valentine's Day had passed like any other day, devoid of flowers or cards, reflecting the dwindling romance in our 35-year marriage. Brock entered the room, loosening his tie and placing his plate and cup on the nightstand before collapsing onto the bed, Hercules at his feet. His eyes fluttered closed. "I'm so exhausted," he muttered. "This case has been a nightmare. If we don't wrap it up this week, the trial won't begin until mid-March due to the judge's daughter's wedding in Hawaii at the end of February." "I understand," I replied with a hint of disappointment. It had been two weeks of 12 to 14-hour workdays, and I yearned for more quality time with my husband. "But it feels like I'm a widow sometimes." Brock's eyes opened, and he sighed deeply. "I know, and I'm sorry. After this case, I've got some vacation time. Let's plan a getaway, just the two of us." A spark of excitement surged within me. It had been years since we'd taken a trip together. "I'd love that." "Great. Any particular destination in mind?" The thought of visiting New York City had always intrigued me. "How about New York? I'd love to explore the city and take in all the tourist attractions." Brock's eyes lit up. "Sounds fantastic. It's been ages since I was there, and that was for work. I'd also like to visit Long Island and catch up with Jeff, my old buddy's son. You remember he used to hang out with our boys?" It's twice that I've heard that name, but the years have faded memories, and I can't remember this particular Jeff. "Sure, that sounds nice." As our plans took shape, I contemplated the tumultuous events of the past six months. Deanna's departure from her home, the unresolved mystery of the ring, and the messenger's cryptic messages weighed on my mind. The mention of Jeff's name both intrigued and disturbed me. By the time my thoughts shifted to the upcoming meeting with the messenger, I had drifted into slumber, and it was Brock's departure for work that roused me from my restless sleep. After my morning routine, which included arming myself with mace, I embarked on my journey to Grantsville City Park. The winter's chill lingered in the air, the roads cleared of the previous day's snowfall. Arriving at the park, I found it deserted, a foreboding sign. Only one other vehicle, presumably belonging to the messenger, occupied the parking area. As I parked beside the car, a surge of apprehension coursed through me. I scanned the park, not daring to believe what I saw. Seated on a bench in the corner was none other than Goldie Stanton, my former elementary school teacher. Her golden hair had been the source of her name when she was born, and her identity was unmistakable despite the passage of time. "Hi, Trice," she greeted me with a nervous smile. "Mrs. Stanton?" My confusion and concern were palpable. "Please, call me Goldie." "Alright," I acquiesced, struggling to articulate my thoughts. "I never imagined..." Goldie interrupted, acknowledging my unspoken words. "I know. Believe me, I didn't want to be involved in any of this, and I certainly didn't want to involve you. But I didn't know where else to turn. I've already had my life threatened and nearly lost it twice. You know my nephew, Grant, was responsible for Troy's murder, but what you don't know is who orchestrated it." My suspicions were confirmed, yet I wanted to hear it from her. Her revelation about the threats and near-death experiences sent a chill down my spine. "It was Melanie's husband, Jeff," Goldie continued, her voice laden with gravity. "Grant executed the act, with three others assisting in disposing of the body. Remember the ring I mentioned?" "Yes," I replied. "Well, it's never been recovered. If that ring surfaces, it will lead the authorities to his accomplices. Currently, Jeff denies any involvement, and the police can't connect him to Grant. But allowing my nephew to murder Troy is reprehensible. He must be held accountable, along with the others." The name "Jeff" resurfaced once more, leaving me to ponder the possibility of this being the same Jeff from New York City who used to be buddies with our boys. It sounds implausible, but if he once lived here before relocating, it might just be the same individual. "I concur," I replied, glancing around the park to ensure our privacy was maintained. "Even if we manage to find the ring and present it to the police, it would only implicate one person." "Yes," Goldie agreed, "but I assure you, once they catch him, he'll sing like a canary and reveal the mastermind behind it all." "True," I conceded. "But what if the others genuinely don't know who orchestrated it? Did Grant ever mention the mastermind's name?" Goldie furrowed her brows and shook her head. "Not to my knowledge, but he could have said something to them that night or earlier when I couldn't overhear. Nevertheless, I don't think that's a critical factor. If everyone else comes forward and corroborates what Grant said about receiving $10,000 each for body disposal, it would significantly complicate Jeff's escape." Her reasoning made sense, and I nodded in agreement. Goldie then turned to me, her gaze scanning the park and the surrounding area to ensure our safety. "I'm sharing this with you because if something were to happen to me, I want someone else to know the truth," she confided. "Now that Grant is in prison, it's just me. I have security measures in place, and the police regularly patrol my vicinity, but they can't provide long-term protection. I'm a target if these individuals become aware that I possess this knowledge. I've already faced a near-fatal incident when an intruder broke into my home. Fortunately, Grant was there and managed to intervene. Then, when Officer Lopez, Chief Errington, and I were at the police station, someone hurled a smoke grenade through the window. I suffered from smoke inhalation and had to undergo oxygen therapy due to the toxic substances in the grenade. Someone even followed us home and monitored my residence. I'm far from safe." I was taken aback by the harrowing experiences Goldie had endured. Her foreboding words about her safety made me shiver. "You must inform Chief Errington of your concerns," I urged. "He's aware and doing everything within his power," Goldie assured me. "However, we don't reside in a bustling metropolis with an abundance of police officers. I'll ensure my doors are always locked and set the alarm when I leave. I've equipped myself with mace and even a firearm. I'm taking every possible precaution to safeguard myself. But in the event that something does happen, I want you to have some leverage or evidence. I'm currently recording our conversation," she disclosed, producing a small rectangular recorder I hadn't seen in years. "I opted not to use my phone for this. I want you to have this recorder. If I meet an unfortunate end, take it to Chief Errington. It contains the names of everyone involved in Troy's death." She pressed the stop button on the recorder. After cautiously scanning our surroundings, Goldie placed the recorder on the bench and pushed it toward me. I discreetly retrieved it and slipped it into my pocket while keeping a vigilant eye on the eerily quiet park as the snow began to fall. Goldie embraced me, her parting words casting a haunting pall over the day. "It may be my time."

It was the eve of Christmas, and Melanie was five days overdue, enduring the discomfort that comes with late-stage pregnancy. Outside, snowflakes drifted gently down as she reclined on the couch, her belly large and pronounced. A small plate balanced precariously on her protruding bump. Everything had been meticulously prepared for this moment, a month's worth of readiness. Brimming with excitement, the children relentlessly inquired about the impending arrival of baby Ian, particularly Kirsten, who celebrated her seventh birthday in October. Since Grant's phone call from jail, he had fallen silent, leaving me to grapple with the conversation where I had inadvertently implicated him. While he knew my reluctance to harm Troy, he had a persuasive way about him, ultimately leading me to compromise my values. The guilt had consumed me in the days that followed, every doorbell ring or knock sending shivers down my spine as I dreaded the arrival of the police. Nevertheless, I had taken precautions. No one, not Grant nor anyone else, would jeopardize my budding romance or the imminent arrival of our baby. Later that night, I jolted awake at the sound of Melanie's gasp. "My water just broke!" Her voice trembled as she stood at the foot of our bed, her gaze directed downward. "All right, let's go!" I rouse the kids, who had their suitcases ready for this moment, meant for a visit to my parents when the time came. "Ian is on his way," Kirsten gleefully skipped toward the car. According to my watch, it was nearly 3:30 a.m., with Christmas looming just two days away. I silently cursed the timing. As we sped towards the hospital, Melanie's moans filled the car. "These contractions are really intense." "Hang in there, just a few more minutes." Upon our arrival at the hospital, the orderlies whisked Melanie into the Labor and Delivery unit. I handled the check-in process, and upon entering her room, I found a plump nurse with short red hair, thick-rimmed brown glasses, and green eyes examining the contraction monitor. "You're making great progress, Melanie. Contractions are strong, about every 4 minutes now. I'll call the doctor in to check on you soon," she assured us before departing. I glimpsed at her name badge as she left – Nurse Warner – and noted her thorough hand sanitizing routine. "Did you hear that? We're almost there," I said, gently wiping Melanie's perspiring forehead. "Would you like some ice chips?" She nodded, moaning once more. I hurriedly sought out the nurse, procured a cup, and filled it with ice chips. Upon my return, she grasped an ice cube, rubbing it against her forehead and face before downing the entire cup. "It's so hot," Melanie murmured, kicking off her covers. A doctor, not Melanie's regular one, entered the room. "Hi, Melanie. I'll be delivering Baby Ian today, as Doctor Bradford is on Christmas vacation. Let's check your progress, shall we?" Dr. Bradford donned latex gloves, his silver hair glistening under the bright light he adjusted. Towering in stature, he positioned himself and examined her, a warm smile gracing his face. "You're dilated to a 7 now, so it won't be long," he informed us, prompting another pained moan from Melanie. "It's painful. Can I get an epidural?" Melanie inquired, her voice tinged with desperation. The doctor's expression turned apologetic. "I'm afraid it's too late for that now. You're too far along. But, considering your progress, Ian will be here soon." Melanie sighed, closing her eyes, visibly attempting to regain her composure. Around twenty minutes later, Melanie uttered, "I have to push; he's coming." Her voice quivered with fatigue. I rushed out of the room to summon the doctor. He arrived promptly, examined her, and confirmed that she was fully dilated and ready to push. At 4:42 AM, Ian made his entrance into the world, his cries filling the room. He boasted a full head of dark brown hair, reminiscent of Jayden's birth. As I studied his tiny features, I couldn't help but notice the similarities – his nose and lips matched mine. The realization hit me like a thunderbolt. It was my birthday, and we had been intimate for the first time in a long while. She had done it as a birthday gift, but I had been oblivious to her affair with Troy. Ian might be my son.