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  First stop—town, to get a new phone number.

  As her sneaker-clad feet pounded the pavement, the dogs running by her side, her paranoia grew. I should have taken the Honda. What was I thinking? She found herself glancing over her shoulder, scanning yards and open fields, watching for signs of Karlos. What if he’s lying in wait somewhere, machete in hand?

  Her pace increased.

  A red Mustang slowed next to her and honked.

  “Hey, beautiful!” a guy called, leaning out the driver’s door.

  She jerked and yelped.

  “Fuck you!” she called, picking up speed.

  He gunned his engine and the car roared next to her. “I only needed directions, bitch!”

  “Get away from me!”

  He sped away, giving her the finger out his window.

  “Asshole. If you need directions, don’t come on to me,” she muttered.

  An unseasonably warm sun beat down on her limbs. Sweat poured from her skin. She glanced down at the dogs, who kept up with her, their tongues dangling from their mouths.

  Shit. I’m going to kill the dogs at this pace.

  She slowed to a jog.

  Two miles later, as she approached downtown, she eased to a brisk walk.

  Maxine and Midget matched her speed, still panting.

  A one-block-wide park, complete with a water feature, stood between the office supplies store and an artsy knick-knack shop. Water tumbled down a few stones into a small pool. Thinking to let the dogs refresh their palates with some water, she led them to the fountain.

  Maxine leaped into the water, jerking the leash from her hands.

  Midget followed.

  Maxine lay down in the water. It bobbed around her neck and shoulders.

  They both greedily lapped at the water.

  “No, no, no. Can’t you read? The sign says, ‘Keep dogs out of the fountain,’” she said, pointing to a placard next to the bench placed near the water.

  An elderly woman tottered by, glaring at her.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Blaire said. “They got away from me.”

  She plunged her hands into the water and grabbed both leashes. Then, she hauled the dogs out of their cool bath.

  They shook off their coats, splattering her with water.

  Of course. Letting her arms hang for a few seconds, despair dripped from every pore. She felt helpless, out of control… and terrified.

  What am I going to do? How could he have found me? And why, after two years?

  The dogs stood by her side, fully refreshed and happy.

  She dragged her feet along the sidewalk as she headed toward the M-Tron Mobile Phone center.

  Once there, she clipped the dogs’ leashes to the bike rack and held out her palm. “Stay.”

  Maxine whined.

  Midget sat.

  “Stay,” she repeated. “I’ll be right back.”

  Inside, several customers were already ahead of her. She kept watch on the dogs through the window.

  They each kept watch on her.

  Finally, her turn came up and she went through the process of justifying a new number with money that could be better used elsewhere—like paying bills. As she exited the store, she typed a text from her phone: J-I got a new number. XO, B

  The dogs greeted her as she untied them from the bike rack. She headed toward home.

  As she jogged along the side of the road, her spirit lightened somewhat. Take that, Karlos. See if you can text me, now. Maybe Jackson is right. You can’t get someone’s address from an unlisted number

  She made a mental note to search that info on the Internet once she got home.

  As she approached home, she slowed to a walk and strode along the gravel driveway, proud of herself for only looking over her shoulder a couple of times.

  Jackson’s right. We’ll find a way to keep Karlos from finding me.

  After putting the leashes in one hand, she headed for the front door and tugged her keys out of her shorts pocket. When the door came into view, she froze.

  A large bouquet sat on the front stoop.

  Could those be from Karlos?

  With shaking hands, she unlocked the front door and opened it. After unclasping the leashes from their collars, she let the dogs into the house.

  They trotted in, leaving her on the front stoop.

  Moving closer, she searched for his signature flower—he always included one black rose, saying something about the rare rose matched the beauty they were meant for or some seductive bullshit. No black rose. They don’t look like his usual pricey bouquet, either. Her rigid limbs melted. Wow…for a second, I thought they were from Karlos. What a fright. Are they from Jackson? He’s so thoughtful.

  She picked up the vase and sniffed the purple iris, fragrant white lilies, and lavender lilacs. Smiling, she plucked the card from the plastic stand between the flowers.

  As she read the elegant script, the vase slid from her hands, shattering on the cement landing. The colorful flowers lay scattered among glass fragments and water.

  Horror iced her veins. There, written in red ink, the color of blood, stood a single message: Para mi hermosa pequeña canción de pájaro. ¿Extrañarme?

  In a strangled, shaky voice, she translated the phrase out loud.

  “My beautiful little songbird. Miss me?”

  Chapter 20

  Sitting at the edge of his neatly made bed in his room at the station, dressed in clean jeans and a t-shirt, Jackson puzzled over the text he’d received this morning from Blaire.

  Busy day today. I probably won’t answer if you call. I’m fine. See you after I get off work at 3. XO, B.

  He pushed to stand and chewed the inside of his cheek while eying his surroundings consisting of a small wooden desk against the cream-colored wall, a closet, and a three-drawer dresser. A picture of Blaire adorned his desk, but nothing else sat atop it, save for a pen.

  Her words seemed innocuous, but he couldn’t put his finger on it—something about the message seemed off. The communication felt as sparse as his surroundings were simple.

  He’d been in a panic ever since she called him last night informing him that Karlos had texted her. But between tones and his regular duties, he’d had little time to deal with her distress and his need to fucking fix the situation, stat.

  He clicked on the phone icon to see if Agent Vogel had called him back. Goddamn it. Nothing. The minute he got off the phone with Blaire last night, he’d called and left a message with the FBI agent.

  He caught sight of Mark, passing his open doorway, wearing a towel around his waist.

  Jackson lifted his chin. “Hey, Hubs.”

  Mark backed up and peered into his room. His dark hair hung wet along his forehead. “What’s up?”

  “Know any higher-ups in the police force?”

  Mark cocked his head to the side and thought a moment. “Not really. Kowalski might. Ask him. He’s duty chief today.”

  “Will do, thanks.”

  “Any time.” Mark disappeared from sight.

  Jackson reached for his sturdy black leather boots which stood next to the bed and shoved his feet into them. He leaned over to zip them up. Then, he made his way to the chief’s office.

  The door hung ajar, so he knocked on the jamb and eased it open.

  Kowalski had the landline handset pressed to his ear. He raised one finger into the air and mouthed, “One sec.” Then, he gave his attention to whomever he spoke with. “Okay. Okay. We can do that. Yes, we’ll be out there. Okay. All right. I’ll touch base when it gets closer to the date. Uh-huh. You, too. Goodbye.” He cradled the handset back on the phone receiver and looked at Jackson. “That was Joe Johnson.”

  “Ah,” said Jackson. “What’s our Fire Inspector up to?”

  He leaned against the door frame.

  “He wants a team of volunteers to be on standby at the Fourth of July fireworks out at the fairgrounds. Singer Springs got permits to host a fireworks display this year,
but with these drought conditions, it could prove a clusterfuck of fires for the department. Joe tried to get it shut down, but the people have spoken. They want their pyrotechnics. First, we have to get through the Summer Arts Fest, and Farm Days, though. I’ll have to gather volunteers for those events, too.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “What can I do for you?”

  Jackson swallowed and said, “I need to get in touch with a higher up in the police department.”

  Kowalski’s forehead creased. “Everything okay?”

  “Not really. Blaire has an ex coming after her. She has an unlisted number, and the guy started texting her. So, somehow he found her number.”

  “Damn.” Kowalski leaned back in his squeaky desk chair and folded his hands over his belly. Behind him, the sun streamed in ribbons through the Levolor blinds, creating a pattern of light rectangles along his balding head. “Has he made any threats to her?”

  “No.”

  “Is he likely to?”

  “Not sure. The guy’s not high on the moral compass of life.”

  “Dang. Well, I can get you the number of Police Chief Kitroeff, but I’m pretty sure he’s going to say unless threats have been placed on her life, or the guy shows up at her doorstep, they can’t pull resources to put the manpower into investigating a text message.” He lifted his hands from his belly and turned his palms up. “You know how the system works.”

  Jackson sighed. “Well, can you text me his number anyway? Just in case threats do escalate? I’m telling you—he’s the lowest of the lows. He runs a cartel down in Venezuela.”

  “Hell. How’d your sweet little Blaire get involved with a cartel in Venezuela?”

  “He’s a wealthy dude. She didn’t suspect his affiliation with the cartel until it was too late.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Good that she got away safely, though. Keep me posted. If you need anything—anything at all—let me know. We’re family after all.” Kowalski smiled. Deep dimples appeared in his chubby cheeks.

  The word “family” stirred a strange ache in Jackson’s chest every time it got bandied about at the station. Talk often revolved around the “brothers and sisters” of the fire department. They looked out for one another, far better than any of his experiences with his family to date.

  “Thanks, chief. Will do.”

  He made his way out to his truck and tried to formulate a plan for the day. He’d thought he would get to spend it with Blaire. On the phone last night, she hadn’t mentioned anything about working today. He thought she had the day off.

  Maybe she picked up some clients. Maybe she needs to stay busy to keep her mind off of Karlos.

  With time on his hands, he stopped by the building supplies store on the way home and bought some lumber and chicken wire to fortify Blaire’s garden, until he had to go meet with Jake.

  Several hours later, with the garden protected and satisfaction in his soul, Jackson left the dogs loose in the backyard and drove into town to meet with his brother. He never knew which version of his brother would show up when they got together—high as a kite Jake, whimpering and complaining Jake, or sober Jake. He parked the truck in front of the diner and looked up to see Jake standing by the door.

  Jake shifted side to side, rubbed his hands along his thighs. He worried his fingers around and around as Jackson approached. His body didn’t carry that slack-jawed slump from a heroin high. Instead, it looked more like withdrawal.

  “Hey, Jackson,” Jake said.

  “Hey,” Jackson said. “You okay?”

  “Me?”

  “No, the door behind you. I always talk to inanimate objects,” Jackson said, his anger spiking. He didn’t want to play games with Jake today—or any day for that matter.

  “Oh. Well, sure. I’m okay. Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Jackson said, opening the door. “You seem sort of nervous.”

  He stepped into the foyer.

  Black pendant lights hung overhead. Framed pictures of the kind of art he’d call “quaint”— pictures from the fifties of Singer Springs’s old farms, men riding tractors, and women serving tables of farmhands and the like—covered the walls.

  The sunny restaurant, with green booths and white Formica topped tables, held several customers. The hum of clinking silverware, conversation and dishes being hauled in plastic bins by the busser staff filled the air, accompanied by the smells of fried food. Waitresses practically sprinted from table to table.

  “I’m, uh…” Jake’s gaze slid back and forth. “I’m trying to get clean, you know?”

  “You mentioned that, yeah.” Jackson fiddled with the keys in his pocket. “That’s good. Don’t you need a program to support you? It’s hard to go it alone.”

  “I’m fine,” Jake said. “I don’t need to be babied.”

  Jackson sighed and nodded to the pretty brunette hostess in a long, pink and blue-flowered dress, who hurried toward them with a glass coffee carafe in her hands.

  “Over there,” she said, a grateful smile on her face. “We’re short-handed so go on over to that booth, and I’ll be by in a few.”

  Jackson crossed the white-tiled floor toward the booth, trailed by Jake. He slid into the seat and then pushed aside the silverware sitting on a white napkin and placed his forearms on the table.

  Jake’s body seemed to stutter into his seat, as if unsure how to move.

  “Looks like you’re having a rough go of it,” Jackson said. “Support could be helpful.”

  Jake reached for the fork in front of him and twirled it around. “I’ll be fine. This will get better.”

  Sweat beaded on his forehead.

  “Well, there’s fine, and then there’s supported fine. You know, people to lean on when the going gets rough.” Jackson smiled.

  “I don’t need people. I’ve got you. I’m fine,” Jake snapped. “What’s going on with you?”

  He cocked his head and squinted, looking across the table through one eye.

  “Oh, I had to mend the garden enclosure I built to keep the dogs out of Blaire’s garden,” Jackson said.

  “Blaire’s garden,” Jake said in a sing-song voice. “Your precious Blaire.”

  Jackson glared. “Zip it, Jake. If you start talking trash about me, my life, or especially my girlfriend, I’m getting up and leaving.”

  “Sorry,” Jake mumbled.

  The hostess rushed over, bearing a glass pitcher of water and two menus. After placing the menus in front of them, she turned over the two glasses sitting at the edge of their table and filled them.

  “What can I get you two to drink besides water?”

  “Coffee’s fine,” Jackson said.

  His thoughts slid toward Blaire. That text—it didn’t sound like her. Usually, she’s warm and funny. And sexy. Today’s text just seems off to me.

  “I’ll have a Coke,” Jake said.

  “Okay, got it. Your waitress will be over in a second.”

  “April!” one of the waitresses hissed.

  The hostess looked up.

  The waitress pointed and glared at the line forming in the foyer.

  “Oh, dear.” April turned and scurried away.

  Jackson picked up his menu and scanned it. He decided on a burger and fries and put the menu back down.

  April returned with a coffee and a Coke.

  “Here you go, guys,” she said, smiling. She took off like jets were attached to the bottom of her shoes.

  Jake studied him with narrowed eyes.

  Jackson reached for a couple of sugar packets in a little glass container at the back of the booth. He tore them and poured the sugar into his coffee. Then, he grabbed a wooden stirrer and swirled it in his cup before taking a sip. His mind spun into thoughts of Blaire again.

  She sounded better when she texted me about her new number. Or did she? Then, we were slammed at work, and I couldn’t follow up with her. Maybe I misinterpreted.

  “You don’t think I can change, do you?” Jake said, his expressio
n defiant.

  “What? Fuck that, Jake, of course, I think you can change, but addiction is hard to master. I think you need some sort of program.” Jackson tapped his fingertips against the table. “You seem like all you want to do is fight today. I’m not in the mood. I’ve got more than enough on my plate.”

  “Perfect life isn’t so perfect?” Jake smirked.

  “Goddamn it, Jake, quit with the jabs. I told you—I’m not in the mood for this. In fact, if we’re honest, the thought of spending a weekend in the woods with you, if you’re going to be like this, doesn’t appeal to me in the slightest. I asked you to go camping to spend time with you, not listen to you bitch and moan about my so-called perfect life.”

  Jake lowered his gaze to the table. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s my body. You’re right, this is hard… to quit, I mean.”

  “Well, stop taking it out on me. I’m proud of you for trying.” Jackson sipped his coffee.

  “Really?” Jake’s head popped up, and his eyes widened.

  “Of course. I’ve wanted you to get clean for a long time.” Jackson fiddled with his silverware.

  The waitress stopped by, took their order, and raced away.

  “I can do it,” Jake said.

  “Great,” Jackson said. “I’d love it if you got clean and sober. That would make the camping trip a completely different experience. We’d be with you, not with your addiction.”

  “Fuck you,” Jake said.

  Jackson clenched his hands into fists. He took a deep breath and slowly released his fingers. “Sorry, Jake, it’s just a fact.”

  “I get it,” Jake said with a scowl. “No one likes a user.” He paused for a moment and stared out the window. “Remember when we went ‘camping’ after Dad left?”

  “When we found that old tent in a dumpster? Man, that thing was a piece of shit,” Jackson said, smiling.

  “But we wanted to do something that normal kids would do so we could talk about our fun camping trip at school on Monday,” Jake said. With a rare grin plastered upon his face, he looked younger than Jackson had seen him in years.

  “Yeah,” Jackson said, chuckling. “So we stuffed food and clothes in a pillowcase, and you strapped the tent to my back. I don’t think that’s what a normal kid would have done.”