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Chapter One
CHASTEN REEDtook an appreciative sip of his beer—cold and foamy. It had been a rough week, and he looked forward to a quiet, relaxing weekend. It had taken all of his patience to keep order in a classroom full of five-year-olds anticipating Halloween next week. He loved his kids’ energy, but sometimes he just wanted to slow down for a minute and be an adult.
He’d left a good mystery novel on the coffee table, and he planned to finish off a few more beers, then fall asleep on his couch reading it.
It was on nights like this, when Misty Falls, New Hampshire, was quiet, its citizens tucked into their cozy homes, that he felt most alone.
It was also when he most seriously considered getting a dog. Maybe a Corgi. He would name it Sir Fluffington—
Pop.Pop, pop, pop.
It sounded like some local kids had gotten ahold of some firecrackers leftover from the summer. He shook his head and reached for the book. Not his circus, not his monkeys. Some nosy neighbor would call the police and the kids would run away, laughing their heads off.
Ba-da-da-da-da-da-da-da.
Jeez. That almost sounded like a machine gun. The kids must have lit off a whole string of firecrackers.
Bang! Bang!
Okay. That sounded close and much bigger than a simple firecracker. Shooting off fireworks this close to the historic wooden houses on this street was a fire hazard. He got up and headed for the door to tell the kids to cut it out in his sternest teacher voice.
Something thudded against his front door.
Oh, for the love of Mike. Kids were pranking the neighborhoodalready?
Tires squealed as he reached for the handle and threw open the door. He started to step out and literally tripped over the woman sprawled across his front porch.
“Leah? Is that you?”
His next-door neighbor lay half on her side, awkwardly curled around her middle. Something dark was smeared in a wide streak down his front door—and the unmistakable iron smell of blood slammed into him.
He jolted in shock and squatted down, reaching quickly for the middle-aged woman who rented the one house that was the only remaining eyesore of this newly gentrified neighborhood.
“Leah, honey, are you hurt?”
He pulled on her shoulder and she rolled limply onto her back, her eyes glassy and staring up at the porch ceiling, unblinking. She looked freaking dead.
“Leah!” He felt under her chin for a pulse.Nothing. Holy crap.He pushed his hand hard along the junction of her neck and jaw.Still nothing. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.He fell to his knees beside her, frantically reviewing his CPR training from high school lifeguarding class a million years ago.
He yanked open her bulky coat, reaching for her sternum, and realized there was blood everywhere. Her shirt was soaked; her coat was soaked. In fact, he was kneeling in a spreading puddle of blood. Frantically, he tore open her shirt buttons and counted eight ragged holes in her torso. She’d beenshot? The holes were oozing sluggishly but couldn’t account for all the blood he saw.
He started chest compressions, counting in his head in panic. He bent down, pinched her nose closed, tilted her jaw back to breathe into her mouth, and that was when he saw the ragged tear all along the far side of her neck. Dark red meat and white tendons stuck out along with the fibrous tube of her esophagus as he tilted her head back, and blood seeped sluggishly from the devastating wound.
A bullet must have torn through her throat and split open her carotid artery along with ripping up everything else in its path. Nobody could survive this. Frankly, he was shocked she’d stayed conscious long enough to make it onto his front porch. He fumbled in his pants pocket for his cell phone to dial 911, but his fingers were slippery with blood and he dropped the phone. He leaned across Leah’s body to grab it, and that was when he heard the noise. A terrified whimper coming from the wadded blanket lying on the porch beside Leah. She must have been carrying it when she staggered onto his porch and collapsed.
Quickly, he unwrapped the bundle and stared at a toddler, covered in blood, looking so terrified she couldn’t even cry properly. He plucked the child, dressed in pink, perhaps eighteen months old, out of the blanket and used a corner of it to wipe the blood off her face, urgently searching for injuries. As best as he could tell, the baby was unhurt.
He heard another squeal of tires and looked up. A black SUV was careening around the corner.
Why he panicked, he didn’t know, but he did. Call it instinct.
Scooping up the baby and his cell phone, he sprinted for the end of his porch, hurdled the low hedge, and took off running around the corner of his house into the dark.
He raced across his backyard at top speed. Brakes squealed in front of his house. Swearing in a continuous mental stream, he unlatched the gate, slipped out of his yard, and relatched the gate quietly behind him.
A barrage of gunfire exploded from the street, making him crouch instinctively. The sound of glass shattering announced that his front windows had been destroyed. Terror gave wings to his feet as he flew down the alley. He swerved between two houses without fenced yards and raced down the next street.
He ran for perhaps a dozen blocks, until he was so out of breath it felt like a knife was buried in his side and the panic finally abated enough for his brain to actually function.