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Cedar Breeze was a mile farther down the road.

The storm hadn’t let up.

Thankfully, Luke saw little traffic and no emergency lights, and heard no sirens, as he navigated around bits of windblown debris and tree limbs to get to his neighborhood.

He was numb as he parked in his driveway and went inside. His movements and breathing echoed in the near-empty house as he pulled off his wet clothes and took a shower. Welcoming the stinging needles of hot water, he scrubbed his skin as if he could erase the incident.

But he couldn’t.

His guilt and questions were unrelenting.

Just like LA.

Had he left an injured woman to die in the rain?

Why would a person be running toward his car in a storm? It happened so fast, the rain obscuring his vision.

He had to stop thinking like that.

Maybe all he hit was a piece of trash?

After showering, he pulled on sweatpants and a Los Angeles Rams T-shirt, went to the living room and switched off the lights. He lay down on his foam mattress and stared out the big window. Lightning flashed; watery veins slithered down the glass as he searched the night.

Maybe I imagined the whole thing?

His police psychologist in Los Angeles had told him he would face a range of reactions, like intrusive imagery, flashbacks, distorted memories and impaired judgment. With treatment and time, you can return to the job.

True, he was able to return to work, but he wouldn’t have been able to handle LA much longer—the move back to Texas was for him as much as it was for Carrie.

Thunder rumbled as Luke took stock of his actions tonight. No way was he drunk, not after one beer and a burger. No way was he speeding. And he’d intended to call it in.

Intended?

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

He cast around the house, practically bare. Down the hall, the baby’s room; next to it, his and Carrie’s bedroom. Near him in the living room, a rocking chair Luke had bought at an antique shop near Houston. A surprise for Carrie, it had a big bow and was waiting in the corner for her.

So much was on the line.

His new job, their battle to overcome the past, to make their family closer, stronger.

Carrie’s dad. Her chance to heal. My shot to put my problems behind me.

Now it was all at stake.

His conscience would not release him from the incident. He’d wanted to do the right thing. But he’d found no one. There was nothing to report.

Time swept by; the rain let up, and eventually sleep came in snatches.

Suddenly, he woke with new, terrifying thoughts.

What if he had in fact struck a woman and she had called 911? What if she’d emerged and flagged down the car that was approaching when he left?

No, he told himself, there’s no woman. The storm hurled trash at you—that’s all.

His nerves continued rippling until he fell back to sleep.

***

Luke woke after sunrise.

Sorting his thoughts, the memory of last night hit him.

Massaging his whiskered face, his pulse picking up, he checked his phone. A few spam messages and ads. No critical emails or alerts.

He stiffened.

Out of the corner of his eye, through his front window, he’d glimpsed a figure.

Someone’s in my driveway, looking at my car.

Concern whirled through him as he opened his door to the humid air. The storm was over, the morning clear.

Stepping into his driveway, he found a stranger standing behind his SUV, studying the leafy tree limb wedged under its rear end.

Luke threw a glance to the pickup in the driveway next door—the driver’s door was open. Then he looked at the man. He was wearing a blue short-sleeved shirt, jeans and sunglasses. Midforties, short hair, average build, an inch or two shorter than Luke. “Can I help you?” Luke asked.

“Hi, neighbor. I was heading for work when I saw that broken branch stuck under your Chevy Blazer there.”

Luke pulled the branch free and tossed it onto his front lawn.

“There you go,” the man said. “I was afraid you wouldn’t see it and was going to ring your doorbell. We haven’t met yet. Greg Ronson.”

He was all smiles, bright teeth, a firm handshake.

“Luke Conway.”

“Sorry for coming onto your property like this, Luke. That was a helluva storm.”

Absorbing the explanation, Luke responded, “Yeah, it was.”

“I’ve been away on business and my wife, Roxxie, tells me you moved in ahead of your family and you’re from California?”

“That’s right.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Los Angeles.”

“Well, we won’t hold that against you.” Greg chuckled. “What did you do in LA? If you don’t mind me askin’?”

Luke hesitated.

“Hey, sorry,” Greg said. “I’ll go first. I’m with Texeter Diamond Industries—it’s oil and gas equipment. I’m in accounting.”

“I was an officer with the LAPD.”

Greg’s eyebrows peeked above the frames of his sunglasses.

“You don’t say. And who are you with here?”

“The county. I’m a deputy.”

“How ’bout that. Welcome, Luke. Happy to have you as my neighbor. Say, maybe when your family gets here, Roxxie and I will have you over for a barbecue?”

“Well, I work weekends, shifts.” Luke glanced to his SUV. “And when my family and the movers come, we’ll have a lot on the go.”

“I understand,” Greg said. “Whenever the time is right.”

“Sure, and thanks.”

“You bet.” Greg turned, then stopped. “One thing, though.”

Luke braced as Greg kept walking backward to his truck while pointing at him and winking.

“We got more Cowboys and Texans fans than Rams fans around here.”

Luke smiled and nodded, watching Greg climb into his pickup.

Once the truck disappeared around a corner, Luke took a breath. Feeling his tension melt, he looked at the tree limb. He hadn’t noticed it last night. There you go. It had to be some of the debris he’d struck. Moving to double-check the damage, he walked toward the front of his SUV. Conditions were better now in the morning light.

His windshield was clear. Good. He studied the front bumper. Left side was fine, but the passenger side had a small indentation with scrapes. And the headlight on the passenger side was intact but the cover was fractured.

Could this be consistent with hitting debris, a piece of billboard or a tree?

He squatted for a closer inspection.

A faint ticking sound rose with a breath of wind, shifting his focus to the grille on the passenger side.

Then to a flash of pink, lifted by the soft breeze.

As if waving to him.

It was a piece of fabric.

A gum stick–sized fragment of frayed pink fabric bearing a single pink button. It appeared to have been ripped from clothing. It must’ve folded out of sight in the rain, then dried to emerge.

Like an accusation.

Carefully, Luke removed it from the mesh, placing it in the palm of his hand before closing it into his fist.

It began in his gut with a low grumbling of terror, erupting to a stabbing in his chest and throat, everything turning to haze. He made it back inside in time to reach the toilet, where he vomited, coughing and gasping.

When he’d finished, he washed his face with cold water, his heartbeat and the truth thrashing in his ears.

You hit someone.

He recalled the flash of a woman’s face.

You hit a woman and left her to die.

No. No, it never happened.

The screaming in his brain evolved into the ringing of a phone. A million thoughts and fears racing, he found his cell in the living room and answered.

“Yes?”

“Hansen at the office. You up, Luke?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We need you to start early today. Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We need you to get in as soon as possible. We’re going to support Clear River. They’ve got a body, an unidentified female.”

“Where, sir?”

“North edge, not all that far from you.”