Mercy Kill

TWENTY-ONE

The table-and-chair configuration at the community center resembled a wedding dance, not a hall for a political debate. Red, white, and blue streamers floated overhead in an elaborate twist that originated at the stage.

The stage.

My belly jumped as I lingered by the main door. Did I really have the guts to stand up in front of all these people and make a spectacle of myself? Especially after I’d spent the last two decades striving to stay inconspicuous?

The Parker Brothers Band were tuning guitars, checking mics, repositioning amps and speakers for when they took the stage after the debate. If I listened closely, I could hear the impatient tapping of cowboy boots and the palpable anticipation of the crowd.

I didn’t delude myself that attendees were here to listen to Dawson and me argue the issues. The people running my campaign refused to accept that swaying voters was moot at this point. I bet 99.9 percent of voters had made up their minds before I’d filled Bill O’Neil’s slot on the ballot. This debate was an excuse to party, as it was the first large-scale community event after the long winter, calving season, and branding.

Andrew Parker spotted me. He grinned, and all six feet five inches, three hundred pounds barreled toward me.

I braced myself for Andrew’s standard greeting. He’d bind me in his massive arms, swing me in a circle, whooping and hollering as if we were still eight-year-old kids on the school playground.

“Lord have mercy, I feel my temperature rising,” he sang as he grabbed me and-yep-spun me around. Twice.

I closed my eyes and let him.

Once Andrew set me on my feet, he pushed his straw hat back on his bald head. “You’ll save me a dance? For old time’s sake? Please?” He waggled his eyebrows. “A slow one?”

“No way. Marcie will kick my ass.” I peered around him and looked for his petite wife. Marcie, a world-class barrel racer with the awards and belt buckles to prove it, was still the tough cowgirl who loved a good catfight. “Where is she?”

“Home. Her ankles puffed up like marshmallows. She didn’t feel like kickin’ up her heels with the baby kickin’ her bladder every five minutes.”

Hard to fathom my classmates were still having babies. Even harder to believe? Some of them were already grandparents. “When is she due?”

“Next month.”

As I debated on whether to ask more nosy questions, Andrew’s curious gaze burned into me. “What?”

“Just wondering if my favorite candidate is still singing?”

“Only in the shower and in the truck.”

He bumped me with his shoulder. “Come on, ’fess up, Mercy. You were too damn good to’ve given it up completely.”

“I did. Not a lot of singing gigs in the army.”

“Bet you still know all the words to every Patsy Cline song.”

“So?”

“So… get up on stage with us tonight and sing a couple.”

“No.”

“Not even for old time’s sake?”

“No.”

“Just one?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Bet it would get you more votes,” he said slyly.

“What part of no is confusing you, Andrew? You get hit on the head with a concrete boom or something?” Andrew had followed in his father’s footsteps and taken over the family business.

Which made me wonder… Had I been predestined to run for sheriff? Following parental footsteps like so many of my friends?

“Your dad would’ve loved to hear you sing. He was so proud of you in everything you did. Singing. Soldiering. Now running for sheriff. It’d be a great way to remember him.”

I hissed, “You suck, playing the dead-father card.”

His brown eyes softened. “I didn’t mean it that way. Wyatt was a great man, Mercy. We all miss him.”

That soothed my flash of temper. “Thanks.”

He paused for all of fifteen seconds before he started badgering me again. “So? What do you say?”

I looked around. No one was nearby. I belted out the first stanza of “There’s Your Trouble” by the Dixie Chicks and felt smug when his jaw dropped.

“Don’t sing no more, my ass,” he groused. “You oughta be ashamed, lyin’ to a gullible country boy like me.”

“That’s what you get for making me feel guilty.”

“So you’ll do it?”

“Not a chance in hell.”

Still grumbling, Andrew disappeared onto the stage behind the slide steel guitar.

People streamed in and filled up the seating area.

Dawson had his crowd. Jazinski. Robo-Barbie. My dad’s best buddy, Dean Whittaker. A couple of the guards from the jail. Business owners like Pete. Mitzi. Larry Manx, who owned the Q-Mart. Chet, from the propane company. All locals I’d have to deal with regardless if I won or lost the election. Would that be awkward? How had my dad handled knowing the names and faces of the individuals who’d opposed him?

A crush of people surrounded me. I smiled. I chatted. I anxiously shifted from foot to foot, glad I’d worn my dressiest pair of Old Gringo heeled boots instead of Geneva’s suggestion of “strappy” high heels.

Geneva dragged me aside. “Okay. This is set to start in two minutes. Need anything?”

A full flask. “Nope.”

“Good. You’ve got a lot of supporters here, Mercy.”

I looked at the crowd. No division of factions, like the separate bride’s side and groom’s side at a wedding. Good thing-it’d be mortifying if half the seats on my side were empty. Hope, Joy, Jake, and Sophie were in the audience supporting me, which actually made me more nervous.

I readjusted the belt on my newly purchased gray wool dress slacks-I loved online shopping-and snapped out the fancy French cuffs on my new white blouse. I finger-combed my hair for the tenth time, hating I’d been coerced into letting it hang loose around my shoulders instead of slicking it back into a ponytail. I didn’t feel like me. I didn’t look like me-duded up in tailored clothes, coiffed hair, and no gun.

“You ready? You’re on first.”

“Let’s do it.” I walked up to the speaker’s platform. I inhaled an uji breath and released it. “Welcome, everyone. My name is Mercy Gunderson, and I’m running for Eagle River County sheriff.”

Everything blurred after that. What I said. What Dawson said. Thank God it only lasted around thirty minutes.

Dawson and I shook hands and exited the stage to our separate camps. Geneva assured me I’d done great. Even Kit gave me a thumbs-up. I resisted the urge to flip him off.

Distortion from the speaker system made me cringe as Andrew Parker took the microphone. “Now rumor has it… that these two candidates have a secret…”

My heart raced. Don’t do it. Don’t even say it, Andrew.

“… bet going about what the loser has to do for their opponent after the election.” Andrew zeroed in on Dawson first. “Sheriff? Care to elaborate on that side bet? Something about kissing a… pig?”

Dawson laughed. “Sorry, I’m pleading the fifth.”

Andrew’s attention zoomed to me. “Mercy? How about you?”

“I’ll follow the sheriff’s lead and stay pigheaded.”

Laughter.

“How many of you would like to see a show of goodwill between these two fine candidates as they lead us in the first dance?”

Oh, hell no. I glared at that rat bastard Andrew, but the crowd didn’t notice. They were on board with the idea. They clapped, whistled, stomped their feet.

Geneva snapped, “For Christsake, what is wrong with these people?”

“No booze. If they were getting loaded right now, they wouldn’t care.”

“You have to refuse to dance with him, Mercy.”

“Now how petty would that make me look?”

“Think of how it’ll look if you and Dawson start grinding on each other,” Geneva hissed.

“Puh-lease. We are adults. We’ll behave accordingly.”

I met Dawson halfway and took his outstretched hand. He bowed and kissed my knuckles.

I pretended to punch him in the stomach.

It played well with the crowd.

The band started a cover of George Strait’s “Check Yes or No,” a tune not too fast, nor too slow. Dawson clasped my left hand in his right. He placed his palm in the middle of my back and brought me in close to his body.

I set my hand on his shoulder in proper two-step position. No harm, no foul, no sweat. I could do this. Then I looked up to see his annoying Cheshire cat-like grin. “What?”

“I’ve wanted to dance with you for months.”

“Too bad my dancing skills will probably disappoint you.”

“The only disappointment is acting as if dancing with you is a chore for me, Mercy.”

Shoot. That was really sweet. “Dawson-”

“Just keep smiling. And let me lead, will ya?”

Let him lead? Damn man always took the lead.

Wrong. You always take point and expect him to follow.

So yeah, I let him lead… but just this one time.

Dawson knew his way around the dance floor. Every muscle in my body was rigid as curious couples joined us. His nearness caused a disjointed sensation inside me. I felt like one of those magnets-both repelled and attracted.

“Relax,” he muttered.

“I am relaxed.”

“Right. You’re strung tight as a new barbed-wire fence.” He pulled me closer. “You look great tonight.”

“Hey. You’re not supposed to say stuff like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because this Fred-and-Ginger routine is all for show.”

“Not for me it isn’t.”

My face heated. “Dammit, Dawson, knock it off. This is not the time or the place-”

“Tough shit. I’ll say whatever the hell I want, and you’ll suck it up and smile.”

“Channeling your inner caveman?”

“You bring out the best in me, Sergeant Major.”

“I think you mean beast.”

Dawson chuckled. “That, too. So you’ll damn well listen to what I have to say while I have your undivided attention.”

“Or what?”

“Don’t push me, darlin’. If you’ll recall, I push back. In fact, I almost said screw it and snuck back to your cabin last night. Hell, I’m such a masochist, I looked forward to you pulling a gun on me as foreplay.”

That comment shouldn’t have made me smile, but it did.

Encouraged, he traced the ball of my thumb joint up from the inside of my wrist. The move was lazy, teasing, and seductive as hell. My heart and my feet stumbled simultaneously. I caught myself and hissed, “Stop it.”

“Not a chance.”

When he switched directions on the dance floor, his mouth grazed my ear, and he murmured, “I miss you.”

I stumbled again. My cheek brushed the smoothly shaven section of his throat between his jawline and his collar. I fought the temptation to lean into him and bury my lips in that vulnerable fragment of skin just to see him shiver.

“I’m winning you over with my caveman tactics.”

A statement. Cocky man. I laughed softly.

“I miss hearing you laugh as much as I miss touching you.”

About two seconds before my hormones took control, I snapped back to reality. Tactics. This was all a stupid political ploy, and I was falling for it. “If you’re spewing this lovey-dovey crap because you think it’ll show the voters your softer side with the competition-”

Dawson stopped in the center of the dance floor.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“What I said to you doesn’t have a fucking thing to do with the election, and you goddamn well know it.”

Geneva had been right; this’d been a bad idea. “Will you please stop screwing around? People are staring.”

“Let ’em stare. I don’t care.”

I did. “What do you want?”

“For you to admit that you’re deliberately misunderstanding me.”

“Fine. You’re right, I have no freakin’ clue how to handle this, okay?”

“This… meaning… what?”

“You know. This.” I gestured at the scant space separating us. “Personal stuff.”

“At least you’re acknowledging there is personal stuff between us.”

“You know there is, dumbass.” I tugged on him until he started to move again. “But the only reason we’re here, dancing cheek to cheek, is because of the damn election. So can we please keep focused on that?”

“For now.”

I broke eye contact with him. “I hate that people are gawking at us like we’re a circus act, dissecting our every move.”

“Get used to life in the public eye.”

Great.

As we spun and glided, I swore they’d chosen the longest song in the history of the world. Maybe if I stumbled, I could fake an injury and escape.

Dawson would just pick you up and cart you off like the last time he found you lying in the middle of the road with a twisted ankle.

Like I needed that reminder of another instance of his caveman tactics.

“How long is your buddy Anna staying?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“I don’t know. As long as she wants. Why?”

He shrugged.

I recognized the evasion. “Why do you care?”

“Because she’s bad news.”

That got my back up. “You don’t know fuck all about Anna.”

“Wrong. I know she’s dangerous.”

“Hazard of our training, Dawson. We’re all like that.”

“Wrong again. She’s nothing like you.” Dawson locked his gaze to mine. “Nothing. Maybe once you two were alike, but not anymore. She’ll drag you down to her level rather than you bringing her up to yours.”

“Why don’t you come right out and say what you mean?”

His teeth flashed. “I tried to when we first started dancing, but you didn’t want to hear it.”

Dammit, he was twisting my words. “You drive me crazy.”

He whispered, “It’s part of my charm.”

The song ended, and I attempted to leap back, but Dawson wouldn’t release my hand until Andrew acknowledged us.

“How about another round of applause for our candidates?”

The clapping had waned. People were as raring to dance as I was to put distance between Dawson and me.

Dawson’s campaign manager herded him away. I turned and smacked into Shay Turnbull.

He grasped my upper arms. “Whoa there, candidate Gunderson. What’s the rush?”

“Sorry. Just trying to escape the dance floor.”

“And here I fought the crowd so I could claim your next dance.”

A drop-dead gorgeous man like him wouldn’t be short dance partners. “Why in the hell would you want to dance with me anyway? I suck.”

He smiled. “It’s refreshing that you are as unaware of your own allure as you are brutally honest. Come on. One dance.”

“They’re your broken toes,” I mumbled.

Shay held me more formally than Dawson had. “Thousand Miles from Nowhere” by Dwight Yoakam began. I’d hoped for a fast one like Alan Jackson’s “Chattahoochee,” but this medium-slow tune would allow for conversation.

“You and Dawson put aside your differences.”

“For one dance. It wasn’t like either of us had a choice.”

“Despite the political tension, it looked like you and the sheriff had danced together before tonight.”

Nosy bastard. “Nope. First time.”

“Really? You moved well together.”

He didn’t know the half of it.

“I expected more fireworks during the debate. I thought you’d give him hell. Pinpoint why you think he’s doing such a lousy job as sheriff.”

Why was he baiting me? “You angling to join my campaign committee, Agent Turnbull? So you can teach me how to take a man to task?”

“No.” Turnbull laughed. “You don’t need help from anyone on the most efficient way to execute a task.”

Inside, I froze.

“See, that’s what doesn’t fit. You didn’t detail Dawson’s investigative mistakes. He didn’t point out your lack of experience. Neither of you went for the jugular during the debate. It was all very… boring and civilized.”

“Maybe. But believe it or not, Dawson and I aren’t here to publicly nitpick each other’s qualifications. We’re here as an excuse for the county residents to have a dance and call it a debate.”

He had no response for that observation.

We danced. He wasn’t as smooth on the dance floor as Dawson-not that I was comparing.

“You heard about Victor Bad Wound?” he asked.

“Hard not to in a community this size. Any leads?”

He didn’t answer beyond a grunt.

I couldn’t resist poking him. “Did the feds off him?”

“I wish. But no. We’re looking at Cherelle Dupris as the main suspect.”

I bit back asking if they’d tracked down Cherelle yet. “Does ICSCU have her locked up someplace nice with lots of mirrors as you try to get her to turn on Saro?”

Agent Turnbull gave me a measured look. “What do you know about it?”

“Nothing. No one is mourning Victor’s death except his brother. If the feds suspect Cherelle killed Victor, she’ll need protection from Saro. What better way for her to seek immunity from a murder charge than to give the lowdown on Saro’s organization?”

“You are a smart cookie, Sergeant Major. And that’d be an ideal situation… if we knew where Cherelle was.”

I faked surprise. “Think Saro already got to her?”

“We don’t know. That’s why I’m here.”

“You’re looking for her… at a community dance?”

“Yeah, I’m hitting all the hot spots,” he said dryly.

“I feel so used. You didn’t really want to dance with me?”

“Believe it or not, this is part of my job, so it could be worse. I’ll cut to the chase. Have you seen Cherelle?”

“Cherelle and I aren’t friends. We’re not even passing acquaintances.”

“Just checking. If you do happen to run across her, call me.”

I snorted. The only way I’d “run across her” was if she were dead. “No offense, Agent Turnbull, but I’ve got more important things on my mind. A little thing like the county election.”

“Yeah, good luck with that. You’ll have plenty of time on your hands after tomorrow night.”

“In other words, you’re assuming I’ll lose.”

Turnbull’s smile bordered on placating.

I ignored him for the last thirty seconds of the dance and whirled away the instant it ended.

Geneva gave me her final pep talk and bailed. The remaining campaign-committee members were out on the dance floor cutting a rug. I wandered through the crowd, declining dance requests, specifically Kit McIntyre’s.

I noticed Dawson had left after he’d danced with Claire Montague-not that I was keeping tabs on him or anything. Hope, Joy, Jake, and Sophie were gone. Anna, too. It surprised me she’d hung around as long as she had. Heck, it really surprised me she’d even shown up.

I desperately needed to decompress, preferably with a beer, preferably away from people. I weighed my options. If I returned to the cabin, I’d have to make nice with Anna. If I showed up at Clementine’s, I’d have to rehash the debate with those who hadn’t bothered to attend. If I headed to the ranch, Hope, Joy, and Jake would all be tucked in bed for the night.

The ranch it was.

Bluish-gray images from the TV flickered across the living room windows as I passed the front of the house. I parked in my usual spot, noting the absence of the light burning on the porch. In the past few months, I’d been here so infrequently, Hope had stopped leaving the light on. Sadness tightened my gut, and I felt ridiculous for the melancholy. Would I burst into tears if Shoonga didn’t race out to greet me, too?

The old truck continued to clatter after I’d clicked off the ignition-a victim of engine run-on. Damn thing was on its last legs, and I’d have to at least consider putting Dad’s beloved pickup out to pasture. I hopped out and scanned the yard… out of habit, I supposed. My gaze stopped at the lump next to the machine shed. Squinting, I couldn’t tell what it was. A furry lump?

Shit. Not Shoonga. I’d become so attached to Levi’s dog that losing him might just break me.

I ran even while my brain screamed, Caution! And images of dead animals appeared, animals propped in the middle of roads in Iraq, loaded with explosives, animals used as a lure.

But this was Shoonga. Not the same thing. This was my goddamn dog.

As I neared the lump, I didn’t catch the usual stench of death. I skidded to a stop. It wasn’t an animal, but a bag of garbage with a hide thrown over it.

An old Indian trick. I reached for my gun, only to come up empty-handed.

My head was jerked back as a hand twisted in my hair. A knife flashed in front of my face, then pressed against my throat.

Saro.

“Don’t fight me.”

“What do you want?”

“Where’s Cherelle?”

“You’re the third person to ask me today. She’s a popular girl.”

He slid the knife across my skin, cutting me. “Smart answers don’t amuse me. Where is she?”

“I haven’t seen her.”

Saro sliced me again. “Try again. Where’s Cherelle?”

Damn, that burned. “The last time I saw her was that night I was campaigning at Clementine’s.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I have no reason to lie.”

“Did you help her plan to kill my brother? Because she ain’t smart enough to figure it out on her own.”

“No.”

“Keep lying, and I’ll keep cutting.”

My skin had heated the metal so the blade at my throat was no longer cool. A breeze swept over the cuts. Shallow, of course, so they bled a lot. “I don’t know where you’ve gotten the impression that Cherelle and I are pals, Saro, but we’re not. I’ve met her once.”

Another slice. Deeper.

I hissed in pain.

“Then why did her cell phone record show she called you the same day the cops found my brother murdered?”

If he’d tracked my cell number, he’d also known how long we talked. “Yes, Cherelle called me. She babbled about the campaign. Then she asked me if I could recommend her for my old bartending job at Clementine’s. It was so random I thought she was either drunk or high.”

“I. Don’t. Believe. You.” With each enunciated word, Saro wiggled the knife in the cuts he’d already made.

I gritted my teeth against the ribbons of pain. “I’ve got no reason to lie. Maybe Cherelle was smarter than you gave her credit for.”

“Wrong. She was stupid, lazy, and useless.”

“If she killed Victor, she knew you’d back-trace her every move.” I paused. “How many other dead ends have you found?”

Silence.

“I don’t know where she is. Trust me, if I did, I’d already have her ass in jail.”

“Why?”

“Because Dawson is looking for her, too. Do you know how sweet it’d be if I one-upped him in Victor’s murder investigation? I’d win the election for sure.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about the election. I don’t want Cherelle in jail. I want her dead.”

“But you have to find her first.”

Slice.

Blood flowed down my skin, and I sucked in a breath at the fire exploding across my neck. He knew precisely where to cut to make it hurt.

“Oh, I’ll find her.”

Then Saro was in my face with the chisel-like tip of the tanto blade under my chin. One wrong move, and I’d be tasting that steel on the bottom of my tongue.

“You know something else. Tell me. Now.”

Through clenched teeth, I said, “You want me to talk? Move that fucking blade.”

Saro pressed the tip against my heart, leaving a hole in my new blouse, causing more blood to ooze out of me. “Talk.”

“If I talk, you talk.”

“This isn’t a negotiation.”

I didn’t budge. Didn’t speak.

He watched my face as he twisted the blade into my breast. When I finally winced with pain, he said, “Okay. Ask your question.”

“Did you kill Jason Hawley?”

“You ain’t gonna let this go, are you?”

“Nope.”

Saro angled forward. “I didn’t kill him.”

“Did you tell someone else to kill Jason? Someone like your brother?”

Anguish filled his eyes and then disappeared. “No matter. Victor is dead.”

“Exactly. If Victor didn’t do it and you didn’t do it, someone else did. Cherelle?”

“Cherelle was with us all night. Victor wouldn’t even let her take a piss by herself. But I will let you in on a secret. We saw Hawley’s body that night after he’d been gunned down.”

“And you did nothing?”

“Why should we? He was already dead. Me, Vic, and Cherelle weren’t the only ones who came across it.” He stared at me. “Fortunately, we used the situation to our advantage as a business maneuver. Besides, no one cared he was dead.”

“I cared.”

“So the fuck what? All I care about is finding the bitch who murdered my brother.”

“I told you. I don’t know where she is.”

Another empty stare. Then he smiled, and it was cold enough to chill me right to my soul. “You know, I believe you. But here’s some advice: if you’re unlucky enough to get elected sheriff tomorrow, be smart. Look the other way when you come across Cherelle’s body.”

“And if I don’t?”

An even crazier smile distorted his face. He reached inside his leather jacket and pulled out a stuffed pink teddy bear. From Joy’s room. From Joy’s crib. The pink bear’s head hung from the plush body by a one white thread. White stuffing burst out from the gaping neck hole.

Panic clawed at my insides. This crazy son of a bitch had been in my house, messing with my family. “If you’ve touched a single hair on her head-”

“You’ll what? For all you know, I might’ve already slit her soft little throat and left her to die in her crib with the bunny rabbit mobile spinning above her head.”

I jerked toward him, and the knife tip gouged my skin.

“Or maybe… your sister with her pretty strawberry-blond hair and that ferocious Sioux warrior are bleeding out on the gray carpet after I gutted them. He should’ve done a better job at protecting them. Or trying to protect them.”

I made a break for it. Saro knocked me to the ground. He yanked my arms behind my back and kicked me in the side hard enough that I couldn’t breathe.

I was suffocating.

He placed the blade at the base of my neck. “One wrong move, and you’re paralyzed from the shoulders down. Understand?”

Sadistic fucking bastard. Maiming me for life would be worse than killing me.

“Don’t cross me. Any restraint I had died with my brother.”

“What do you want from me?”

“If you find Cherelle alive, turn her over to me. If you find Cherelle dead, let it go.”

Spots danced in front of my eyes. I felt a pinch between my shoulder blades, and I lost consciousness.

When I came around after Saro’s Vulcan death grip, I booked it to the house. I tripped and skidded on my hands and knees on the gravel. Cursing, I scrambled to my feet and scaled the porch steps with one leap. The door wouldn’t budge. I twisted the handle. It was locked?

I fumbled with my keys.

Come on, come on, come on.

The door gave way. I didn’t bull my way in, in case nothing was wrong.

Please, Saro. Be a complete and total fucking liar.

I checked the living room first. Jake was stretched out on the couch, mouth open as he snored, with the TV projecting shadows across the room. I vaulted up the stairs, please, please, please pounding in my skull.

My sister was curled in the middle of the bed she shared with Jake. Her hair spread across the pillow. No blood soaking the sheets. No blood on her anywhere. I watched the rise and fall of her chest.

Thank God.

I tiptoed to the crib against the wall and peered inside.

A small sliver of moonlight shone in. Big hazel eyes blinked at me. Arms and legs flailed with excitement. She smiled, pleased as punch to have someone awake to entertain her.

My breath caught on a sob.

Joy was all right. Hope was all right. Jake was all right.

My relief was short-lived when Joy fussed at me for not picking her up. I shot a look at Hope. She hadn’t moved.

I wasn’t sure I even remembered how to pick up a baby. Had I ever known? I started to slide one hand under her head when I noticed my hands were filthy. And bleeding. Too sullied to touch such innocence. I grabbed a burp cloth and draped it over my hands, then slid one beneath Joy’s head and the other beneath her butt. I slowly lifted her from the crib, holding her in front of me, afraid I’d ruin her fluffy-soft pale yellow sleeper if it brushed against my dirty clothes.

Her warmth flowed through me. Surrounded by sweet baby scents-shampoo, powder, and lotion-I had the overwhelming urge to weep. For once, I gave in to it. I whispered, “Hey, Poopy. Lookit you.”

Baby girl remained somber, her body still, probably deciding whether this crazy lady who was crying and bleeding was going to drop her on her head.

That’s your fear, not hers. She just wants someone to see to her needs.

Don’t we all.

Joy blinked, fighting sleep. Her long, dark lashes swept her plump pink cheeks. I watched her, held her, until her eyes stayed closed and her mouth went slack. I carefully returned her to the crib the way I’d found her, lying on her back, a rainbow butterfly fleece blanket covering her from chest to feet.

Hope was in the same position, sleeping peacefully. I tugged the covers under her chin and smoothed her hair back from her cheek.

I didn’t allow myself to break down until I stood in the shower. The horror of what could’ve happened knocked me to my knees. My blood and tears mixed with the water and swirled down the drain.