Day 49/366

Gen began pacing, moving from the kitchen to the living room, then back.  She had to be missing something, some way to end this nightmare and still learn what her dad had saved in that storage unit.

Because something had been in there.

And now it was missing.

Something important, so much so that some anonymous person was able to use the information as leverage. Leverage used to force her to do unspeakable things.

Her legs folded and she went down hard on the carpet. Regardless of the outcome, her life would never be the same.

Why had she picked up that phone?  Finding the key hadn't cost her anything.  Searching for the storage site was no threat to anyone.  But once inside, she could have just walked away.

She should have walked away.

Her life was good.  It had meaning, had purpose and was fulfilling.  Gen loved her work at the non-profit her parents had started, a ministry designed to free women and children from slavery and trafficking.

More and More had been in operation for just over seven years, and had many success stories in its history.  Working with missionaries in some of the poorest countries, MOM had been instrumental in providing housing, counselling and employment to over a thousand women and children.

After her mother passed away, Gen had moved into the role of liaison, connecting churches and businesses with needs on foreign soil.  Recently she'd been working on a few fundraising ideas.

The loss of her father had impacted her life in more than one way.  She'd lost her dad, her pastor, her ministry leader, and the only man in her life.

Maybe that's the reason she'd picked up the phone that day.  Discovering the reason he'd wanted to talk to her that night would help fill that empty space she carried with her every day.

In order to find the answers, she had to connect with the person on the other end of the call.

If only Genevieve had known what kind of person she would be dealing with...too late now.

All words are the property of Deena Peterson and not to be used without permission.

Day 48 /366

The phone vibrated in her hand, bringing her back to the present.  As much as she didn't want to, Gen knew she had to answer.  She had no choice.  Flipping it open, she relaxed a bit.  It was another text message.  She scrolled down to the first one, thought a moment, then decided to focus on the latest message.

"I saw you.  No talking.  To anyone.  Or you'll pay a hefty price."

How did he know?  She was away from her home, phone in the drawer, and out in the open.  No one nearby.  Was he watching her?  And if so, how much did he know?

She flipped the phone shut and threw it down on the counter.  This was getting to be too much.  Much more than she could handle.  There had to be someone she could trust, but if he was watching her...

"God, tell me what to do here.  I'm so scared, and so out of control.  I can't do this anymore.  But I don't know how to turn back the clock."  A single tear rolled down her cheek, quickly followed by another and another.

All words are property of Deena Peterson and not to be used without permission.

Day 47/366

"Sheriff, any idea why someone would do this to your little girl?"

Shelly peered through bloodshot eyes at the deputy standing over her.  She had no memory of leaving her kitchen and going outside.  The concrete ledge that ran the length of the driveway was cold and gritty.
"Please stop calling me that," she whispered.

"Pardon, ma'am?"  The deputy used the end of his pen to move the brim of his hat a little higher.  "I didn't quite catch what you said."

"So you moved your stupid hat to hear me better?" she snapped, then quickly covered her mouth with her hand.  "Oh, Deputy Fisher, I'm so sorry...I"

He smiled slightly, bending down to one knee.  "Shel, I get it.  No apology, okay?"  He waited for her to calm down, then asked again, "Any idea why, or who?"

Shelly shook her head.  "I know everyone says it, but everyone really did love Carly."

The deputy made a notation in his book, then continued.  "Any sign of drug abuse?"  He watched the flush build in Shelly's cheeks and put his hand on her arm.  "Shel, I have to ask."

"No, you didn't!" She pulled away and tried to stand up, but her legs wouldn't hold her.  Back on the ground, she buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

"You've seen the reports coming in, Sher--Shelly.  Huffing is on the rise here, and there's evidence in the plastic over--" Fisher had to pause.  Carly was family.  "Coroner talked about a chemical smell when he removed it."

Shelly didn't want to be here, like this, doing this, by herself.  "Where's my husband, Fish?"

All words are the property of Deena Peterson and not to be used without permission.

Day 46/366

Gen took in a deep breath and whispered a quick prayer, "Father, no matter what, help me deal."  She pushed up and the heavy metal door rolled up and out of the way.

The unit had no inner illumination, and the darkness of the interior combined with the brightness of the late morning sun blinded her.  She blinked a few times, then entered the unit.

Gen didn't know what to expect when she found her dad's storage unit.  But there was no way she could have anticipated the actual discovery.  The metal container was empty...

...except for the wooden stool resting in the center of the cement floor.  Hesitant steps brought her close enough to see something perched on the seat.

A black cellphone.  And a handwritten note that read "call me."

The same phone she now held in her trembling hand.

All words are the property of Deena Peterson and not to be used without permission.

Day 45/366

Gen was blessed with no traffic, and she was on the outskirts of Marysville in less than twenty minutes.  Her head was pounding, so she made a stop at a gas station/mini mart with a drive through coffee bar.  She ordered a mocha latte with an extra shot, and threw in a muffin since she'd missed breakfast as well.

The cashier was chatty and friendly, obviously trying to be helpful.  Gen asked her if a mini-storage was still located down the road, and received an affirmative answer.  She took her change and stuck a five dollar bill in the tip jar, then drove off with a wave and a thank you.

Sure enough, the first mini-storage she checked out was in the address listed and the office was open.  Unfortunately this one used combination locks and not keys.  Back in her car, she marked off the listing and checked her gps for the location of the next place.  Again, disappointment: this one used numeric pads.

Frustrated and tired, Gen took a chance and asked the attendant if he knew of any that used keys for their storage units.  He thought for a moment, then replied, "Sure!  It's a bit of a drive, but there's one like that over on Garden Highway in Yuba City.  Just over the bridge, and a few miles past that."

"Thank you so much," she smiled, and headed back to her car.  She programmed the address into her phone and followed the directions to the business.  Sure enough, when she showed the key to the attendant, he nodded that it went to one of their storage units.  Turns out, the writing on the paper was the locker number and the original name of the place.

Her father had rented a storage unit not long after she was born, and he'd kept up with yearly payments ever since.  Home Storage Service was the original name of the business.  She followed the man down two aisles of units, turned toward the right and five more down.  "The unit you're looking for is midway down this row.  Can I help you with anything else?'

"No, but thanks.  You were a big help."  Gen waited until the man started moving toward the front office before she made her way to 347-B.  Several steps, and she found herself standing in front of the unit, key in hand.  Finally, some answers awaited her.  "Help me out here, Lord," she whispered, then inserted the key and turned.

All words are property of Deena Peterson and not to be used without permission.

Day 44/366

Gen wilted with relief--she finally had a direction to follow!  First things first, though.  She went back inside and dumped her now cold coffee down the drain and placed the mug in the sink.  Grabbing her cell phone from the kitchen charger, she dialed the number for the non-profit she currently worked for to notify them that she was taking one of her last few personal days.

That task complete, she pulled a pair of jeans and an old t-shirt from her dressed and made her way into the bathroom.  Pajamas replaced with clothing, she ran a quick brush through her curls, cool water on her face to chase away any sleepiness that remained, and an even quicker brushing of her teeth.

Then she made her way back to the kitchen counter and found a phone book in the junk drawer.  At first she'd thought of looking up storage facilities on her phone, but needed the momentary slow down to get her racing heartbeat more manageable.  Gen flipped through the yellow pages of the directory, stopping on the listings for storage facilities.

She found only two located in the area, but had five more down the hill she might have to check out.  Gen ripped the page from the phone book, grabbed her keys and her wallet and rushed out the door.  The first location was easy to find, a mere mile from her house.  Fortunately the office was open--she hadn't bothered to look at the time when she started driving.

Gen showed the key to the attendant, only to find out that this facility was high tech and used a key pad to secure your belongings.  No, he didn't know who would have a key similar to the one she showed him, but he advised her to try the storage units down the hill.  Seemed that the people living nearby preferred to secure their belongings rather...securely.

She found the second storage site, but again found no such locker.  Frustrated and running low on stable energy, Gen turned her car toward the nearby town and prayed for Got to guide her to the right facility.

All words are property of Deena Peterson and not to be used without permission.

Day 43/366

#mylifeinpages Day 43/366

Sitting and staring at the key and the note attached accomplished a pounding headache, but nothing productive.  Genevieve went to bed early and, knowing sleep would be all but impossible, she took one of the sleep aids her doctor had prescribed for her after her father's funeral.

Her dreams were fragments of her worries and of real events.  Her dad was still trapped, but she couldn't get to him.  The dream would shift, and she was back digging through the bookshelves, desperate to find the key.  She slept, but she didn't rest.

Up with the sun painted sky, Gen took her coffee out on the terrace, curling up on the patio chair and covered with her favorite robe.  Cotton fabric that was whisper soft in a pale lavender shade, the robe had been around for decades.

It belonged to her mom, making it more precious than cashmere.  The sleeves had begun to fray, and three of the fabric covered buttons were missing, but she loved the softness of the fabric.  At times she thought she smelled her mom's perfume, but it was just a memory.

She stared into the distance, clearing her mind as she listened to the sound of her town waking up.  The neighborhood roosters had their usual cockadoodle-off, and a dog howled in the distance.  A light ground fog created a soothing ocean of white, with patches of green bursting through as the sun rose higher.

If she could just shut her brain down and reboot her memories, she was certain she could find the lock that fit that key.  Head tilted back and eyes toward the sky, she sighed--a deep soul sigh, one that dredged up the bits and baubles that clutter us up inside.

"Father God," she began, "I know You know this, but I've been ignoring You.  Even when I have prayed, it's been with my fingers in my ears.  I think I'm a little bit angry with You.  No, I'm a lot angry."

A tear traced a shimmering path down her cheek and splashed onto her hand.  "You've got my mom, and now You've got my dad.  And I have nothing," she sobbed.  "What do You have to say about that?"

Her hand cramped, and she realized she had wrapped her cup tightly, with enough pressure to snap the handle.  A deep breath in, and back out.  Again.  And again.  "I just don't know what I'm supposed to do now.  I don't feel anything, like my heart is numb.  But I'm afraid to feel, so afraid and tired of hurting.

"Are You still there, Father?  Have You left me, too?"  She paused, another tear rolling down her flushed cheek.  Gen sat so still, offering no more words; she'd said enough.  A soft breeze whispered by, lightly moving her long, blonde curls.

A touch on her cheek, as if God Himself dried her tears.  Another feather-light touch, this time on her brow, as if Someone placed a tender kiss on her face. She gasped in surprise, then the tears flowed freely.  Yes, God was with her.  And He understood her fear and her anger.

He responded to her prayer with a sense of His presence, and reminded her that she hadn't lost her parents, but instead they were now where her treasure was stored.  Stored.  Gen sat up, her now lukewarm coffee spilling into the floor.  "That's it!" she cried.  She knew exactly what the key was for.

Her dad had a storage container somewhere, and now she had to find it.  "Thank You, Father.  Thank You."

All words are the property of Deena Peterson and not to be used without permission.

Day 42/366

 

 

Genevieve took the key, the book and her father's Bible back into the living room. She placed everything out on the coffee table, then sat down, studying the pieces to the puzzle her father had left behind.

So, a physical key...hidden in a book...and not just any book, but an obscure title that was never read. That alone proved just how important this key was, and she had a feeling this key was tied to the meeting that never took place that night.

Problem was, it could be a key for a lock box at his home, or could be to a journal. The key could unlock the cryptic words her father had shared with her just before his life ended. And Gen was curious, but not enough to be running wild, trying to unlock anything and everything with the small key.

She had to know someone who might be able to tell her what kind of key she'd found. Now that she'd discovered it, sleep would be a memory. Gen had to find out what her father felt was so important that he would hide it from her.

All words are property of Deena Peterson and not to be used without permission.

Day 41/366

#mylifeinpages Day 41/366

She reached for the book, certain she'd find her answer within its pages.  A worn copy of The Golden Key rested in her hands.  A coat of dust indicated its permanent place on the bookshelf.  The book itself was a rare copy of a tale penned by George MacDonald, a favorite author for her dad.  Gen never saw him read the book, but remembered how important it was to him.

In fact, Pastor Ernie owned a copy of every book written by MacDonald. He claimed that reading The Princess and the Goblin had a profound impact on his life, and as a result was always on the look out for any and all titles written by the obscure author.  Gen remembered the book because for some strange reason it was a topic of conversation just days before his death.

A slim volume, barely a hundred pages, the book felt too heavy to Gen. She rose and hobbled over to the oak desk, wincing as the circulation was restored to her feet.  Desk lamp on to illuminate the late afternoon dusk, she started turning the yellowed pages, hoping her time would not be wasted.

She was in luck.  Between page twenty-eight and twenty-nine she found a half sheet of paper.  Setting the book aside, she focused on the paper in hand.  A small silver key was taped in the middle of the page.  Above that were the initials H.S.S., and underneath the key was 347-D.

She'd found the key.  Now what?

All words are the property of Deena Peterson and not to be used without permission.

Day 40/366

Gen closed the Bible and returned to the bookshelves, running her fingers over each spine, whispering the titles out loud to herself.  "I know it's here," she muttered, a hint of weary frustration in her voice.  "Honestly, Dad, could you have made this any harder?"

Immediately her eyes welled up.  She was just so tired and confused and...alone.  She blinked the tears away and started examining the second shelf, but still didn't see the book she wanted.  Was she going to have to pull every title from the shelf?  Her father had hundreds of books!

He had some shelves doubled up, with books in front of books to have enough space.   "That's it!" she cried, hunting for just such a shelf.  The bottom two, so the wood wouldn't bow under the weight.  Sure enough, Gen found what she was looking for.

All words are the property of Deena Peterson and not to be used without permission.

Day 39/366

Genevieve pulled the drawer open and picked up the prepaid cell phone.  She couldn't read the text without flipping it open, so for this one moment she wasn't tied to whatever was on the phone.  She carried it with her to the table and sat down, staring down at the device and allowing her mind to drift.

After her father had passed away, Gen felt lost.  Getting up and getting dressed was all she could manage for the first week.  When her bereavement leave was up, the new fight was to get to her work at the non-profit she had once loved.  After a few weeks the fog of grief began to lift, and Gen was able to move forward.

Gen gathered some boxes from work and began packing away her father's things. It was then that she remembered what her father's final words were to her.  Being a pastor's daughter, she was familiar with the Bible.  But that particular passage didn't trigger a memory, so she'd had to look it up. 

Her dad's 'preachin' Bible was the one he used at church, but he had a leather-bound Bible he used for his personal daily reading.  That was the Bible she pulled down from the bookshelf.  Gen found the Book of John and paged over to the eighth chapter.  Running her finger down the page, she located the verse he'd referenced.

"You will know the truth and the truth will set you free," she read out loud.  "What did you want me to know, Dad?"  She sat back on her feet and pondered the verse.  "Know the truth..."  Then she noticed a handwritten note in the margin.  "Provide the key."

Gen thought for another moment and tried to put the two pieces together to unlock her father's cryptic final words.  "Key," she whispered. "I wonder..."

All words are property of Deena Peterson and not to be used without permission.

Day 38/366

Shelly Davis arrived home from her late shift, exhausted and desperate for a cold drink.  The death of the sheriff had left the department short handed, which normally wouldn't have mattered in a town the size of Rocky Point.  Unfortunately, a string of vandalism had evolved into assaults, and she feared things would only get worse.

The front door was open and the screen was ajar, and she could hear music playing somewhere in the house as she approached the porch.  Carly!  She'd warned her about leaving the screen unlatched.  Insects and all manner of four legged creatures made their way inside the house when entrance was easy.

A month ago the Davis's arrived home to find a cat in their living room.  A cat that heavily resembled a skunk.  Undersheriff Davis had laid down the law in the house after that, emphasizing the necessity of securing the screen when the door was open.

She didn't blame her daughter for wanting some fresh air.  It had been a dark and gloomy winter, and Carly thrived on vitamin D sunshine.  But not securing the screen?  Yeah, that she could get her for.  Shelly entered the mostly quiet home and called out as she unstrapped her utility belt and carried it down the hall.

"Carly?"  she yelled.  "Come talk with me?"  Shelly unpinned her hair, then shook out her auburn curls and let out a sigh of relief.  Taking her hair down rivaled crawling in her pajamas for stress relief and relaxation.  She moved to the closet where her husband had installed her gun safe and quickly punched in her code, then placed her gun and extra cartridges inside, slamming it shut.

If there was one thing she despised, it was being ignored.  Carly was an expert at irritating her lately, and she'd just about reached her limit of patience.  "Carly Ann Davis, get over here right now!"  Still, nothing.  No footsteps, no snarky reply...just that muted music playing somewhere near the kitchen.

"That's it!"  Shelly announced as she made her way to the kitchen.  "You are so grounded, my d--"  She froze.  Time stopped.  Her breath choked in her throat.  Shelly blinked once, twice, then on the third blink a keening sound erupted from her heart.

"Nooooooooo!  Oh, no, no, no..."  Falling to her knees, she slid forward to her daughter, prone on the floor, a plastic bag encasing her face and head, wisps of hair sticking to her daughter's cheek.  "Baby, come on, talk to me.  Talk to Momma, please, baby, talk to me."  She reached to remove the bag, then caught herself.

Evidence.  This was all evidence of--what?  A suicide?  A homicide?  Her grief translated into a whimper as she reached for her cell phone in her back pocket.  She reflexively dialed 911, wanting to hold her daughter's hand, but knowing forensic evidence could be under her nails or on her skin.  Shelly fought for control, slipping into her law enforcement frame of reference and setting aside grieving mom.

"911, what is your emergency?"

"This is Undersheriff Shelly Davis.  I have a 187 at 2356 Appleblossom Court.  Please send...everything you've got.  It's my daughter.  She's been murdered."  With that, her phone hit the floor and her agony erupted uncontrolled.

All words are property of Deena Peterson and not to be used without permission.

Day 37/366

Carly secured the latch on the screen door, then returned to the kitchen, inserting her headphones as she walked.  Dirty dishes overflowed from both sides of the dual kitchen sink.  She grabbed a pair of sturdy purple gloves and slipped them on, then began to clear out one side of the basin.

Things between Carly and her mom had been extremely tense.  They spent more time arguing than anything else, and Carly was tired of it.  She didn't feel like her mom was the enemy, but she couldn't seem to find the best way to express herself without it escalating into conflict.

Maybe it was the stress of her mom's job as the small town's temporary undersheriff that contributed to the drama.  Rocky Point had been shaken by the unexpected death of Sheriff Rusty Briggs last fall, and the entire department went through a personnel shake up.  Then Undersheriff Bob Brody was moved to the position of sheriff, leaving her mom, the most experienced on the force, to take his spot.

It was just until a special election could be held.  Carly knew her mom was reluctant to run for the position; she just didn't know if she wanted all of that responsibility with three of her five children still living at home.  Her dad was Mom's biggest supporter, encouraging her to go for it just to see what might happen.

Carly was concerned about the kids at school.  Being a sophomore was hard enough, then add to it that one of your parents was in law enforcement and everyone looked at you as a narc or a snitch.  Out of all of her classmates--a whopping 51 in their small high school--Carly had one friend she could be herself with.

Why couldn't her mom understand that?  It wasn't so much that Carly didn't believe in her ability to lead as it was Carly didn't believe in her own ability to distance herself from her mom.  All she wanted was a normal life.  Then again, who defined what was normal these days.

Sink cleared, she used the spray nozzle to clean out any nasties before she used the stopper to plug the drain.  The Collins family had a dishwasher, but she knew her mother preferred the dishes handwashed.  Carly hoped that taking care of this chore would show her mother that she was trying to make life easier for her.

Two squirts of dish soap and running hot water created a mountain of suds detergent her mom favored.  She waited until the sink was a quarter filled and then began putting the silverware and plates in to soak for a few moments.  Last night's dinner of homemade mac and cheese was adhered to the dinner plates and wouldn't begin to come off without a good soak.

Swaying to the music in her headphones, Carly felt good about...everything.  The stresses of spring midterms and the teasing she endured at school seemed to just float away with the routine of washing dishes.  Once the sink was half full, she turned off the faucet and found her scrubbing sponge.

A slight touch on her right shoulder startled her and she dropped the plate and sponge into the hot water with a splash.  Carly yanked out one earbud and whirled around, her gloved and soapy hand at her throat.  "What in the....oh, it's you!  Man, you scared the buggers out of me!"  She removed the other earbud and laid them on the counter next to her iPhone.

"What are you doing here?  And how did you get in here anyway?" she asked, one corner of her mouth curving up into a grin.  "Hey, is something wrong?  Is that why you're here?"  Puzzled by her visitor's lack of response, she turned back to the sink to remove her gloves.  If someone needed to talk, she wanted to be totally present and in the moment.

A plastic bag was thrust over her head and pulled tight around her neck.  The air in the bag had a bitter, chemical odor that made Carly want to cough, but she couldn't pull in enough of a breath to expel the tainted air.  She panicked and clawed at the bag, trying to rip it open, but it was made of a heavy plastic.

She reached back for the hands that held the bag closed, trying to pry one loose so she could yank that bag off.  But the grip was too strong, and the lack of oxygen was taking affect.  She could feel her lungs burning, screaming for air.  Black dots appeared in her field of vision.  She sensed a face drawing close to her head, and thrashed around, trying to knock her head into the chin, nose, or forehead.

A quiet voice gently whispered, "I'm so sorry, Carly.  This is just how it has to be.  But I really am sorry."  The fight dissipated, her muscles growing lax, her vision clouding over.  She felt herself begin to slump to the tile floor and had no way to stop herself.

Unable to express her final thought, Carly shook her head one last time.  "No, you're not," she wanted to say, but now there was no reason to say it.

All words are property of Deena Peterson and not to be used without permission.

Day 36/366

She deposited her belongings on the end table by the sofa and wandered down the hall to the bedroom.  Decorated in the soothing tones of the ocean, a soft blue and seafoam green, her room was her sanctuary.  She sat on the end of the bed and slipped out of her shoes, then fluffed one of the pillows and leaned back against the headboard.

Drawing in a deep breath, she held it for a few seconds, then let it out, feeling a bit of the tension in her neck and shoulders release.  If she could catch just fifteen minutes of rest maybe dinner would sound good.  Right now, though, the thought of food was not at all appealing.

Gen closed her eyes and tried to quiet her mind.  She was on the edge of sleep when her cell went off.  Fighting the urge to get the phone, she tried to relax back into napping.  Just a few minutes...

Her phone chimed, notifying her of a missed call.  A moment after, a tone signaled a text had come through.  She groaned, "Well, this isn't going to work," and sat up.

Rubbing her eyes, she padded back down the hall and into the living room.  She dug through her purse, hunting for her phone.  "That's odd.  I know I heard you ring."  No missed calls or texts appeared on the display."

A tone sounded again and Gen froze.  This phone hadn't gone off.  It was the other phone, the one she had thrown into the junk drawer in the kitchen.  The phone she had found that night, the night this nightmare began.

The phone with only one caller.

It was him.

All words are the property of Deena Peterson and not to be used without permission.

Day 35/366

"I'm so sorry," Gen began,"I'm not normally like this."  She tugged her hand back from his, flustered and embarrassed.  She hunted around inside her purse for a tissue.

"No worries, Gen.  You're entitled to cry after the last few months.  It's a lot for anybody to work through," Jeremy assured her.  He gave her a moment to gather her thoughts and to dry her eyes, then offered, "I've been told I'm a good listener."

Gen glanced at Him, then looked away, fixing her gaze on the water spraying into the air.  "I really appreciate that.  I do.  It's just...", she cleared her throat, "I have some things I need to work through."

"I get that.  We don't have to talk about whatever you're dealing with.  We can just shoot the breeze as they say."  That got her full attention, a spark of amusement in her gaze.  "Or we can just chew the fat."

"Really?"

"We could flap our gums, jibber jabber to our heart's content."  He finally got that smile he was working for, the one with the dimple in right cheek.  For a brief moment he had the strongest desire to kiss that tiny dimple.

"Who are you?" she asked, eyes sparkling.

"I'm the word guy.  The walking talking--"

"Cliche?" she teased.

"Be nice, or I won't let you filibuster," he chided her, wagging his finger at her.  She laughed again, this time without dissolving into tears.  "Seriously, it might be good to just decompress a little."

She stared at him for a moment, seeing only honesty in his expression.  She couldn't tell him about the envelope and all that came with it, but a distraction would be nice.  "I'll think about it, "she finally said, then gathered her things and stood up.  "And thank you."

Jeremy stood as well and they began walking back toward the office.  "For what?“

"For...I don't know.  I guess for just allowing me to be...me.“

He grinned.  "I must admit, I don't want you to be anything else but you."

The man, hidden in the shadows, shook his head as he lowered his camera.  "This won't do.  No, this won't do at all."

All words are the property of Deena Peterson and not to be used without permission.

Day 34/366

"So, this is where you wandered off to," teased a familiar male voice.

Gen startled and whirled around, wincing as her ankle scraped against the bench.  "Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to sneak up on someone?" she snapped, her cheeks flushing with surprised anger.

Jeremy raised his hands, palms out in self defense.  "First of all, I didn't sneak.  I have it on good authority that I sound like a herd of baby elephants wherever I go."

She hesitated, then gave him a tentative smile, recognizing his attempt to lighten the mood.  "Just baby elephants?"

He grinned and nodded, adding, "I think my mom was trying to spare my feelings."

Gen forced her shoulders to relax.  "And second of all?"  Jeremy just looked at her, puzzled.  "Oh, come on.  You can't start a sentence with 'first' if you don't have a second," she teased.

Another half grin flashed.  "I have more than a second to spend with you, Gen," he volleyed back.

She threw her head back and erupted in soul deep laughter.  It felt so good to laugh again, and the stress rolled away for that brief moment.  Her nerves were so fragile she quickly went from tears of laughter to just plain tears.

Jeremy's Sun bleached brows creased, concern shadowing his features.  "Oh, hey, now," he stumbled, "the last thing I wanted was to make you cry."  Instinctively he reached for her hand and held it firmly between his much larger grip.

Gen wiped at her tears with her free hand, surprising herself with how good his touch felt.  For the first time since everything began unraveling, she felt safe.

All words are the property of Deena Peterson and not to be used without permission.

Day 33/366

Gen ran to the incident commander and a dear family friend, Captain Morrison.  One look at his expression and her stomach went into freefall.  "It's bad, isn't it, Morrie?"

His head dipped for a moment, then he looked into her eyes and told her the truth.  "Gen, there's nothing we can do for him except keep him from suffering."

Disbelief clouded what she could see for herself.  "No, no, I don't accept that.  Move the car and get in there and save my dad!"  When he didn't move, she pounded on him with her fists, screaming for him to move the car.

"Genevieve, baby, if we move the car, he'll bleed out in minutes.  His lower torso is completely crushed under the full weight of the vehicle.  If we move it, we lose him.  If we don't move it, we lose him.  But leaving it there minimizes the pain he's in."  Morrie's blue eyes grew watery, and one solitary tear trailed down his weathered cheek.  "I'm sorry, sweetie.  You know I'd give my life for your dad if I could."

Gen took a deep breath and felt her legs go out from under her.  Zach came up behind and kept her from hitting the asphalt, and Morrie waved someone over to check her vital signs.  "No, I'm all right."  She put a hand to her head, ignoring the trembling in her fingers.  "Really," she protested.  "I'm okay."

Zach helped her back to her feet.  "I want to see him."  The two men exchanged concerned glances, then Morrie made the call.  "If you're sure you can handle what you see."

Gen nodded firmly, "I'm his daughter.  I can handle it."  He shifted and allowed the tall dark-haired paramedic to escort her to the crash site.  A whimper escaped her when she caught sight of her father, his head bathed in blood and illuminated by flashing red and blue lights.  She felt Zach's grip tighten, and she squeezed his hand in appreciation.

She slowly made her way to an angle where they could see each other, and she was surprised to see her father's eyes were open and his gaze was bright.  "I thought I heard my girl pitching a hissy over there," he whispered, his voice strained.  His right hand was free and he used his fingers to crawl it over toward his child.

Gen saw his effort, and that began the tears falling, silent and filled with anguish.  "Oh, Daddy."

"Now, none of that.  Sometimes life takes a turn we don't expect, but God is still on His throne and He knows what He's doing," Ernie reassured her.  The corner of his mouth attempted a smile, but it turned into a grimace of pain.

"Do you need more pain meds, Pastor?" Zach asked, ready to head to the truck to grab his medical bag.  Ernie hesitated and then gave a slight nod.  That gave him a moment of privacy with his daughter.  "Genevieve Marcella, I am not long for this world, my daughter."

"Dad, don't talk like that," she started, then stopped at his clear and focused gaze. 

"The Nunoz family does not hide from the truth," he admonished, a shadow crossing his features briefly.  "I'm going to be with my star again, and with my Savior.  And you know we will be waiting for you to join us some day."  He coughed and blood sprayed her t-shirt.

"Oh, Daddy, maybe you shouldn't try to talk now.  Just rest and breath, okay?"  The tears dripped off the tip of her nose and joined the red spatter on her clothing.  She tightened her grip on his hand, willing her strength into him.  'God, please, please work a miracle here!' she pleaded silently.

But Gen already knew the answer.  She could see the light beginning to fade from his eyes.  He drew in a deep breath, causing a moan to escape his lips.  His mouth tinged blue, and his grip weakened.  "Gen, I have to tell you one thing."

"Okay, Daddy.  I love you, you know that, don't you?  You've been the best dad a girl could ask for, and I'm so thankful God put me outside that firehouse that day."  She sobbed, her chest aching with pain and restrained grief.

Ernie tried to speak, but his breath was failing him.  He tried once more, but was only able to groan.  Gen shifted her position and bent low, close to his face.  She saw her reflection in her father's eyes, and she tucked that away to treasure later on.  "What do you need to tell me, Daddy?"

He lifted his head a millimeter from the pavement and whispered, "John 8:32, my girl".  One more deep inhale, and that was all.  The quiet was suddenly deafening.  His grip went limp, and his eyes focused on something he could see over Gen's shoulder.

Daddy?"  Gen's heart began to race erratically.  "Daddy!" she screamed, her voice echoing in the night.  Zach appeared, bag in hand.  He knelt down and placed two fingers on the side of Ernie's throat, his eyes tearing up.  "Zach?" she asked, looking at him with her last shred of hope.

"I'm sorry, Gen.  He's gone."  Zach dropped his bag and caught Gen as she fell sobbing into his arms, the lights continuing to flash and the rescue workers joining her in mourning the loss of a great, great man.

All words are property of Deena Peterson and not to be used without permission.

Day 32/366

Genevieve had waited at the restaurant for nearly twenty minutes, growing more concerned as the time passed.  Her dad was a stickler for being prompt, but he was also a pastor.  Something could have come up last minute, and if he didn't need to cancel he'd just be a little late.  Then she heard the ambulance as it went by, lights flashing and siren screaming--and she knew.

Rushing out to her car, she struggled to unlock the door with shaky hands, but she made it inside and tore out of the gravel parking lot.  The accident site was just around the first bend in the road, and the sight of her father's car, upside down in a water filled ditch, caused her stomach to lurch and her eyes to fill.

Gen slammed the car door, not caring that it caught on her seatbelt buckle and bounced open again.  She ran to the car, only to have two strong arms grab her around the middle and hold on tight.  "No, Gen, you can't go over there."

She struggled.  "Let me go, Zach!  That's my dad over there!"  She clawed at his arms, but his hold remained tight.  "Please, let me go to him.  He's all I have left."

The paramedic released a deep sigh that became a groan.  "Gen, you don't need to see him like this.  Trust me, please?"

Gen stilled, then whispered, "What if he needs me?"  She felt Zach' s arms release and took advantage, rushing to the overturned vehicle.  Her frantic gaze searched for her father's jet black curly hair, then spotted him, his head angled toward the murky water...

And his body underneath the car.  "Oh, God...please..."

All words are the property of Deena Peterson and not to be used without permission.