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.