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.