a reason to live(4)

“I didn’t tell you before now because I didn’t want to believe there was a problem,” I explained as if she’d answered me back. “Six months ago, I began receiving odd notes and gifts. Based on the fact the gifts were old dolls, it was clear to me a client’s parents were upset about a ruling. I thought they’d eventually calm down and go away, but they’ve progressively become more threatening, and now it’s apparent that they aren’t going to stop. I went to the police and filed a report, but they say there’s nothing they can do to help me until they make a move against me.”

I’d been threatened before—it comes with the territory when you’re dealing with scum—but this was different. This threat was clear and absolute. Whoever this was wanted to harm me. And I couldn’t protect myself against the threat because my observations were with the children, not the adults. Most of the parents or guardians were unknown to me, so this put me at a disadvantage. They could walk right up to me on the street with a smile on their face and I wouldn’t know they were dangerous until they plunged a knife into my heart. Because of this, and the fact that the police couldn’t help me, I knew I had to get away for a while. I needed time to think and consider my options; options that I wasn’t certain included coming home to Fairbanks anytime soon. Not after I received a rag doll in the mail with her eyes gouged out and a noose around her neck.

Scanning the cemetery, I kept my eyes peeled for anyone who looked as if they were watching me. My Jeep was already packed and my furniture in storage. I was leaving Fairbanks that day to escape the madness for a while.

After that? . . .

Will I ever feel safe again?

Placing my hand on Emma’s picture, I traced the outline of her smile. “I can’t wait around for this person to come after me, so I’m leaving for a while. I’m hoping they’ll think I’ve moved on and give up tormenting me. I promise I’ll come back as soon as I can, Em. I just don’t know when that will be.”

Picking up the wilted flowers I’d placed on her grave during my last visit, I gasped when I found a naked Barbie hidden beneath them. She was missing her head and had a large red X on her back. The hair on the back of my neck began to rise as I stared at the doll. Turning quickly, I scanned the parking lot. There were no other cars around, which didn’t help to settle my nerves. I was alone in the cemetery with no one to hear me scream.

Turning back to the doll, I noticed a note tucked beneath it. Scanning once more to make sure I was safe, I bent and retrieved the slip of paper and began to read.

X marks the spot with a big question mark. I’m coming for you. But when?

Dropping the note in terror, I spun in circles, looking deeper into the dark corners of the cemetery. The flowering bushes turned sinister, their shadows became murderers wielding knives as I blinked back tears.

“I don’t know what to do, Em,” I muttered as a single tear ran down my cheek. “I’m so tired of being scared.”

I stared blindly at her grave and suddenly felt weak compared to Emma, who’d been so brave in the face of the war, determined to defend her country. My eyes blurred with unshed tears as I pictured her as she was before she died: soft-spoken, a little shy, yet resolute to be the best soldier she could be. Her letters home, filled with her trials and tribulations while in Afghanistan, were a testament to how hard she’d worked and how brave she’d been.

I thought about those letters, filled with stories of her unit and the horrors of war, and pulled them from my purse. I opened one I hadn’t read the night before and scanned it until my eyes stopped on a passage near the end.

Sergeant Sherman is the bravest man I’ve ever met. He’s the complete opposite of our late stepdaddy dearest. He runs straight into the battle, disregarding his own safety to help those who are injured. I’m lucky, Sage. Really lucky. I couldn’t have asked for a better commanding officer.

Gray eyes the color of gunmetal flashed across my memory as my sister’s words rang in my head. I closed mine and thought back to that horrible day when Emma Jane came home.

Sergeant Shane Sherman looked tortured by Emma’s death. I’d tried to reach out to him, but he’d left suddenly. At the funeral the next day, surrounded by friends, I’d watched him stand removed from the crowd, hidden behind sunglasses. Even so, I could tell when he was staring in our direction. I’d been in a grief-ridden daze since we’d heard about Emma’s death, but regardless, I couldn’t help but notice a man that striking in appearance—and grief.

His dress blues couldn’t hide what lay beneath; a body honed to handle the punishments of war: broad shoulders, a lean waist, and arms that tested the strength of the fabric that held his muscles in check. But it was his gray eyes that captured my attention the most.